Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry yet again.
“I’m French! Why do you think I have the outrageous accent!!!”
(John Cleese as the French Taunter, “Month Python and the Holy Grail”)
I am a coffee nut. I love my Second Cup. We buy our coffee beans from Second Cup. We have a very fancy coffee maker; water goes in here, new filter in the basket, coffee beans go in there, and when you press the start button, the beans are ground, funneled into the waiting filter basket, and let the brewing begin!
The smell of grinding beans for the coffee enthusiast is ambrosia to the nose. It really does start the experience off right. My wife Nita always says that first cup of coffee is the best, and starting it off with that wonderful bouquet has become a ritual in our kitchen.
Once when I was in Second Cup a few years ago picking up some coffee beans, there was a gentleman in front of me buying some cherry vanilla black tea. Actually, what I saw was “Thé noir au vanilla et cerise”. This being bilingual Canada, I was looking at the French side of the package.
I commented to the dude buying the tea that cherry vanilla black tea was a pretty specific taste. The young guy serving me looked at the package from my point of view and asked me how I knew it cherry vanilla black tea; I told him I was French. The guy buying the tea very deliberately looked me top to bottom, and said; “That’s funny, you don’t look French”.
I was somewhat puzzled; how does one look French? I was not wearing a beret; the last time I wore a beret, I was 12 and was an Army Cadet. At the time, my brother was dabbling in photography, and he’d set up his own darkroom in the basement. He took a few snap shots, and made his own black & white photos.
When my Dad, Bid Al, came home that day, he asked who had found pictures of him before he went overseas for the 2nd World War. My Mom has, among her great wall of memories, a collage of all of us when we graduated from high school, including herself, and one of Big Al when he joined the army in 1939. We were all about 16 in the photos, and you can tell we are all related. Depending on your viewpoint, it’s either eerie or quite cool.
But I digress. I was not wearing a Habs jacket, nor reading Le Journal de Montréal. I was not eating poutine, nor did I have a Mae West & Diet Pepsi. How could I look French? If there was a secret handshake, I would know it. If there was supposed to be a dress code, I would have known it as well. Neither Nita or I could figure it out.
The next day at work, I was regaling people with the story of the guy who said I looked French. There was general amusement all around. On the 3rd retelling, Maria was one of the group being entertained. Maria was a really good kid, but she was young and not quite worldly in her knowledge. Maria was a 1st generation Canadian; she spoke fluent Italian.
Previously, I was discussing with Pauline, who worked for me, her connection with Nita. They were both born in Nairobi, and I was relating to Pauline how Nita’s parents both still spoke Swahili, but Nita only spoke English, French, Hindi, Punjabi, and a little Spanish.
Maria came and asked me afterwards if she’d heard right when I said Nita was born in Nairobi. Once she confirmed that Nairobi is in Kenya and Africa, she asked if Nita spoke African. I asked her if she spoke European. When she looked at me like I was an idiot, I realized she wasn’t kidding. So I did what I always do in these situations; I explained to her, without being condescending, that there are a multitude of languages in Africa, as there are in Europe.
But back once again to the story at hand. When I finished my storytime in the lunchroom, and pondered how one looked French, Maria perked up and told that I did look French. ”What do you mean I look French? What does French look like? It’s not like I walk around with a baguette under my arm!” Wrong joke, because I had to explain what a baguette was to someone else listening in.
Maria then went on to explain to me that Italians are hairy, and since France is beside Italy, Frenchmen are also hairy. So since I was hairy, I could be either an Italian or a Frenchman, but for some reason which I can’t recall, I didn’t look like an Italian, so therefore, I looked like a Frenchman.
I looked around for Alan Funt again.
Salute!
Monday, March 22, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Olympic Spirits
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
Vancouver has often made me wonder about its low tolerance and non-acceptance of alcohol, specifically in public. The Police are quite proud of their tactics of dealing with dinking in public; they try to convince people to pour out their open liquor or face a fine. In a city whose cultural make-up leads one to assume that it should be more cosmopolitan and less prudish, the opposite seems to be true.
While we hosted the Olympics, we were treated to all kinds of quirky stories. One of my favourite topics was the New Amsterdam Café. The New Amsterdam is a store that sells paraphernalia for pot smokers. They have a lounge in which patrons can partake of their own stash; no weed for sale inside. 3000 plus reporters generate a lot of fluff stories. Converseley, the pot culture seems more palatable to police and public officials.
But back to our topic; there have long been concerns, from the police and the media, about yahoos coming into the big city from the surrounding cities, drinking themselves into a state of stupid, and then behaving badly. The police in downtown Vancouver are concerned about the young adults coming in from Moody, Surrey, Delta and getting into major piss-ups.
It’s a little odd for someone like me to understand. My parents were fairly European in bringing us up. We had wine with Sunday dinner in our teens, and they did not stigmatize drinking. Although Montréal does tolerate drinking in public, they do not have gangs of roving yahoos from the south shore destroying the downtown core every weekend.
We weren’t yahoos, but we also were not angels. There was some drunkenness happening, but taking a page from a previous blog, we did not forget our ethics. I don’t think drunkenness overcomes people’s ethics. After all, the saying is:”In vino, veritas”, not “In vino, stupid ass!”
When someone is tipsy they are liable to become goofy, silly, or even unable to speak without causing laughter all around them. But if they are not quick to overreacting when sober, they should be the same when they’re getting bagged.
What the police, I think, are basing their fear on, is that stupid will win out on the scale of Stanley Cup riots; 1993 in Montréal and 1994 in Vancouver. I believe what the Vancouver Police have attempted to do, in our very best Canadian-navel-gazing, is to prevent a repeat of these events. And it’s not just the VPD; for the Olympics, there is an Integrated Security Unit, with a large contingent of RCMP. Fortunately for the visiting public, the RCMP's mommy took away their Tasers.
Save for the opening weekend, the Police have closed all downtown liquor stores on the Fridays and Saturdays at 7:00 PM, during the Olympics. On closing ceremony day, they closed the liquor stores at 2:00 PM. Someone somewhere has decided that the yahoos only drink from liquor store purchases. Or perhaps the reasoning is that the purchases from the liquor stores, pushes people over the yahoo threshold.
Because there were only 22 arrests for public embarrassment, sorry drunkenness, they believe they were right in stopping liquor sales, in the downtown core. I don’t think so. After all, these are the same people who thought that sending Wayne Gretzky in the back of a pick-me-up-truck would not gather a crowd. Were these the drunken yahoos from Coquitlam, Langley, Burnaby…?
But don’t despair; when you think you have witnessed the epitome of anal retentiveness, along comes the IOC and VANOC. They have sent a letter to Hockey Canada to protest a major transgression. Gold medal women’s hockey champions, Team Canada, after having performed their entire medal and picture taking duties, and retiring to their dressing room to celebrate, were asked to return to the ice for a few more photos.
So back out they come grinning, wearing their Gold Medals, and bringing their champagne and beer. According to the Canadian Press, the “image that raised most eyebrows” was the sight of 18-year-old Marie-Philip Poulin with a beer.
Never mind that they train in Alberta, where the age of majority is 18, or that Marie-Philip is from Québec where the age of majority is never really even discussed; this is Vancouver, governed by King John of Furlong from VANOC, and we will not tolerate this kind of behaviour, even if you do score ALL the goals in the gold medal game.
Perhaps a trip to the New Amsterdam Café might mellow out some of VANOC and VPD/ISU. After all, it’s safe inside; you won’t have to worry about yahoos, with the liquor stores closed, and the 18-year-old women hockey players are getting sauced at Pacific Coliseum.
Maybe you should bring a snack!
Skål!
Vancouver has often made me wonder about its low tolerance and non-acceptance of alcohol, specifically in public. The Police are quite proud of their tactics of dealing with dinking in public; they try to convince people to pour out their open liquor or face a fine. In a city whose cultural make-up leads one to assume that it should be more cosmopolitan and less prudish, the opposite seems to be true.
While we hosted the Olympics, we were treated to all kinds of quirky stories. One of my favourite topics was the New Amsterdam Café. The New Amsterdam is a store that sells paraphernalia for pot smokers. They have a lounge in which patrons can partake of their own stash; no weed for sale inside. 3000 plus reporters generate a lot of fluff stories. Converseley, the pot culture seems more palatable to police and public officials.
But back to our topic; there have long been concerns, from the police and the media, about yahoos coming into the big city from the surrounding cities, drinking themselves into a state of stupid, and then behaving badly. The police in downtown Vancouver are concerned about the young adults coming in from Moody, Surrey, Delta and getting into major piss-ups.
It’s a little odd for someone like me to understand. My parents were fairly European in bringing us up. We had wine with Sunday dinner in our teens, and they did not stigmatize drinking. Although Montréal does tolerate drinking in public, they do not have gangs of roving yahoos from the south shore destroying the downtown core every weekend.
We weren’t yahoos, but we also were not angels. There was some drunkenness happening, but taking a page from a previous blog, we did not forget our ethics. I don’t think drunkenness overcomes people’s ethics. After all, the saying is:”In vino, veritas”, not “In vino, stupid ass!”
When someone is tipsy they are liable to become goofy, silly, or even unable to speak without causing laughter all around them. But if they are not quick to overreacting when sober, they should be the same when they’re getting bagged.
What the police, I think, are basing their fear on, is that stupid will win out on the scale of Stanley Cup riots; 1993 in Montréal and 1994 in Vancouver. I believe what the Vancouver Police have attempted to do, in our very best Canadian-navel-gazing, is to prevent a repeat of these events. And it’s not just the VPD; for the Olympics, there is an Integrated Security Unit, with a large contingent of RCMP. Fortunately for the visiting public, the RCMP's mommy took away their Tasers.
Save for the opening weekend, the Police have closed all downtown liquor stores on the Fridays and Saturdays at 7:00 PM, during the Olympics. On closing ceremony day, they closed the liquor stores at 2:00 PM. Someone somewhere has decided that the yahoos only drink from liquor store purchases. Or perhaps the reasoning is that the purchases from the liquor stores, pushes people over the yahoo threshold.
Because there were only 22 arrests for public embarrassment, sorry drunkenness, they believe they were right in stopping liquor sales, in the downtown core. I don’t think so. After all, these are the same people who thought that sending Wayne Gretzky in the back of a pick-me-up-truck would not gather a crowd. Were these the drunken yahoos from Coquitlam, Langley, Burnaby…?
But don’t despair; when you think you have witnessed the epitome of anal retentiveness, along comes the IOC and VANOC. They have sent a letter to Hockey Canada to protest a major transgression. Gold medal women’s hockey champions, Team Canada, after having performed their entire medal and picture taking duties, and retiring to their dressing room to celebrate, were asked to return to the ice for a few more photos.
So back out they come grinning, wearing their Gold Medals, and bringing their champagne and beer. According to the Canadian Press, the “image that raised most eyebrows” was the sight of 18-year-old Marie-Philip Poulin with a beer.
Never mind that they train in Alberta, where the age of majority is 18, or that Marie-Philip is from Québec where the age of majority is never really even discussed; this is Vancouver, governed by King John of Furlong from VANOC, and we will not tolerate this kind of behaviour, even if you do score ALL the goals in the gold medal game.
Perhaps a trip to the New Amsterdam Café might mellow out some of VANOC and VPD/ISU. After all, it’s safe inside; you won’t have to worry about yahoos, with the liquor stores closed, and the 18-year-old women hockey players are getting sauced at Pacific Coliseum.
Maybe you should bring a snack!
Skål!
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Paralympics
Yes CJ its story time with Gerry once more; actually, more of an open letter.
Dear Dr. Rogge,
I would like to open my letter to you congratulating you on the Vancouver 2010 Olympic Winter Games. As I read up on you I have discovered that our Olympic paths have crossed for a second time. I hope you enjoyed the yachting venue in 1976.
Over the years, I have been exposed to many positive things and many negative things about the Olympics. The original design of the Montréal Olympic Stadium, designed by a Parisian architect, was not good.
I am not insinuating that the French are dumb, after all I am part French, but his ignorance of Canada and its climate were to blame. You see, he had originally designed the Big O with only 2 expansion joints.
Expansion joints are the points on any structure there is metal interleaving. When the surrounding air is hot, the structure will expand into the metal interleaving, closing the gap, which is the expansion joint. Conversely, when it is cold, the joint separates, opening up a wider gap.
As described at the time in the newspapers, with only 2 expansion joints in the Big O structure, the gaps would have been almost 3 meters across; enough space to drop a car through. I believe in response to this original design flaw, the stadium sought retribution by dropping pieces of itself on an auto show in 1999. As a result, the 2 went their separate ways.
I believe myself to be a glass-half-full type, so I will move on to the positives. I remember doing “Breakfast with Nagano” every morning with my daughters in 1998, while they ate breakfast and prepared for school. I have discovered in recent months that this is a stronger memory for me than it is for them, but it’s all good!
In researching for this letter, I have discovered that the Special Olympics are completely separate and different from the Paralympics. And even though I would like to address the Paralympics, I think it polite and diplomatic to acknowledge and recognize the fantastic work of Eunice Kennedy Shriver and all those who followed her in promoting these special events for very special people.
I believe one of the primary reasons for the Paralympics is to allow the participating athletes to be able to represent their countries on the world stage, and this is admirable. Unfortunately when the Paralympics are held a few weeks after the Olympics, they are always treated like the lesser sibling.
The Olympic Torch Relay was carried by 12,000 runners over 106 days. The Paralympic Torch Relay will be carried by 600 runners over 10 days. The broadcast rights for both games were bundled together and rightfully so; without the bundling, I don’t believe there would have been many bidders for the Paralympics.
As the lesser sibling, the Paralympics are usually 2 weeks after the closing of the favored sibling. At this point in time, the hoopla is over, most of the crowds and the media have returned home, and only those specifically interested in the Paralympics are tuned in.
I think this does a disservice to the Paralympians. Do you think that they feel part of the rest of us when we segregate their Olympics from ours? Does this tell them that they are as normal as able bodied athletes? Are these not feelings we should be trying to give to the Paralympians?
In order to tell our Paralympians that they are in fact Olympians, and equal to their able-bodied compatriots, I propose that you hold 1 Olympic Games, for all athletes. I do not think we are paying these brave athletes the respect they are due. Having Paralympic events mixed in with the schedule of able-bodied events tells these people that they are in fact equal.
On the economic front, combining the events together would be advantageous to all save the consumers. Using Vancouver as a model, the Paralympics will take place over a 10 day period, and by my estimate will earn about 1.2 truckloads of money a day. The Olympic Games lasted for 17 days and took in about 33.7 truckloads of money a day.
If combined, the games would have lasted about 25 days, taking in about 32 truckloads of money a day. This is 215.1 more truckloads of money; that’s a lot of money.
In closing Count Rogge, as the head of our Olympic movement, with all your strength, please act swiftly to raise the Paralympians to the status of their able brethren by allowing them to compete in the same games, at the same time, in the same venues.
If you had been a Paralympian, you would have wanted it done for you.
Schol!
Dear Dr. Rogge,
I would like to open my letter to you congratulating you on the Vancouver 2010 Olympic Winter Games. As I read up on you I have discovered that our Olympic paths have crossed for a second time. I hope you enjoyed the yachting venue in 1976.
Over the years, I have been exposed to many positive things and many negative things about the Olympics. The original design of the Montréal Olympic Stadium, designed by a Parisian architect, was not good.
I am not insinuating that the French are dumb, after all I am part French, but his ignorance of Canada and its climate were to blame. You see, he had originally designed the Big O with only 2 expansion joints.
Expansion joints are the points on any structure there is metal interleaving. When the surrounding air is hot, the structure will expand into the metal interleaving, closing the gap, which is the expansion joint. Conversely, when it is cold, the joint separates, opening up a wider gap.
As described at the time in the newspapers, with only 2 expansion joints in the Big O structure, the gaps would have been almost 3 meters across; enough space to drop a car through. I believe in response to this original design flaw, the stadium sought retribution by dropping pieces of itself on an auto show in 1999. As a result, the 2 went their separate ways.
I believe myself to be a glass-half-full type, so I will move on to the positives. I remember doing “Breakfast with Nagano” every morning with my daughters in 1998, while they ate breakfast and prepared for school. I have discovered in recent months that this is a stronger memory for me than it is for them, but it’s all good!
In researching for this letter, I have discovered that the Special Olympics are completely separate and different from the Paralympics. And even though I would like to address the Paralympics, I think it polite and diplomatic to acknowledge and recognize the fantastic work of Eunice Kennedy Shriver and all those who followed her in promoting these special events for very special people.
I believe one of the primary reasons for the Paralympics is to allow the participating athletes to be able to represent their countries on the world stage, and this is admirable. Unfortunately when the Paralympics are held a few weeks after the Olympics, they are always treated like the lesser sibling.
The Olympic Torch Relay was carried by 12,000 runners over 106 days. The Paralympic Torch Relay will be carried by 600 runners over 10 days. The broadcast rights for both games were bundled together and rightfully so; without the bundling, I don’t believe there would have been many bidders for the Paralympics.
As the lesser sibling, the Paralympics are usually 2 weeks after the closing of the favored sibling. At this point in time, the hoopla is over, most of the crowds and the media have returned home, and only those specifically interested in the Paralympics are tuned in.
I think this does a disservice to the Paralympians. Do you think that they feel part of the rest of us when we segregate their Olympics from ours? Does this tell them that they are as normal as able bodied athletes? Are these not feelings we should be trying to give to the Paralympians?
In order to tell our Paralympians that they are in fact Olympians, and equal to their able-bodied compatriots, I propose that you hold 1 Olympic Games, for all athletes. I do not think we are paying these brave athletes the respect they are due. Having Paralympic events mixed in with the schedule of able-bodied events tells these people that they are in fact equal.
On the economic front, combining the events together would be advantageous to all save the consumers. Using Vancouver as a model, the Paralympics will take place over a 10 day period, and by my estimate will earn about 1.2 truckloads of money a day. The Olympic Games lasted for 17 days and took in about 33.7 truckloads of money a day.
If combined, the games would have lasted about 25 days, taking in about 32 truckloads of money a day. This is 215.1 more truckloads of money; that’s a lot of money.
In closing Count Rogge, as the head of our Olympic movement, with all your strength, please act swiftly to raise the Paralympians to the status of their able brethren by allowing them to compete in the same games, at the same time, in the same venues.
If you had been a Paralympian, you would have wanted it done for you.
Schol!
Friday, February 26, 2010
Olympic Spirit
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
There was a story on the CBC morning radio program this morning about David Eby, executive director of the BC Civil Liberties Association, being ‘pie-ed” last week.
Although no one publicly aligned with the loose Olympic protests will speak about it, we have been led to believe that this is probably in retaliation for Mr. Eby’s non-support of the protests which took place Saturday February13 along Granville street in the Vancouver downtown.
Apparently the Civil Liberties Association was asked to not send down observers to the event. We in the non-protester world would call this a warning signal. David Eby has voiced the opinion that the protesters, on that day, were out of control, and had no explanation why his association would not see the warning signal. It appears that payback indeed is a… pie.
On the day in question, a group of protesters closed down everything around Granville & Georgia to protest, um, wait now, um…. I’m not quite sure. Hooded, with only their eyes visible, and clothed in black (Ninjas?), a number of protesters spray-painted cars, destroyed property, and finally smashed windows at the Bay and London Drugs.
As near as anyone can tell, the issues the protesters have is that there is poverty in Vancouver while we are hosting the Olympics, some of the Olympic events are being held on First Nations disputed lands, and there is too much commercialization of the Olympics.
So, were they blaming The Bay for poverty in Beijing 2 years ago? Will The Bay be responsible for the poor in London in 2 years? The Bay is an official Olympic sponsor, but London Drugs? An innocent bystander?
And what of the First Nations issues. Yes the games are taking place on some areas that are being disputed by claims. I remember reading that 250% to 300% of BC land is under various claims from various First Nations bands. This is a very serious issue and, can be addressed by all the First Nations peoples associated with these protests. Anyone?… Bueller?... Bueller?...
There was, I believe on the previous evening, a bit on the radio (CKNW) about one of their reporters asking someone, a Ninja perhaps, protesting the commercialization of the games, about the Nike’s they were wearing. Since this is a radio reporter, who I am assuming had a microphone and a recording device, and we did get audio of the Q & A, the response was probably unsuitable for polite company. Do you talk to your momma with that mouth?
I try not to believe everything I hear on the radio, or read in the papers. But without any news to contradict them, it is hard not to believe the various reports postulating that we are dealing with a central core of “professional” protesters. According to the media, APEC in Vancouver in 1997, through the 1999 Seattle WTO riots, and various other protests since were the breading grounds for this group. They supposedly thrive on the juice of the confrontation; it can’t be the publicity because the Ninja uniforms hide their faces.
As I write this, 11 people have been arrested in connection to these protests. The supposed ringleader, Guillaume Beaulieu, has previously been arrested for throwing water on a Philadelphia cop, who then died of a heart attack. They tried charging him with murder, but settled for aggravated assault. I believe some of the conditions of his current release include not gathering in groups and to not conceal his face. I bet his family is proud of him. Or perhaps they would prefer he hide his face.
On Friday February 12, the tactic was to taunt and swear at the police in order to provoke a confrontation. On Saturday February 13, the tactic escalated to throwing pieces of wood, traffic cones, and garbage in order to provoke a reaction from the cops. Fortunately, or unfortunaterly if you are a Ninja, the police did not react to the provocations.
I opined above that London Drugs was probably an innocent bystander. The protesters seem to not care about innocent bystanders, including everybody else in Vancouver. This is an excellent way to garner support for their cause.
The real question I would like answered by these people is this: Does your mother know what you’re doing? How does she feel about it? Do you think she’d be proud that you are making your point about the poor of Vancouver by launching Vancouver Sun vending machines through the windows of The Bay and London Drugs?
And to those upset about the commercialization of the games, when your children ask for their own Nikes, will you also conveniently suspend your beliefs, for them as you have for yourself? After all, Nike is Nike. One can’t look good without that swoosh!
I wonder, when launching items at the police, if the protesters were channeling Pierre de Coubertin; “Swifter, Higher, Stronger”?
L’Chayim
There was a story on the CBC morning radio program this morning about David Eby, executive director of the BC Civil Liberties Association, being ‘pie-ed” last week.
Although no one publicly aligned with the loose Olympic protests will speak about it, we have been led to believe that this is probably in retaliation for Mr. Eby’s non-support of the protests which took place Saturday February13 along Granville street in the Vancouver downtown.
Apparently the Civil Liberties Association was asked to not send down observers to the event. We in the non-protester world would call this a warning signal. David Eby has voiced the opinion that the protesters, on that day, were out of control, and had no explanation why his association would not see the warning signal. It appears that payback indeed is a… pie.
On the day in question, a group of protesters closed down everything around Granville & Georgia to protest, um, wait now, um…. I’m not quite sure. Hooded, with only their eyes visible, and clothed in black (Ninjas?), a number of protesters spray-painted cars, destroyed property, and finally smashed windows at the Bay and London Drugs.
As near as anyone can tell, the issues the protesters have is that there is poverty in Vancouver while we are hosting the Olympics, some of the Olympic events are being held on First Nations disputed lands, and there is too much commercialization of the Olympics.
So, were they blaming The Bay for poverty in Beijing 2 years ago? Will The Bay be responsible for the poor in London in 2 years? The Bay is an official Olympic sponsor, but London Drugs? An innocent bystander?
And what of the First Nations issues. Yes the games are taking place on some areas that are being disputed by claims. I remember reading that 250% to 300% of BC land is under various claims from various First Nations bands. This is a very serious issue and, can be addressed by all the First Nations peoples associated with these protests. Anyone?… Bueller?... Bueller?...
There was, I believe on the previous evening, a bit on the radio (CKNW) about one of their reporters asking someone, a Ninja perhaps, protesting the commercialization of the games, about the Nike’s they were wearing. Since this is a radio reporter, who I am assuming had a microphone and a recording device, and we did get audio of the Q & A, the response was probably unsuitable for polite company. Do you talk to your momma with that mouth?
I try not to believe everything I hear on the radio, or read in the papers. But without any news to contradict them, it is hard not to believe the various reports postulating that we are dealing with a central core of “professional” protesters. According to the media, APEC in Vancouver in 1997, through the 1999 Seattle WTO riots, and various other protests since were the breading grounds for this group. They supposedly thrive on the juice of the confrontation; it can’t be the publicity because the Ninja uniforms hide their faces.
As I write this, 11 people have been arrested in connection to these protests. The supposed ringleader, Guillaume Beaulieu, has previously been arrested for throwing water on a Philadelphia cop, who then died of a heart attack. They tried charging him with murder, but settled for aggravated assault. I believe some of the conditions of his current release include not gathering in groups and to not conceal his face. I bet his family is proud of him. Or perhaps they would prefer he hide his face.
On Friday February 12, the tactic was to taunt and swear at the police in order to provoke a confrontation. On Saturday February 13, the tactic escalated to throwing pieces of wood, traffic cones, and garbage in order to provoke a reaction from the cops. Fortunately, or unfortunaterly if you are a Ninja, the police did not react to the provocations.
I opined above that London Drugs was probably an innocent bystander. The protesters seem to not care about innocent bystanders, including everybody else in Vancouver. This is an excellent way to garner support for their cause.
The real question I would like answered by these people is this: Does your mother know what you’re doing? How does she feel about it? Do you think she’d be proud that you are making your point about the poor of Vancouver by launching Vancouver Sun vending machines through the windows of The Bay and London Drugs?
And to those upset about the commercialization of the games, when your children ask for their own Nikes, will you also conveniently suspend your beliefs, for them as you have for yourself? After all, Nike is Nike. One can’t look good without that swoosh!
I wonder, when launching items at the police, if the protesters were channeling Pierre de Coubertin; “Swifter, Higher, Stronger”?
L’Chayim
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Greed
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
A number of months ago, some of my old chums suggested I write about greed, after my post on the HST. One really can’t discuss greed without quoting from “Wall Street” the immortal words of Michael Douglas’s character Gordon Gecko;
“The point is, ladies and gentleman, that greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right, greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms; greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge has marked the upward surge of mankind.”
Johnny Silver (Hood) started the conversation saying he would love to see something about corporate greed. Jim Grant followed that comment with the opinion that there is no corporate greed, only greedy people within these corporations.
Although it may seem like I disagree with my buddies, I am taking their point and moving it along further, much like Jim did with John’s original thought. I do agree with Jim that only persons can be possessed of human foibles or virtues, but I think he would initially disagree with my postulating that basic greed, wanting, is a virtue.
Wanting to be swifter, higher, stronger is good. It was good enough for Pierre de Coubertin. You see, this is the Olympic motto, proposed by de Coubertin in 1894 and adopted for the Paris games in 1924.
One can also make the argument that fame is also a good motivator. Wanting to be famous has given us some great politicians; Obama, Trudeau, Lougheed, Bourassa. Unfortunately, with politics some bad comes with the good. It hurts not to, but I won’t delve into the bad politicians list. I do not, and will not, ever say that fame is the only motivator for those who attain fame, but it is one of them.
Wanting becomes greed when it becomes an obsession. Greed is one of the 7 deadly sins when it is blind or uncontained wanting. When our ethics (knowing and choosing between good and bad) are overcome by our wanting, you have greed.
My experiences that have left their mark and have me made what I am because I have responded to them. These choices now shape me and allow me to demonstrate to my staff what I think is the right way to behave. As well, my superiors are afforded the opportunity to reward or recognize behaviors they approve of, or conversely admonish me for behaviors they do not support. Not all of these signals are overt; body language and intonation are a large part of how we communicate.
So John & Jim, Enron was not greedy, but Kenneth Lay et al were. Enron, its board of directors, and its management were responsible for fomenting bad corporate ethics, and promoting to their upper management levels, people whose judgment allowed their wanting to become greed; Ken Lay et al.
Ethics, or the lack thereof was responsible for the fall of Enron. And it was infectious because it spread to their audit firm , Arthur Anderson, at the time one of the top 5 audit firms in the US. Once exposed to the light of public scrutiny, neither could survive. There are many other examples, even some north of the 49th parallel, but I only need one to make my point.
The US sub-prime mortgage was/is rife with thousands of other examples to make my argument, but boiled down to the catalysts, we have greedy bankers, credit rating agents, investment advisors, and legislators. All these greedy individuals directed their companies, and their lobbyists to change the rules. Unfortunately, Alan Greenspan, George W Bush, and their administrations allowed themselves to be duped. Greed? Pride? Who knows.
In recent weeks, Canada’s banks were concerned that we might experience our own bubble in real estate. Although none were brave enough to be seen as the voice of reason, and thus the decliner of mortgages, they implored the Minister of Finance to change the rules, and be the bad guy.
This resulted in a win-win-win situation. We have reasonable qualifications for a mortgage for both down payments and interest rates. The banks are not seen as the bad guy because they manipulated the government into enacting the changes. And finally, the Minister of Finance gets to appear ministerial by doing exactly what the banks told him to.
Bloody good thing our bankers’ ethics more closely match our own, instead of the ethics of the bankers south of the border. Pity that our politicians are so easily manipulated on either side of the border.
So Mr. Gecko, greed is not good. Wanting is good, but needs to be guided and marshaled by our ethics. Our ethics are only of use if we are capable of knowing the difference between good and bad AND do not cross that line. Then we are in company of Abraham Lincoln and not Kenneth Lay. Right Tiger?
Cheers folks!
A number of months ago, some of my old chums suggested I write about greed, after my post on the HST. One really can’t discuss greed without quoting from “Wall Street” the immortal words of Michael Douglas’s character Gordon Gecko;
“The point is, ladies and gentleman, that greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right, greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms; greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge has marked the upward surge of mankind.”
Johnny Silver (Hood) started the conversation saying he would love to see something about corporate greed. Jim Grant followed that comment with the opinion that there is no corporate greed, only greedy people within these corporations.
Although it may seem like I disagree with my buddies, I am taking their point and moving it along further, much like Jim did with John’s original thought. I do agree with Jim that only persons can be possessed of human foibles or virtues, but I think he would initially disagree with my postulating that basic greed, wanting, is a virtue.
Wanting to be swifter, higher, stronger is good. It was good enough for Pierre de Coubertin. You see, this is the Olympic motto, proposed by de Coubertin in 1894 and adopted for the Paris games in 1924.
One can also make the argument that fame is also a good motivator. Wanting to be famous has given us some great politicians; Obama, Trudeau, Lougheed, Bourassa. Unfortunately, with politics some bad comes with the good. It hurts not to, but I won’t delve into the bad politicians list. I do not, and will not, ever say that fame is the only motivator for those who attain fame, but it is one of them.
Wanting becomes greed when it becomes an obsession. Greed is one of the 7 deadly sins when it is blind or uncontained wanting. When our ethics (knowing and choosing between good and bad) are overcome by our wanting, you have greed.
My experiences that have left their mark and have me made what I am because I have responded to them. These choices now shape me and allow me to demonstrate to my staff what I think is the right way to behave. As well, my superiors are afforded the opportunity to reward or recognize behaviors they approve of, or conversely admonish me for behaviors they do not support. Not all of these signals are overt; body language and intonation are a large part of how we communicate.
So John & Jim, Enron was not greedy, but Kenneth Lay et al were. Enron, its board of directors, and its management were responsible for fomenting bad corporate ethics, and promoting to their upper management levels, people whose judgment allowed their wanting to become greed; Ken Lay et al.
Ethics, or the lack thereof was responsible for the fall of Enron. And it was infectious because it spread to their audit firm , Arthur Anderson, at the time one of the top 5 audit firms in the US. Once exposed to the light of public scrutiny, neither could survive. There are many other examples, even some north of the 49th parallel, but I only need one to make my point.
The US sub-prime mortgage was/is rife with thousands of other examples to make my argument, but boiled down to the catalysts, we have greedy bankers, credit rating agents, investment advisors, and legislators. All these greedy individuals directed their companies, and their lobbyists to change the rules. Unfortunately, Alan Greenspan, George W Bush, and their administrations allowed themselves to be duped. Greed? Pride? Who knows.
In recent weeks, Canada’s banks were concerned that we might experience our own bubble in real estate. Although none were brave enough to be seen as the voice of reason, and thus the decliner of mortgages, they implored the Minister of Finance to change the rules, and be the bad guy.
This resulted in a win-win-win situation. We have reasonable qualifications for a mortgage for both down payments and interest rates. The banks are not seen as the bad guy because they manipulated the government into enacting the changes. And finally, the Minister of Finance gets to appear ministerial by doing exactly what the banks told him to.
Bloody good thing our bankers’ ethics more closely match our own, instead of the ethics of the bankers south of the border. Pity that our politicians are so easily manipulated on either side of the border.
So Mr. Gecko, greed is not good. Wanting is good, but needs to be guided and marshaled by our ethics. Our ethics are only of use if we are capable of knowing the difference between good and bad AND do not cross that line. Then we are in company of Abraham Lincoln and not Kenneth Lay. Right Tiger?
Cheers folks!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Les Olympiques
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
As I have stated in previous posts, I am very pan-Canadian. There are 3 Canadian Olympic cities, and I have lived in all 3. I was born in Montréal and used to walk to school, through 3 feet of snow, uphill both ways… Sorry, wrong story.
I was 17 when the Olympics happened in Montréal. It was a very special time. There were all kinds of events happening throughout the city, but what I remember most was all the tourists. Montréal is a very tourist friendly city and it wasn’t a shock to see tourists, but the volume and the influx were astounding.
I do remember running into a multitude of accents, in both languages, and I think my knack for identifying them was honed during the 1976 Olympics. Some were easy; French from Germans versus Moroccans, or English from Scots or South Africans. Some were very hard; English speaking Finns and Swedes.
As far as getting into the Olympics, I was 17, so I did not have the wherewithal to buy tickets. I do remember asking a scalper in front of the Forum, with a pair of tickets in the reds, how much he wanted for tickets to see Nadia Comaneci, 2 nights after she received her first perfect 10’s. He told me $5000, and when I commented that $2500 was a little steep for a ticket, he told me it was $10,000 for the pair. I turned around a relayed the story to my friends, and at story’s end, he had already sold them.
I lived in Calgary, just not in 1988. I was living in Ottawa, so I did not have much of a connection to the games, save for what CBC brought into my home. The legacy in Calgary includes Olympic Plaza in the downtown, the Olympic Park (which figures into directions into anywhere in the North West), and world class sledding and ski jump runs. (I purposefully did not mention Montréal’s legacy because I’m writing a blog, not a book)
Living in Vancouver, we have been bombarded by any and every story anyone could possibly write about the Olympics. I have no idea how many times I have read, seen, and heard stories about Canada being the only host nation to have never earned a gold medal on their soil. Blah, blah, blah…
A Canadian gold in Canada is not the most important thing about the Olympics, but it is nice. Yes, this is written in the present tense. As I write this, I have just finished watching Alexandre Bilodeau collect his gold medal. It was very inspiring and moving. I think the whole country was cheering for him yesterday.
Almost as inspiring as Shane Koyczan’s “We are More”. Nita & I were incredibly moved by his performance, and awed by his words. I spent the weekend trying to figure out who he was, and if I could locate a book written by him. Chapters lists “Visiting Hours” at $17.05, but “Temporarily Unavailable to Order New”. They do have 5 copies in their used and rare section, but they range in price from $50.46 to $105.11. I wonder how much they listed for last month?
As far as I am concerned, the Olympics are about events that touch us and the memories we carry from these great parties. Once everything is said and done, and after all the taxes are paid (I think Québec finally paid off 1976 a few years back), what is most lasting is what we take away in our memories.
I will always remember being thrilled that Greg Joy received a silver medal in Montréal for the high jump. You see, at the time, our expectations were to host an excellent event and party. Getting a medal was just icing on the cake. I’m fairly certain Greg Joy wasn’t disappointed about not getting the first gold medal for Canada on Canadian soil. And I remember the media at the time being overjoyed that we had actually received a medal.
In 1988, Elizabeth Manley, the darling of Ottawa, was awarded the silver medal. Figure Skating judging at the time, at the Olympic level, was almost always decided beforehand. The favorites, Katarina Witt and Debi Thomas both performed poorly, but the judges somehow managed to still give Witt the gold. We knew Manley was cheated by rigged judging, but she put in a gold medal performance in our hearts.
And lastly, I think Alexandre put in a phenomenal run which was thrilling to watch. But my memory of the race will always be Frédéric’s reaction at the end of the race. He knew his brother had put in a gold medal performance, and you could see it on his face and in his reaction.
So my Olympic memories will always be that lanky guy in those embarrassing red short-shorts missing the bar 3 times at 2.25 meters, the little blond who burst into tears because she knew she skated her perfect program, and the slam poet who almost made me cry. But I know that I will always remember the love and devotion of the brother who couldn’t, and how it inspired the brother who could, to do it.
Go Canada, Allons-y!
For a different version of Shane's "We are More", please see
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsq68qRexFc
As I have stated in previous posts, I am very pan-Canadian. There are 3 Canadian Olympic cities, and I have lived in all 3. I was born in Montréal and used to walk to school, through 3 feet of snow, uphill both ways… Sorry, wrong story.
I was 17 when the Olympics happened in Montréal. It was a very special time. There were all kinds of events happening throughout the city, but what I remember most was all the tourists. Montréal is a very tourist friendly city and it wasn’t a shock to see tourists, but the volume and the influx were astounding.
I do remember running into a multitude of accents, in both languages, and I think my knack for identifying them was honed during the 1976 Olympics. Some were easy; French from Germans versus Moroccans, or English from Scots or South Africans. Some were very hard; English speaking Finns and Swedes.
As far as getting into the Olympics, I was 17, so I did not have the wherewithal to buy tickets. I do remember asking a scalper in front of the Forum, with a pair of tickets in the reds, how much he wanted for tickets to see Nadia Comaneci, 2 nights after she received her first perfect 10’s. He told me $5000, and when I commented that $2500 was a little steep for a ticket, he told me it was $10,000 for the pair. I turned around a relayed the story to my friends, and at story’s end, he had already sold them.
I lived in Calgary, just not in 1988. I was living in Ottawa, so I did not have much of a connection to the games, save for what CBC brought into my home. The legacy in Calgary includes Olympic Plaza in the downtown, the Olympic Park (which figures into directions into anywhere in the North West), and world class sledding and ski jump runs. (I purposefully did not mention Montréal’s legacy because I’m writing a blog, not a book)
Living in Vancouver, we have been bombarded by any and every story anyone could possibly write about the Olympics. I have no idea how many times I have read, seen, and heard stories about Canada being the only host nation to have never earned a gold medal on their soil. Blah, blah, blah…
A Canadian gold in Canada is not the most important thing about the Olympics, but it is nice. Yes, this is written in the present tense. As I write this, I have just finished watching Alexandre Bilodeau collect his gold medal. It was very inspiring and moving. I think the whole country was cheering for him yesterday.
Almost as inspiring as Shane Koyczan’s “We are More”. Nita & I were incredibly moved by his performance, and awed by his words. I spent the weekend trying to figure out who he was, and if I could locate a book written by him. Chapters lists “Visiting Hours” at $17.05, but “Temporarily Unavailable to Order New”. They do have 5 copies in their used and rare section, but they range in price from $50.46 to $105.11. I wonder how much they listed for last month?
As far as I am concerned, the Olympics are about events that touch us and the memories we carry from these great parties. Once everything is said and done, and after all the taxes are paid (I think Québec finally paid off 1976 a few years back), what is most lasting is what we take away in our memories.
I will always remember being thrilled that Greg Joy received a silver medal in Montréal for the high jump. You see, at the time, our expectations were to host an excellent event and party. Getting a medal was just icing on the cake. I’m fairly certain Greg Joy wasn’t disappointed about not getting the first gold medal for Canada on Canadian soil. And I remember the media at the time being overjoyed that we had actually received a medal.
In 1988, Elizabeth Manley, the darling of Ottawa, was awarded the silver medal. Figure Skating judging at the time, at the Olympic level, was almost always decided beforehand. The favorites, Katarina Witt and Debi Thomas both performed poorly, but the judges somehow managed to still give Witt the gold. We knew Manley was cheated by rigged judging, but she put in a gold medal performance in our hearts.
And lastly, I think Alexandre put in a phenomenal run which was thrilling to watch. But my memory of the race will always be Frédéric’s reaction at the end of the race. He knew his brother had put in a gold medal performance, and you could see it on his face and in his reaction.
So my Olympic memories will always be that lanky guy in those embarrassing red short-shorts missing the bar 3 times at 2.25 meters, the little blond who burst into tears because she knew she skated her perfect program, and the slam poet who almost made me cry. But I know that I will always remember the love and devotion of the brother who couldn’t, and how it inspired the brother who could, to do it.
Go Canada, Allons-y!
For a different version of Shane's "We are More", please see
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsq68qRexFc
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Movies
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
I would like to open with an apology; it has been quite a while since I have posted, and common courtesy demands I apologize to my loyal follower. Sorry Mom.
I have been a movie buff for a long, long time. I love movies. At one point, my wife Nita was given a courtesy card to an un-named chain from her sister. We have seen many movies together. Some really good, some really bad, and many in the middle. We only ever walked out of 1; “The Story of us”.
When we lived in Toronto, we attempted to discover a movie reviewer we could rely on. We found the best we could get was about 50%, so we saw quite a few movies in the 2nd and 3rd criteria listed above.
Getting to the end of the available reviewers, I came across this dude in the Star who was brutal; we agreed with him less than 20% of time. I was inspired and threw inverse logic into the calculation, and he became my Bizzaro reviewer; if he hated it, we usually liked it, and if he loved something, we would save our money. It worked quite well.
A few years ago, when I purchased my first iPod, I was trolling iTunes and discovered podcasts. It was wonderful; here were audio, and sometimes video, snippets of people’s shows or ramblings, and they wouldn’t cost a cent. I also discovered that sometimes the snippets were entire programs, like the audio from “60 Minutes”.
One of my first discoveries was “Filmspotting”. This is a wonderful reposting of a Chicago public radio broadcast. These guys are great. I have been listening to them since late 2007. The podcast is simply a couple of guys intelligently and astutely discussing movies. I don’t always agree with them, and they don’t always agree with each other, but it is always very entertaining.
Adam and Matty are somewhat director-centric in their views, but they do not fill their time with technical-ese. They are also responsible for 2 of my favorite new sayings. “Getting dusty” is a term they use when a movie plays to your emotions. Their second is something that many people I know think about me; “I hear what you’re saying, but you’re completely wrong”.
I’m hitting about .700 with these guys, so I think I’ll stick with them. And yes I used the baseball analogy for Matty “Ballgame” Robinson, who refers to “Major League” as his favorite movie. Nita is not so enamored with some of my recent rental choices, with good reason.
These guys have however turned me onto a web site called “Flickchart”, which is fun, free, and addictive for all you movie lovers. Once you have signed up, you are presented with 2 movies, and you simply select which one you liked better, and the site tracks all your answers. I have been wasting time on the site for a few months now, and my statistics show that I have ranked over 3300 times on 600 movies. My top 5 movies are an eclectic mix; “X-Men”, “Ray”, “Slumdog Millionaire”, “Little Miss Sunshine”, & “Snatch”.
This is usually fun and you sometimes end up having to make odd and challenging choices. Just look above; choose between “A Clockwork Orange” and “The Godfather”??? Really? What about choosing between “Little Miss Sunshine” and “Goodfellas”.
When it comes to movies, however, my favorite stories are centered on movie critics and reviewers. All too often, we are presented with the views of someone who has grown into an aficionado, or perhaps a critic who has discovered he gets more feedback when he mercilessly tears a movie to pieces. Either one of these 2 scenarios are also self fulfilling scenarios. The more movies you see, the more you know, or the more you ravage movies, the more you want to.
In 1939, 2 movies were almost universally panned; the critics at the time hated them for various reasons. In my lifetime, one of the worst reviews I read was in 1977 was peppered with words like schlock , gimmicky, and too loud.
The reviewer at the time, and probably also those in 1939, forgot one of the basic rules about movies. Movies are made to entertain us. Not every movie needs to be a statement or teach us about our world. Sometimes movies just need to make us laugh or get a little dusty. This is good; even more so when that was the film makers intention.
In closing, I do love my movies, and probably always will. I will not regale you with my favorites, because I am neither an authority nor an expert. But when next you see me, I would be more than happy to share my views on what I have seen recently; I always have and always will.
For those of you paying attention, the 1939 movies were “Gone with the wind” & “The Wizard of Oz”, and the 1977 bomb was “Star Wars”. Fortunately, Hollywood producers don’t always listen to the critics.
Cheers folks!
www.filmspotting.net (Also see iTunes for their podcasts)
www.flickchart.com
www.imdb.com (The Internet Movie DataBase)
I would like to open with an apology; it has been quite a while since I have posted, and common courtesy demands I apologize to my loyal follower. Sorry Mom.
I have been a movie buff for a long, long time. I love movies. At one point, my wife Nita was given a courtesy card to an un-named chain from her sister. We have seen many movies together. Some really good, some really bad, and many in the middle. We only ever walked out of 1; “The Story of us”.
When we lived in Toronto, we attempted to discover a movie reviewer we could rely on. We found the best we could get was about 50%, so we saw quite a few movies in the 2nd and 3rd criteria listed above.
Getting to the end of the available reviewers, I came across this dude in the Star who was brutal; we agreed with him less than 20% of time. I was inspired and threw inverse logic into the calculation, and he became my Bizzaro reviewer; if he hated it, we usually liked it, and if he loved something, we would save our money. It worked quite well.
A few years ago, when I purchased my first iPod, I was trolling iTunes and discovered podcasts. It was wonderful; here were audio, and sometimes video, snippets of people’s shows or ramblings, and they wouldn’t cost a cent. I also discovered that sometimes the snippets were entire programs, like the audio from “60 Minutes”.
One of my first discoveries was “Filmspotting”. This is a wonderful reposting of a Chicago public radio broadcast. These guys are great. I have been listening to them since late 2007. The podcast is simply a couple of guys intelligently and astutely discussing movies. I don’t always agree with them, and they don’t always agree with each other, but it is always very entertaining.
Adam and Matty are somewhat director-centric in their views, but they do not fill their time with technical-ese. They are also responsible for 2 of my favorite new sayings. “Getting dusty” is a term they use when a movie plays to your emotions. Their second is something that many people I know think about me; “I hear what you’re saying, but you’re completely wrong”.
I’m hitting about .700 with these guys, so I think I’ll stick with them. And yes I used the baseball analogy for Matty “Ballgame” Robinson, who refers to “Major League” as his favorite movie. Nita is not so enamored with some of my recent rental choices, with good reason.
These guys have however turned me onto a web site called “Flickchart”, which is fun, free, and addictive for all you movie lovers. Once you have signed up, you are presented with 2 movies, and you simply select which one you liked better, and the site tracks all your answers. I have been wasting time on the site for a few months now, and my statistics show that I have ranked over 3300 times on 600 movies. My top 5 movies are an eclectic mix; “X-Men”, “Ray”, “Slumdog Millionaire”, “Little Miss Sunshine”, & “Snatch”.
This is usually fun and you sometimes end up having to make odd and challenging choices. Just look above; choose between “A Clockwork Orange” and “The Godfather”??? Really? What about choosing between “Little Miss Sunshine” and “Goodfellas”.
When it comes to movies, however, my favorite stories are centered on movie critics and reviewers. All too often, we are presented with the views of someone who has grown into an aficionado, or perhaps a critic who has discovered he gets more feedback when he mercilessly tears a movie to pieces. Either one of these 2 scenarios are also self fulfilling scenarios. The more movies you see, the more you know, or the more you ravage movies, the more you want to.
In 1939, 2 movies were almost universally panned; the critics at the time hated them for various reasons. In my lifetime, one of the worst reviews I read was in 1977 was peppered with words like schlock , gimmicky, and too loud.
The reviewer at the time, and probably also those in 1939, forgot one of the basic rules about movies. Movies are made to entertain us. Not every movie needs to be a statement or teach us about our world. Sometimes movies just need to make us laugh or get a little dusty. This is good; even more so when that was the film makers intention.
In closing, I do love my movies, and probably always will. I will not regale you with my favorites, because I am neither an authority nor an expert. But when next you see me, I would be more than happy to share my views on what I have seen recently; I always have and always will.
For those of you paying attention, the 1939 movies were “Gone with the wind” & “The Wizard of Oz”, and the 1977 bomb was “Star Wars”. Fortunately, Hollywood producers don’t always listen to the critics.
Cheers folks!
www.filmspotting.net (Also see iTunes for their podcasts)
www.flickchart.com
www.imdb.com (The Internet Movie DataBase)
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Microsoft
Image from; http://www.designswan.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/windows/window3.jpg
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
I have had a long, and sometimes frustrating, relationship over the years with Mr. Gates and his main products. I have used, in order, Windows 3.0, 3.1, 95, 98, ME, NT, XP, VISTA, and finally Windows 7. I currently have a work laptop, using Windows XP and Office 2003. Our desktop and home laptop are Windows 7 and Office 2007.
I grew up as a tinkerer. I would look at things trying to figure out how they worked. I always thought my nascent skill to be numbers; apparently I resemble Dustin Hoffman, my wife Nita calls me Rain Man. I am a human calculator. This is probably why my first real foray into the working world was as a teller with the Bank of Montréal.
While I was with the bank, a friend of mine suggested I apply for a job as a copier technician. I thought he was a few spoons short of a full drawer, but applied anyhow. The process was to consist of a mechanical test, an electronic test, and an interview. I had 30 minutes to do the mechanical test, and needed to get 28 out of 36 questions right to be considered for the job. I was done in 20 minutes, and only minutes into the electronic test, I was interrupted by a job offer. You see, I answered 35 of the questions correctly.
In the intervening years, I have used Lotus 123, but moved on to Excel. I am considered the Excel expert at my workplace. I used WordPerfect, liked it, but Word dominates the marketplace. I like Office and its components, and have used quite a few of the satellite programs as well. Once again, dating myself, I have been known to brag that the only computer course I have ever taken was DOS, and I still remember some of the commands.
Over the years, we have had quite a few computers, but our current unit is a Dell we purchased in February 2007, and it arrived with a big surprise, Vista. As I said above, I am a tinkerer, not a geek or nerd. Microsoft over the years has concentrated on putting in code more to control, monitor, and restrict what you do, and less to make it better for you. You see, I was able to install my Windows 95 into 2 computers, and they took this possibility away over the years.
In January 2008, we were moving to Vancouver, and I found I would need a laptop, so I did some research (poorly), and bought a refurbished no-name laptop for personal use. I had, a few months earlier, bought Office Home & Student, and was saying to the dude at the used laptop place that I would have to get another copy of Office. Fortunately, he explained that you usually get 3 licenses with Office, and he was right.
For $150 sometime in 2007, I was able to legally install Office on our desktop, our laptop, and Nita’s Dad’s desktop. This was very cool, and legal, because they all registered on line.
I had been listening to all the hype about Windows 7 and was ambivalent; the same people who were cheering on 7 had done the same for Vista, until after it launched. So I waited for a few months after they launched Windows 7, and went out and bought one. $150; seeing a pricing pattern?
I was hoping it would speed up my own laptop, so I could watch streaming video without the chop/stop effect. No luck. This had annoyed me so much that I had even attempted to downgrade to XP, but since Everex, the remanufacturer, had gone under, I was unable to locate XP drivers for the wireless card and the sound card.
I successfully installed WIN 7 in both my laptop and desktop. After almost a month, I did not see any difference in performance, and I still had my choppy video streaming on the laptop.
But then I received a Christmas gift from Microsoft; my desktop (installed 2nd) has an illegal copy of Windows 7, and I either have to enter a valid product key or purchase an on-line copy Windows 7.
I was actually ready to pay for a 2nd copy of Office, but didn’t have to. I was trapped in Vista for almost 2 years; I should have been recompensed for this, but instead I need to pay for each copy of the OS, which has no visible improvements. Geeks make up less then 5% of the consuming public. If a tinkerer like me can’t discern a difference, then this is a very narrow target market for Windows 7; geeks only? And I’m not even sure they can see a difference.
Sorry folks, but keeping rants internalized can be dangerous to one’s health.
Happy New Year & Cheers!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Ron
Ron, Me & Tug>>>>>>>>>
Yes CJ its story time with once more.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away. Wait wrong beginning.
When I began my working career a number of years ago, I was fumbling with my identity. My buddies were still mostly at university, and I had left school to reverse being a drain on my parents, as my Dad was ill and could not work.
While floundering, I was introduced to Ron. My buddies at the time, Mike, Dan, and Tug, introduced me to both curling and golf. I have played and strayed from both over the years, and enjoyed myself while playing them. Ron was a new member at the Meadowbrook Curling Club (now defunct), our club.
Ron and I became fast friends. Ron had almost as warped a sense of humor as I, and we reveled in seeing who could make the cruelest puns. It was both horrific and delightful. Ron and I also shared our views on morals and philosophy, and discovered that where we differed there was open ground for debate. Good debate; I could sway him on some things, he did the same.
Neither Ron nor I supported organized religion. He being a non-practicing Episcopalian, and me a lapsed Catholic, we had both strayed from our respective folds. Every year, regardless of our discussions on religion, Ron would always put $5 into the Salvation Army’s kettle drive. After seeing this for a few years, and me asking why, Ron explained that although he disagreed with their beliefs and their desire to convert the unwashed, they did very good things at Christmas for those who could not do for themselves, and as such earned his respect and support.
After a few years, some of the gang started noticing that Ron was slightly effeminate, and that they had never seen him with a woman. They, of course, assumed that he must be a fag, with all the negative behavior that accompanied this. They did not stay members of the gang for long. When faced with the supposition, I reacted defensively, and postulated that if anyone really cared, they should ask Ron. No one did.
Ron had been transferred to Ottawa; he was a Captain in the Armed Forces. They paid for his medical school and he owed them 5 years service; very equitable. I was visiting Ron one weekend, and while we were in our cups, and discussing all the matters of the world, I asked; “Hey, are you gay?” After a few seconds of silence he answered, “Yes”
I then asked him where we should go for lunch the next day. Ron was dumbfounded and wanted to know why I wasn’t questioning him further. I asked him if he intended to try and put the moves on me, and when he answered no, I told him; “Well I didn’t think you would, and since that was the only possible thing that might have worried me; case closed. Now, what about lunch tomorrow?”
I also moved to Ottawa, and when I married my ex-wife, Ron was my best man; there really was no other choice. We actually shared a town-house with Ron for a few years. Ron was living with us when my eldest daughter, Amanda was born. This was also when Ron confirmed that he was suffering from AIDS. Shortly afterwards, so we wouldn’t have to care for him, Ron decided to take an apartment of his own, and we moved into smaller digs. Ron eventually could not work anymore, and moved back to London to be cared for by his parents.
While visiting Ron in London, he asked me how I felt about euthanasia. We discussed this point quite extensively, and he told me he might ask me if he could write me a prescription for a lethal dose of something, and have me give it to him if the sickness became too much for him. You see, he knew me enough to know that by telling me he might ask me, I would think it through and have the answer if it were ever asked.
He never asked, but if he had, I would have done it without question.
When my youngest daughter Erin was 2 months old, Ron died. The official cause of death was pneumocystis pneumonia. I wanted Erin, if she were born a boy, to be named Ron. We went to London for the funeral, and laid Ron to rest in the family plot in Forest, Ontario.
My daughters may or may not remember seeing this, but every Christmas, and even though I don’t agree with their beliefs or desire to convert the rest of the world to their thinking, I drop $5 into the Salvation Army kettle. They do, after all, do very good things at Christmas for those who can’t do for themselves.
I dropped in $5 just the other day, and remembered my buddy, Dr. Ron Ince, 1957-1990, the best friend I ever had.
Cheers Dr. Chop!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Noah
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
Please note that this is not bitching, moaning, or groaning. I am exercising my right as a Canadian to complain about the weather. I am quite happy being away from the frigid climes of northern Alberta. When you close your tailgate and the Nissan emblems falls off because the adhesive no longer wants to adhere at -50c, one neither reminisces nor pines.
November, according to the locals, is the rainiest and grayest month in Vancouver. This year, I agree with them. Mowgli, our puppy, is a little uncomfortable going out for walks in the dark. He is equally uncomfortable going out for walks in the rain. At night in the rain, we usually end up going out for a drag; he’s been getting to exercise his pulling-back muscles.
I listen to news/talk radio during the week. This is how Al-Qaeda changed my life after 9/11. Before that day, I used to listen to the FM flavor of the month. On that morning, I was listening to a New York city DJ as he described what he was seeing; it was eerie. As a result, Monday to Friday, I listen to talk radio. I actually survived 6 years of Uber-Ultra-Mega Conservative talk radio in Alberta.
The pinnacle of said radio is Dave Rutherford; when the Conservatives talk about pandering to the Socialists & Separatists, they are speaking directly to Rutherford’s soul. Our Prime Minister's views on the media in Canada (detestable & to be avoided at any cost) DO NOT extend to Dave Rutherford. Which is fair since he is definitely on the talk half of News/Talk. The PM had been a surprise guest on the Rutherford show a number of times while I was still living in Alberta. Unsurprisingly, his show is not picked up by CKNW in Vancouver, the local Corus affiliate. Red is a deeper hue of their anti-bullying t-shirts CKNW promotes, not the color of their necks.
A good segue to the subject at hand. I was listening to the radio November 23rd, and the CKNW weather dude, Marc Madryga, was telling us how there had been 23 straight days of rain. We live in North Vancouver, in the Lynn Valley area. North Vancouver is famous for lots of rain, specifically in Lynn Valley. I’m not sure how the rest of Vancouver fared, but we had rain in the next 4 days, bringing us to 27 straight days of rain. Mowgli was convinced I was trying to drown him.
Fortunately, we live on the side of a mountain, so all that water rolled downhill. And there was quite a bit of water. Listening to Mr. Madryga a few days later, they had tracked a low of 600mm of rain up to a high of 1100mm of rain in November. Let me put this into perspective for you. 1100mm of rain would be enough to drown either Vern Troyer or Hervé Villechaize standing up; the average door knob is just under 1100mm; picture your kitchen counters, under water. Using the rule of thumb of multiplying by 10 to find out how much snow that could have been, we get 11 meters. This is higher than my house.
When we were kids, there was a particularly nasty winter storm one March 16. All the schools were closed. This is Montréal, not Toronto. In Toronto, they close the schools at a 5cm accumulation. On this March 16, the schools were closed, not much traffic was moving, and the snow plows were having a hard time getting around. After our 2nd sortie to shovel the driveway, we were gathered around the radio (yes news/talk) and they announced that Dorval Airport was asking for covered Bombardier commercial snowmobiles to come out to the airport. There were planes that had landed, that were stranded, and they were looking for a way to move the passengers from the planes to the terminal.
We received over 60cm (600mm) of snow that day. Nothing really happened other than snow falling, snow shoveling, listening to the radio, and hot chocolate. We decided that the day never really happened, so we took out a pair of scissors, and cut March 16 out of the calendar.
I have scratched out “vember” on my calendar and written in “ah”.
And that is the ark of this story.
(Nita, my loving wife, even after that one, tries to tell there are some I should walk away from.)
Cheers folks!
Please note that this is not bitching, moaning, or groaning. I am exercising my right as a Canadian to complain about the weather. I am quite happy being away from the frigid climes of northern Alberta. When you close your tailgate and the Nissan emblems falls off because the adhesive no longer wants to adhere at -50c, one neither reminisces nor pines.
November, according to the locals, is the rainiest and grayest month in Vancouver. This year, I agree with them. Mowgli, our puppy, is a little uncomfortable going out for walks in the dark. He is equally uncomfortable going out for walks in the rain. At night in the rain, we usually end up going out for a drag; he’s been getting to exercise his pulling-back muscles.
I listen to news/talk radio during the week. This is how Al-Qaeda changed my life after 9/11. Before that day, I used to listen to the FM flavor of the month. On that morning, I was listening to a New York city DJ as he described what he was seeing; it was eerie. As a result, Monday to Friday, I listen to talk radio. I actually survived 6 years of Uber-Ultra-Mega Conservative talk radio in Alberta.
The pinnacle of said radio is Dave Rutherford; when the Conservatives talk about pandering to the Socialists & Separatists, they are speaking directly to Rutherford’s soul. Our Prime Minister's views on the media in Canada (detestable & to be avoided at any cost) DO NOT extend to Dave Rutherford. Which is fair since he is definitely on the talk half of News/Talk. The PM had been a surprise guest on the Rutherford show a number of times while I was still living in Alberta. Unsurprisingly, his show is not picked up by CKNW in Vancouver, the local Corus affiliate. Red is a deeper hue of their anti-bullying t-shirts CKNW promotes, not the color of their necks.
A good segue to the subject at hand. I was listening to the radio November 23rd, and the CKNW weather dude, Marc Madryga, was telling us how there had been 23 straight days of rain. We live in North Vancouver, in the Lynn Valley area. North Vancouver is famous for lots of rain, specifically in Lynn Valley. I’m not sure how the rest of Vancouver fared, but we had rain in the next 4 days, bringing us to 27 straight days of rain. Mowgli was convinced I was trying to drown him.
Fortunately, we live on the side of a mountain, so all that water rolled downhill. And there was quite a bit of water. Listening to Mr. Madryga a few days later, they had tracked a low of 600mm of rain up to a high of 1100mm of rain in November. Let me put this into perspective for you. 1100mm of rain would be enough to drown either Vern Troyer or Hervé Villechaize standing up; the average door knob is just under 1100mm; picture your kitchen counters, under water. Using the rule of thumb of multiplying by 10 to find out how much snow that could have been, we get 11 meters. This is higher than my house.
When we were kids, there was a particularly nasty winter storm one March 16. All the schools were closed. This is Montréal, not Toronto. In Toronto, they close the schools at a 5cm accumulation. On this March 16, the schools were closed, not much traffic was moving, and the snow plows were having a hard time getting around. After our 2nd sortie to shovel the driveway, we were gathered around the radio (yes news/talk) and they announced that Dorval Airport was asking for covered Bombardier commercial snowmobiles to come out to the airport. There were planes that had landed, that were stranded, and they were looking for a way to move the passengers from the planes to the terminal.
We received over 60cm (600mm) of snow that day. Nothing really happened other than snow falling, snow shoveling, listening to the radio, and hot chocolate. We decided that the day never really happened, so we took out a pair of scissors, and cut March 16 out of the calendar.
I have scratched out “vember” on my calendar and written in “ah”.
And that is the ark of this story.
(Nita, my loving wife, even after that one, tries to tell there are some I should walk away from.)
Cheers folks!
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Granny
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
My Granny was French; Marguerite Cinq-Mars. As a result of most us going through French School (in my very best Tommy Smothers), Granny always liked us best. Actually we lived closest, just around the corner, so we got to see her most. Granny was also, to me at least, testament to some of the origins of Frenglais. Even the root of the word is playful; mixing the English spelling of French (Fren) with French spelling of English (glais).
My brother Frank and I are masters of the art. In mid-discussion, if you get stuck on a word, switch languages. If you’re rambling in English and the French word is more descriptive, switch to French. Mid-sentence, vas-y!
Granny loved it when we spoke French to her. We always liked Granny best because of Saturday nights. On Saturdays, Granny babysat us so my folks could go out to dinner and a movie. I am about to unveil one of the greatest conspiracies of all times; Granny, being a red-white-and-bleu Habs fan, would always let us stay up to watch Hockey Night in Canada, even though we were supposed to be in bed by 8:00. Shh, don’t tell my Mom.
Granny lived with her brother, whom we called Uncle Charlie. He was actually my Dad’s Uncle Charlie, and his namesake, I’m certain. (I strongly recommend the movie "The Namesake" staring Kal Penn) Uncle Charlie was, as we call it today, special. He was small guy; smaller than Granny even, and his head was on odd shape. He was slow, but capable of holding down a job and functioning in society. Granny looked after him, and when we came to visit we paid our respects, said hello, and left him be. Occasionally he would engage us in small talk.
Just before my sister was to marry, I came home to word from Mom that Granny had been rushed to the Montréal General Hospital in an ambulance, and Big Al, my Dad, had gone down to see what was going on. I raced down to the General on my motorcycle, to find Big Al and his brother , my uncle Jack, with bad news. Granny had had a heart attack, and probably a stroke as well, and had passed away. My sister loved Granny dearly and considered delaying her wedding, but in the end didn’t
At Granny’s funeral service, we had another sad family gathering. In the previous 5 years, both of my Mom’s parents had passed away. We morosely noticed our cousins and us that funerals had turned into sad family reunions. Auntie Eva, Granny’s sister, took great pride in introducing us, in French, to the Cinq-Mars’. Auntie Eva and her extended clan were amazed that the grandchildren were all keenly interested in making certain Uncle Charlie would be looked after. He may have treated us coldly at times, but this was our Uncle Charlie. As my wife Nita is fond of quoting, it does take a village.
My Granny was very working-class. I remember Granny telling me, when she had retired, that she was working part-time as a telephone operator at Morgan’s. Dating myself once again, there were no electronic switches in a phone system. Granny used to answer the incoming calls and then plug the wire from the incoming line into the slot of your extension. To further date things, her granny would have never seen a phone. As far as Morgan’s is concerned, it was renamed Hudson’s Bay when I was a kid. History 101.
Another similarity I have with Granny is how my heritage is confusing to others. I have no French accent when I speak English. Even though I left Québec 25 years ago, you really have to listen hard to discern the English accent in my patois. My joual is so bad that when Nita’s employer put her through French language training a few years ago, I did NOT speak French with her for the first few months, so that I would not pollute her speech. On a few occasions, my nephew or nieces have whispered to my brother in French, after a particularly joual-ish tirade on my part, “Hey Dad, what did he say?”
Unfortunately, in my life, I have encountered a number of asses in all parts of this country; I have been labeled a “Maudit anglais” and also called “A dumb frenchie”. I choose to ignore these.
Instead, I choose to recall my Granny. I recall thinking in either language. I recall being able to crack jokes in either language. I recall discussing our joint Frenglais-ness with my buddy Alexandre Brosseau. I recall my nieces and nephew speaking proper French. But mostly, I proudly remember being asked on a number of occasions, in both languages “Are you French or English? You don’t have an accent”
Salut mes amis!
My Granny was French; Marguerite Cinq-Mars. As a result of most us going through French School (in my very best Tommy Smothers), Granny always liked us best. Actually we lived closest, just around the corner, so we got to see her most. Granny was also, to me at least, testament to some of the origins of Frenglais. Even the root of the word is playful; mixing the English spelling of French (Fren) with French spelling of English (glais).
My brother Frank and I are masters of the art. In mid-discussion, if you get stuck on a word, switch languages. If you’re rambling in English and the French word is more descriptive, switch to French. Mid-sentence, vas-y!
Granny loved it when we spoke French to her. We always liked Granny best because of Saturday nights. On Saturdays, Granny babysat us so my folks could go out to dinner and a movie. I am about to unveil one of the greatest conspiracies of all times; Granny, being a red-white-and-bleu Habs fan, would always let us stay up to watch Hockey Night in Canada, even though we were supposed to be in bed by 8:00. Shh, don’t tell my Mom.
Granny lived with her brother, whom we called Uncle Charlie. He was actually my Dad’s Uncle Charlie, and his namesake, I’m certain. (I strongly recommend the movie "The Namesake" staring Kal Penn) Uncle Charlie was, as we call it today, special. He was small guy; smaller than Granny even, and his head was on odd shape. He was slow, but capable of holding down a job and functioning in society. Granny looked after him, and when we came to visit we paid our respects, said hello, and left him be. Occasionally he would engage us in small talk.
Just before my sister was to marry, I came home to word from Mom that Granny had been rushed to the Montréal General Hospital in an ambulance, and Big Al, my Dad, had gone down to see what was going on. I raced down to the General on my motorcycle, to find Big Al and his brother , my uncle Jack, with bad news. Granny had had a heart attack, and probably a stroke as well, and had passed away. My sister loved Granny dearly and considered delaying her wedding, but in the end didn’t
At Granny’s funeral service, we had another sad family gathering. In the previous 5 years, both of my Mom’s parents had passed away. We morosely noticed our cousins and us that funerals had turned into sad family reunions. Auntie Eva, Granny’s sister, took great pride in introducing us, in French, to the Cinq-Mars’. Auntie Eva and her extended clan were amazed that the grandchildren were all keenly interested in making certain Uncle Charlie would be looked after. He may have treated us coldly at times, but this was our Uncle Charlie. As my wife Nita is fond of quoting, it does take a village.
My Granny was very working-class. I remember Granny telling me, when she had retired, that she was working part-time as a telephone operator at Morgan’s. Dating myself once again, there were no electronic switches in a phone system. Granny used to answer the incoming calls and then plug the wire from the incoming line into the slot of your extension. To further date things, her granny would have never seen a phone. As far as Morgan’s is concerned, it was renamed Hudson’s Bay when I was a kid. History 101.
Another similarity I have with Granny is how my heritage is confusing to others. I have no French accent when I speak English. Even though I left Québec 25 years ago, you really have to listen hard to discern the English accent in my patois. My joual is so bad that when Nita’s employer put her through French language training a few years ago, I did NOT speak French with her for the first few months, so that I would not pollute her speech. On a few occasions, my nephew or nieces have whispered to my brother in French, after a particularly joual-ish tirade on my part, “Hey Dad, what did he say?”
Unfortunately, in my life, I have encountered a number of asses in all parts of this country; I have been labeled a “Maudit anglais” and also called “A dumb frenchie”. I choose to ignore these.
Instead, I choose to recall my Granny. I recall thinking in either language. I recall being able to crack jokes in either language. I recall discussing our joint Frenglais-ness with my buddy Alexandre Brosseau. I recall my nieces and nephew speaking proper French. But mostly, I proudly remember being asked on a number of occasions, in both languages “Are you French or English? You don’t have an accent”
Salut mes amis!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Guy St-Laurent
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again; Saturday mornings are a therapeutic time for writing.
When we were kids we went to St. Catharine-de-Sienne School. It was about 1.5 kilometers away. Mom would buy us bus tickets, but we would sometimes walk. This was before there was such a beast as French Immersion. So off we went to French school.
My oldest sister, Pat, missed out on the French school, but the rest of us started our education in French. I think both of my brothers switched over after grade 4 and my youngest sister after grade 5. I finished grade school in French. In my first year of high school, our English teacher was so upset about the lack of basic grammar skills that she threw a snap grammar quiz at us. In all 5 of her classes. The 25 of us from French schools all finished in the top 30.
But back to my subject matter. On nicer days, we would enjoy walking to school. We started to become familiar with the neighborhood that we would shortly be moving into. On our way to school, we would pass an apartment building at the juncture of Elmhurst, Patricia, & Sherbrooke. Usually, the superintendent of the building would be outside. We always said hello.
We soon discovered that Mr St-Laurent had a son that went to our school as well, Guy.We used to occasionally walk with him, and we became chums. When I was in grade 3, Frank and I were the only 2 still going to St. Catharine. One day during recess, we were all rushed back into class early. Apparently some of the older kids had decided to pick up one the poles to hold the lights over the skating rink and carry it around.
Grade school kids are neither judicious nor strong. In their attempt, they could not, as a group raise it all the way, so many just let go. Guy St-Laurent was at the end and didn’t know it was being dropped. While trying to hold it up, he slipped, and the pole hit his head. He died.
9 years is too young an age to learn about death. You are too old to be able to brush it off. Unfortunately, you are far too young to be able to rationalize what happened. You are also way too young to be questioning why God would let this happen. Grade 3 is wrong place to be trying to figure out life.
For the next 10 years or so, while the St-Laurents still lived there, Frank and I would always greet him: “Bonjour Mr. St-Laurent, comment aller vous aujourdhui?” You see , Guy had been an only child, and sub-consciously, I think Frank and I knew that the right thing to do was always show the poor man deep respect. He was always gracious and as we became teenagers, he would even engage us in small talk. We would, however , never discuss Guy.
November 27 is a day when I think about Guy; Guy was a cheerful and fun-loving guy. We liked him because he was older but would still talk to us. November 27, I always remember that day in grade 3. It usually also leads to me think about life, death, and other darker thoughts. Guy was a great kid. Grade school was a great time. This event was a life defining moment for me; I regret that the defining was going on when I was so young.
In the past friends and family have both commented to me that I take death really well. I lost 3 of my grand-parents when I was old enough to remember. I lost my best friend to AIDS in 1990. My Dad, Big Al, my hero, left us too soon in 2003. I don’t take it well. I move on with the grief that comes from someone dying because of what I did on November 27, 1969. You see it worked then, and it still works.
Everyone grieves differently. Guy was a good kid, a good son, and unfortunately, a good teacher. I learned to grieve that day, and even though it was terribly upsetting for a 9-year-old, Guy taught me well.
So Guy, no empty RIP, but please do rest in peace. You were far too young to die, your passing has helped me become who I am.
Guy St-Laurent, a good kid, will always be a part of me.
Cheers!
(I don’t go out of my way to be morose, really)
When we were kids we went to St. Catharine-de-Sienne School. It was about 1.5 kilometers away. Mom would buy us bus tickets, but we would sometimes walk. This was before there was such a beast as French Immersion. So off we went to French school.
My oldest sister, Pat, missed out on the French school, but the rest of us started our education in French. I think both of my brothers switched over after grade 4 and my youngest sister after grade 5. I finished grade school in French. In my first year of high school, our English teacher was so upset about the lack of basic grammar skills that she threw a snap grammar quiz at us. In all 5 of her classes. The 25 of us from French schools all finished in the top 30.
But back to my subject matter. On nicer days, we would enjoy walking to school. We started to become familiar with the neighborhood that we would shortly be moving into. On our way to school, we would pass an apartment building at the juncture of Elmhurst, Patricia, & Sherbrooke. Usually, the superintendent of the building would be outside. We always said hello.
We soon discovered that Mr St-Laurent had a son that went to our school as well, Guy.We used to occasionally walk with him, and we became chums. When I was in grade 3, Frank and I were the only 2 still going to St. Catharine. One day during recess, we were all rushed back into class early. Apparently some of the older kids had decided to pick up one the poles to hold the lights over the skating rink and carry it around.
Grade school kids are neither judicious nor strong. In their attempt, they could not, as a group raise it all the way, so many just let go. Guy St-Laurent was at the end and didn’t know it was being dropped. While trying to hold it up, he slipped, and the pole hit his head. He died.
9 years is too young an age to learn about death. You are too old to be able to brush it off. Unfortunately, you are far too young to be able to rationalize what happened. You are also way too young to be questioning why God would let this happen. Grade 3 is wrong place to be trying to figure out life.
For the next 10 years or so, while the St-Laurents still lived there, Frank and I would always greet him: “Bonjour Mr. St-Laurent, comment aller vous aujourdhui?” You see , Guy had been an only child, and sub-consciously, I think Frank and I knew that the right thing to do was always show the poor man deep respect. He was always gracious and as we became teenagers, he would even engage us in small talk. We would, however , never discuss Guy.
November 27 is a day when I think about Guy; Guy was a cheerful and fun-loving guy. We liked him because he was older but would still talk to us. November 27, I always remember that day in grade 3. It usually also leads to me think about life, death, and other darker thoughts. Guy was a great kid. Grade school was a great time. This event was a life defining moment for me; I regret that the defining was going on when I was so young.
In the past friends and family have both commented to me that I take death really well. I lost 3 of my grand-parents when I was old enough to remember. I lost my best friend to AIDS in 1990. My Dad, Big Al, my hero, left us too soon in 2003. I don’t take it well. I move on with the grief that comes from someone dying because of what I did on November 27, 1969. You see it worked then, and it still works.
Everyone grieves differently. Guy was a good kid, a good son, and unfortunately, a good teacher. I learned to grieve that day, and even though it was terribly upsetting for a 9-year-old, Guy taught me well.
So Guy, no empty RIP, but please do rest in peace. You were far too young to die, your passing has helped me become who I am.
Guy St-Laurent, a good kid, will always be a part of me.
Cheers!
(I don’t go out of my way to be morose, really)
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Mowgli
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
Nita, my wife and I adopted a puppy. His name is Mowgli, he is goofy and fun-loving, and is the cutest one of the litter at the rescue centre. He appears to be a Sheppard/Lab mix. I am unabashedly a dog person. I don’t have a problem with cat people; my brother Rob is one. Having put up with me for over 10 years, Nita can also claim to be a dog person.
My granny, whose spaniel was named Brownie, is my first dog memory. I think Brownie died when I was about 4, and I think all the grandchildren (mea culpa, or maybe mea mega culpa) were just too much for the 14-year-old. Granny loved Brownie. Unfortunately, I think we scarred the bejeebers out of her.
My brother, Frank, and his family, are the penultimate dog persons of my side of the village; they have had 4 dogs, and have some very fond memories of them. Tux was their first, and he was a rescue Lab mix. As dogs go, Tux was a patient gentleman.
When Amanda, my older daughter, was learning to stand up, she discovered, that she could grab hold of the fur on Tux’s sides and pull herself up to a standing position. The first time she did this, Tux had a very strained look on his face, and looked somewhat sheepish when he walked away and Amanda landed on her butt. When next she tried it again, he licked her face. She put her hands up to stop him, and wasn’t able to grab his fur. Like I said, a gentleman.
A few years later, Frank was visiting us in Guelph, and he and I took my dog, Taffy for a walk. There was a dog across the street, and when Taffy started to head in that direction, I snapped my fingers. Taffy immediately heeled, and sat at my foot.
Later at home, Taffy was getting frisky, and wanted to play. I turned to her and said “Git” She found a toy to play with and left us alone. At this point Frank says to me “You bastard! I spent almost $1000 dollars sending 2 different dogs to obedience classes, and nobody ever taught me “Git” or finger snapping!” (These things Mowgli will learn.)
On Nita’s side of the village, THE doggie person is her sister Arti. Art and I have some deep philosophical differences when it comes to people training dogs, and dogs training people, but nobody cares more for their boys nor would sacrifice more for her babies than our Art. Straight up, if everyone treated each other the way Art treats her boys, terms like détente and IED would not exist.
When I first went to the shelter to see Mowgli’s litter, he was there with 2 brothers and a sister. They were playing. He looked at me, came over to say hi, and it was love at first bite. I handed over the adoption paperwork immediately. That same evening, I brought Nita out to meet him. When we arrived, Mowgli, né Calvin, had left for his overnight foster home, and we only had his litter mates to look at. Another puppy browser commented how they all looked like they had Rottweiller in them.
Red light! Nita does not like rotties, and thinks they are too aggressive and scary looking. We were able to make arrangements to stop by and see him where he was spending the night. Nita was voicing her opinions about rotties. I was worried that she would not like him, but when we got there, he had her at hello.
After Mowgli’s first night, I remembered just how distasteful house breaking is. After a nights sleep (good left out intentionally as Mowgli still thinks it’s OK to tell us he’s rolled over and there’s no one there to keep him company while he’s sleeping), and performing my morning ablutions to the strains of puppy yodeling, I get to start my day by receiving, with great humility, the gifts and offerings left by our operatic slipper chewer. I know some of these offerings need to be revered as they stink to high heaven.
So now I trudge out 2 or 3 times a day around our rainy neighborhood, dragging a reluctant soaked Mowgli behind me. He’s trying to figure out why I’m trying to drown him, and why I keep collecting his offerings; “Does he like my crap that much?”
Sorry folks, no life lesson here, just some unabashed puppy loving.
Cheers Mowgli!
(To honor all the dogs in our families; Brownie, Saxon, Poppy, Taffy, Tux, Cactus, Max, Phoebe, another Max, Georgie, Ulysses, Sam, Luther, Jack, Horton, Lola, and finally Mowgli. There will, no doubt, be more.)
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Lest We Forget
(Please read the next post "Remembrance Day" first)
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
In 1939, my Dad, Big Al, doctored his birth certificate from 1924 to 1922, thus convincing the recruiting officer that he was turning 18. He almost got away with it; he was about to board a train to Halifax for overseas shipment when his grandmother ratted him out to the Black Watch Colonel; he was 15. Not wanting to lose a trained warm body, they reassigned him to a variety of time-killing assignments, the funniest of which was teaching 4th year McGill cartography students how to read maps. Really.
Big Al signed up with the Black Watch, but was reassigned out of the hospital in England to the Highland Light Infantry, the HLI. After the surrender of Germany, Big Al informed his mother, in his last letter to her, that they were sending the boys home. In the same letter, he dropped the bomb on her that he had volunteered to go to war in the Orient.
Fortunately, the troop carrier with all the volunteers for the Orient was approaching Halifax harbor the day the Japanese surrendered. The Harbormaster, rather intelligently, did not allow them to tie up that night. I’m not sure there would have been sufficient alcohol in Halifax, and it would have been embarrassing to have to berth all the returning warriors in the pokey.
At one of our HLI reunions, Big Al met one his mates, who I think was named Maybee. Apparently during the taking of Buron, on a charge to take the town, they were ordered to ignore the fallen, and keep advancing. Big Al found his friend Maybee shot in the leg. Big Al was the communications man and remembered that his radio had been damaged with either bullets or shrapnel, thus rendered useless.
My Dad, my hero, stopped, cut off a piece of wire, and made a tourniquet for his friend, all the while being berated by his Lieutenant, who was threatening to shoot him. Big Al had no idea if his friend survived and as he explained to me, had assumed that Maybee was just one more of the dead, so had not thought of him until that day.
Maybee recounted how he had been evacuated to Juno beach, patched up, and sent back across the channel. When he woke up a few days later in England, the doctors told him that whoever had attended to his leg in France, not only saved his leg from amputation, but had also saved his life. Maybee also had no idea what had happened to Big Al and had also assumed his friend had been one more of the dead.
That was Maybee’s first reunion. Unfortunately, it was also his last; he died later that year. It may seem sad, and for me at the time, it was. I was wrong. You see, 2 old friends were reunited; one of them was able to see his friend healthy and happy, and the other was able to finally thank his friend for his leg and his life.
This came to be a trend year after year. More and more of these guys were passing away. They ware all special to my daughters and me, and we too would notice familiar faces were missing each year. That was sad. My last reunion was 2002, after which we moved to Calgary. My Dad made it to 1 more before he died on December 5th, 2003. 2004 would have had his mates looking around and being reminded that Charlie (Big AL was known as Charlie to his contemporaries) was now one of those who would not be back.
I wonder if the reunions still happen. I wonder if old Jock, the chaplain still looks around and blesses his boys the way he did in Europe, and the way he did the first Saturday of every June for over 50 years in Galt. I wonder if Maybee ever shared his story with anyone else.
But mostly, I wonder if everyone involved with sending our forces into harms way really knows stories like these, and relationships like these. I mean really know them. I’m not implying that they should be making emotional decisions; I just wish they would consider the emotions and experiences “Our Boys” go through. Every June for a decade, I saw their emotions. It affected me immensely, and I think those making decisions about our Forces should experience the same.
I will always remember old Jock, Maybee, and all the others whose names I have forgotten, but mostly, I will remember Private Robert Emmett Charles Bradley, self-proclaimed Acting Lance Corporal without-pay, as being at home among these honorable, ordinary men who did extraordinary things when called upon.
Please think about “Our Boys” during the moment of silence on every November 11, at the very least.
Je me souviens.
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
In 1939, my Dad, Big Al, doctored his birth certificate from 1924 to 1922, thus convincing the recruiting officer that he was turning 18. He almost got away with it; he was about to board a train to Halifax for overseas shipment when his grandmother ratted him out to the Black Watch Colonel; he was 15. Not wanting to lose a trained warm body, they reassigned him to a variety of time-killing assignments, the funniest of which was teaching 4th year McGill cartography students how to read maps. Really.
Big Al signed up with the Black Watch, but was reassigned out of the hospital in England to the Highland Light Infantry, the HLI. After the surrender of Germany, Big Al informed his mother, in his last letter to her, that they were sending the boys home. In the same letter, he dropped the bomb on her that he had volunteered to go to war in the Orient.
Fortunately, the troop carrier with all the volunteers for the Orient was approaching Halifax harbor the day the Japanese surrendered. The Harbormaster, rather intelligently, did not allow them to tie up that night. I’m not sure there would have been sufficient alcohol in Halifax, and it would have been embarrassing to have to berth all the returning warriors in the pokey.
At one of our HLI reunions, Big Al met one his mates, who I think was named Maybee. Apparently during the taking of Buron, on a charge to take the town, they were ordered to ignore the fallen, and keep advancing. Big Al found his friend Maybee shot in the leg. Big Al was the communications man and remembered that his radio had been damaged with either bullets or shrapnel, thus rendered useless.
My Dad, my hero, stopped, cut off a piece of wire, and made a tourniquet for his friend, all the while being berated by his Lieutenant, who was threatening to shoot him. Big Al had no idea if his friend survived and as he explained to me, had assumed that Maybee was just one more of the dead, so had not thought of him until that day.
Maybee recounted how he had been evacuated to Juno beach, patched up, and sent back across the channel. When he woke up a few days later in England, the doctors told him that whoever had attended to his leg in France, not only saved his leg from amputation, but had also saved his life. Maybee also had no idea what had happened to Big Al and had also assumed his friend had been one more of the dead.
That was Maybee’s first reunion. Unfortunately, it was also his last; he died later that year. It may seem sad, and for me at the time, it was. I was wrong. You see, 2 old friends were reunited; one of them was able to see his friend healthy and happy, and the other was able to finally thank his friend for his leg and his life.
This came to be a trend year after year. More and more of these guys were passing away. They ware all special to my daughters and me, and we too would notice familiar faces were missing each year. That was sad. My last reunion was 2002, after which we moved to Calgary. My Dad made it to 1 more before he died on December 5th, 2003. 2004 would have had his mates looking around and being reminded that Charlie (Big AL was known as Charlie to his contemporaries) was now one of those who would not be back.
I wonder if the reunions still happen. I wonder if old Jock, the chaplain still looks around and blesses his boys the way he did in Europe, and the way he did the first Saturday of every June for over 50 years in Galt. I wonder if Maybee ever shared his story with anyone else.
But mostly, I wonder if everyone involved with sending our forces into harms way really knows stories like these, and relationships like these. I mean really know them. I’m not implying that they should be making emotional decisions; I just wish they would consider the emotions and experiences “Our Boys” go through. Every June for a decade, I saw their emotions. It affected me immensely, and I think those making decisions about our Forces should experience the same.
I will always remember old Jock, Maybee, and all the others whose names I have forgotten, but mostly, I will remember Private Robert Emmett Charles Bradley, self-proclaimed Acting Lance Corporal without-pay, as being at home among these honorable, ordinary men who did extraordinary things when called upon.
Please think about “Our Boys” during the moment of silence on every November 11, at the very least.
Je me souviens.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Remembrance Day
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
When we were kids, we marked Remembrance Day and honored those who served, like everyone else. This was a day to honor the Veterans. Our Dad, Big Al had also served, but we would not really learn about it until much later in life.
They taught us in school that you should respect the veterans, which we did, but Big Al did not discuss his experiences much, so we didn’t either. When we became teenagers, we found that sometimes at Christmas, the Drambuie would loosen his lips, and he would tell us tales from the war. These were few and far between, and usually humorous stories about waiting for D-Day.
My personal favorite was about the pub they used to go to while training in England. When there was an air raid warning, everyone would have to evacuate, and leave their beers behind, until they returned. Big Al told us how he would leave a note tucked under the edge of his beer saying “I spit in here!” This was apparently greatly successful until once when he returned, someone had appended “So did I”.
Until Big Al had his strokes in the early 80’s, he only really discussed battle with his younger brother, and it was usually Big Al telling him that he had no idea what it was like. After his strokes, he would start to tell Mom stories after seeing or hearing things that triggered his memories. After a while, Mom started to record these.
At the time, Mom started copying letters Big Al had written my Granny while serving in Europe. I will keep my copies of these letters forever. Mom was somehow contacted by an old friend of my sister who was doing research for a book on Canadians in WWII and was more than happy to pass on her materials to him. My daughters took turns taking the book to school on Remembrance Day for the teachers to use.
Quebec and Ontario do not recognize November 11 as a statutory holiday, so school kids get to be taught in class, and people at work get to observe a minute of silence, when hey remember to. I have, when working in Ontario, since Big Al's strokes, to at least take the morning off in order to go to the Cenotaph to honor my father’s memory. Alberta and BC observe this as a holiday, and every year, Nita shows her love for me by accompanying me and holds me tight when my emotions get the better of me.
But back to today’s story. While dredging up his memories, Big Al wanted to try and reconnect with his war-mates. Mom somehow found out that Big Al’s Sergeant, Big Mike, was in a nursing home in Guelph. I was living there, so I was asked to deliver a letter to him. According to the ladies at the nursing home, Big Mike was somewhat reclusive, but they would bring him the letter. A week later he had died, but I am certain he saw the letter. This was 1992.
Mom diligently kept digging and discovered that Big Al’s regiment, the Highland Light Infantry, held a reunion every year on or about June 6, as they were a D-Day regiment. The reunions were held at the regimental barracks, at Main & Ainslie, in Cambridge. The barracks were in Galt, which is south Cambridge, and about 25 Km from where I was living.
Big Al reconnected at the right time. Our first reunion was 1992, and the following year the HLI were planning their 50th anniversary of D-Day, by going to Normandy. Fortunately, my folks were all for this. They went with the regiment and had a wonderful time. Mom was the only partially French person, and acted as translator for the group.
From the letters published in the book, my favorite was one that chronicled the entry of Big Al’s platoon into the town of Bernier-sur-mer .Their mission was to ensure that the town was clear of Nazis. Their officer thought Big Al was French, and sent him in for a recce ,the reasoning being that they would know if the town was Nazi occupied if they got shot at. No shots were fired, so on the return ride through the town, Big Al started singing the only French he knew-the opening to hockey night when the Habs skated out on ice. The sounds of “Les Canadiens sont la” must have worked, at this point the entire village poured out, and the mayor insisted Big Al and his jeep-mates be inscribed in the city ledger as being the first of the liberators.
They returned to the village in 1994, and Big Al had to walk into the village. He was so slow with his cane that a few of the ladies from the village met him and escorted him into the village. Although this may seem like a minor thing, I found it incredibly moving, and am continually amazed at how well the French honor our Canadian soldiers.
We should too.
Cheers
Ps. I have many more Big Al WWII stories, for the next blog
When we were kids, we marked Remembrance Day and honored those who served, like everyone else. This was a day to honor the Veterans. Our Dad, Big Al had also served, but we would not really learn about it until much later in life.
They taught us in school that you should respect the veterans, which we did, but Big Al did not discuss his experiences much, so we didn’t either. When we became teenagers, we found that sometimes at Christmas, the Drambuie would loosen his lips, and he would tell us tales from the war. These were few and far between, and usually humorous stories about waiting for D-Day.
My personal favorite was about the pub they used to go to while training in England. When there was an air raid warning, everyone would have to evacuate, and leave their beers behind, until they returned. Big Al told us how he would leave a note tucked under the edge of his beer saying “I spit in here!” This was apparently greatly successful until once when he returned, someone had appended “So did I”.
Until Big Al had his strokes in the early 80’s, he only really discussed battle with his younger brother, and it was usually Big Al telling him that he had no idea what it was like. After his strokes, he would start to tell Mom stories after seeing or hearing things that triggered his memories. After a while, Mom started to record these.
At the time, Mom started copying letters Big Al had written my Granny while serving in Europe. I will keep my copies of these letters forever. Mom was somehow contacted by an old friend of my sister who was doing research for a book on Canadians in WWII and was more than happy to pass on her materials to him. My daughters took turns taking the book to school on Remembrance Day for the teachers to use.
Quebec and Ontario do not recognize November 11 as a statutory holiday, so school kids get to be taught in class, and people at work get to observe a minute of silence, when hey remember to. I have, when working in Ontario, since Big Al's strokes, to at least take the morning off in order to go to the Cenotaph to honor my father’s memory. Alberta and BC observe this as a holiday, and every year, Nita shows her love for me by accompanying me and holds me tight when my emotions get the better of me.
But back to today’s story. While dredging up his memories, Big Al wanted to try and reconnect with his war-mates. Mom somehow found out that Big Al’s Sergeant, Big Mike, was in a nursing home in Guelph. I was living there, so I was asked to deliver a letter to him. According to the ladies at the nursing home, Big Mike was somewhat reclusive, but they would bring him the letter. A week later he had died, but I am certain he saw the letter. This was 1992.
Mom diligently kept digging and discovered that Big Al’s regiment, the Highland Light Infantry, held a reunion every year on or about June 6, as they were a D-Day regiment. The reunions were held at the regimental barracks, at Main & Ainslie, in Cambridge. The barracks were in Galt, which is south Cambridge, and about 25 Km from where I was living.
Big Al reconnected at the right time. Our first reunion was 1992, and the following year the HLI were planning their 50th anniversary of D-Day, by going to Normandy. Fortunately, my folks were all for this. They went with the regiment and had a wonderful time. Mom was the only partially French person, and acted as translator for the group.
From the letters published in the book, my favorite was one that chronicled the entry of Big Al’s platoon into the town of Bernier-sur-mer .Their mission was to ensure that the town was clear of Nazis. Their officer thought Big Al was French, and sent him in for a recce ,the reasoning being that they would know if the town was Nazi occupied if they got shot at. No shots were fired, so on the return ride through the town, Big Al started singing the only French he knew-the opening to hockey night when the Habs skated out on ice. The sounds of “Les Canadiens sont la” must have worked, at this point the entire village poured out, and the mayor insisted Big Al and his jeep-mates be inscribed in the city ledger as being the first of the liberators.
They returned to the village in 1994, and Big Al had to walk into the village. He was so slow with his cane that a few of the ladies from the village met him and escorted him into the village. Although this may seem like a minor thing, I found it incredibly moving, and am continually amazed at how well the French honor our Canadian soldiers.
We should too.
Cheers
Ps. I have many more Big Al WWII stories, for the next blog
Sunday, October 25, 2009
My Mom
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
My Mom is a spry 84, who still gardens and rides her bicycle in the mean streets of Montréal. Trust me, to a cyclist, Montreal streets are mean. In 1999 some dough-head threw open the door of his minivan while my Mom was going by. She ended up with a broken arm and a black eye. The city is full of jack-asses. But I digress.
Actually, when I last visited my Mom, one of our conversations was about her bicycle. She keeps her bike locked up in the basement garage of her building in Benny Farm. Apparently, she recently took a spill trying to get it out of the garage, so is considering giving up her cycling. I find this rather sad. You see, Mom has been an inspiration for many, riding her bike into her 80’s. But safe is safe.
Also on my last visit, Mom has noticed that she is forgetting things. She has been voicing her memory concerns for a few years. She mentioned to me that it’s like a book; all the stuff is in there, it’s just that as more pages get added to the book, it is sometimes hard to find the page you’re looking for. She gets frustrated with this, and discusses it often. I try to reassure her not to worry too much about it, as the worrying does not diminish the forgetting. She gets the point, but then forgets because she mentions how she keeps forgetting things.
But back to Story Time. My grandparents bought their house on West Broadway in the 1930’s. There was only farmland north of their attached home stretching all the way to the train tracks at Cote-St-Luc road. As well, the Benny’s owned a farm at Cavendish & Sherbrooke. Over the years, Mom saw all the local farms receding into memory.
Benny Farm was bought by the federal government shortly after WWII to build low-cost housing for the returning soldiers. These were all 3-story walk-ups that ended up housing many of our chums from high school. The present Benny Farm has morphed into a mix of old and new buildings; some of the original buildings are in the process of being reworked, some have been refurbished and are housing single-mom families, and some have been torn down and replaced.
25 years ago, the nest had emptied, save my youngest sister. My father was unable to work anymore, so my parents (Mom really) decided to move from my grandparents house into Benny Farm. I took a week off of work and gave them a freshly painted apartment to move into. Interestingly enough, their first building is still standing, and Mom tells me it will become a CLSC (Centre Local des Services Communautaires = super community centre).
This was a scary time for my Mom. My Dad, Big Al,was sick and could not work. It appeared that Big Al's condition had finally been properly diagnosed and was being treated effectively. The hatchlings had gone from a high of 6 kids (How you doing Wayne) down to only 1. So Mom decided it was time to change.
Benny Farm at the time had a short waiting list; I think they only waited about 4 months after the decision was made. In the intervening years, specifically after the new buildings were built, they began to really enforce the Veterans first, and then Veterans only rule. As Big Al’s contemporaries and the Korean Vets have been dying off, the Vets only rule has been downgraded.
Through all this, my Mom would work to keep herself busy. When my sister was still in school, she became involved in the school board. As they began planning for the new buildings in Benny Farm for the Veterans, she worked on this next. I learned from Mom that you need to stay busy, and you might as well help those around you. My Mom had some really great talents and skills to bring to these organizations, which greatly benefited.
Mom’s experience from these community endeavors are displayed on the walls of her apartment. They are mixed in with her pictures of family. The walls are quite amazing; she has pictures that predate her childhood all the way up to pictures of her grown grandchildren. No picture is wasted on Mom. These are her triggers to remember her experiences.
For me they are a great tapestry and spark great memories. For Mom, they do the same, but have a much more wonderful affect; they are bookmarks in the pages in her book.
There is a plan afoot to have all her grandchildren in Montréal for a visit in November. Mom, just consider it more bookmarks.
I love you Mom.
My Mom is a spry 84, who still gardens and rides her bicycle in the mean streets of Montréal. Trust me, to a cyclist, Montreal streets are mean. In 1999 some dough-head threw open the door of his minivan while my Mom was going by. She ended up with a broken arm and a black eye. The city is full of jack-asses. But I digress.
Actually, when I last visited my Mom, one of our conversations was about her bicycle. She keeps her bike locked up in the basement garage of her building in Benny Farm. Apparently, she recently took a spill trying to get it out of the garage, so is considering giving up her cycling. I find this rather sad. You see, Mom has been an inspiration for many, riding her bike into her 80’s. But safe is safe.
Also on my last visit, Mom has noticed that she is forgetting things. She has been voicing her memory concerns for a few years. She mentioned to me that it’s like a book; all the stuff is in there, it’s just that as more pages get added to the book, it is sometimes hard to find the page you’re looking for. She gets frustrated with this, and discusses it often. I try to reassure her not to worry too much about it, as the worrying does not diminish the forgetting. She gets the point, but then forgets because she mentions how she keeps forgetting things.
But back to Story Time. My grandparents bought their house on West Broadway in the 1930’s. There was only farmland north of their attached home stretching all the way to the train tracks at Cote-St-Luc road. As well, the Benny’s owned a farm at Cavendish & Sherbrooke. Over the years, Mom saw all the local farms receding into memory.
Benny Farm was bought by the federal government shortly after WWII to build low-cost housing for the returning soldiers. These were all 3-story walk-ups that ended up housing many of our chums from high school. The present Benny Farm has morphed into a mix of old and new buildings; some of the original buildings are in the process of being reworked, some have been refurbished and are housing single-mom families, and some have been torn down and replaced.
25 years ago, the nest had emptied, save my youngest sister. My father was unable to work anymore, so my parents (Mom really) decided to move from my grandparents house into Benny Farm. I took a week off of work and gave them a freshly painted apartment to move into. Interestingly enough, their first building is still standing, and Mom tells me it will become a CLSC (Centre Local des Services Communautaires = super community centre).
This was a scary time for my Mom. My Dad, Big Al,was sick and could not work. It appeared that Big Al's condition had finally been properly diagnosed and was being treated effectively. The hatchlings had gone from a high of 6 kids (How you doing Wayne) down to only 1. So Mom decided it was time to change.
Benny Farm at the time had a short waiting list; I think they only waited about 4 months after the decision was made. In the intervening years, specifically after the new buildings were built, they began to really enforce the Veterans first, and then Veterans only rule. As Big Al’s contemporaries and the Korean Vets have been dying off, the Vets only rule has been downgraded.
Through all this, my Mom would work to keep herself busy. When my sister was still in school, she became involved in the school board. As they began planning for the new buildings in Benny Farm for the Veterans, she worked on this next. I learned from Mom that you need to stay busy, and you might as well help those around you. My Mom had some really great talents and skills to bring to these organizations, which greatly benefited.
Mom’s experience from these community endeavors are displayed on the walls of her apartment. They are mixed in with her pictures of family. The walls are quite amazing; she has pictures that predate her childhood all the way up to pictures of her grown grandchildren. No picture is wasted on Mom. These are her triggers to remember her experiences.
For me they are a great tapestry and spark great memories. For Mom, they do the same, but have a much more wonderful affect; they are bookmarks in the pages in her book.
There is a plan afoot to have all her grandchildren in Montréal for a visit in November. Mom, just consider it more bookmarks.
I love you Mom.
Friday, October 16, 2009
More driving
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
And now, the end of the trilogy. Driving in BC is sometimes an exercise in patience, and sometimes it’s a trip down memory lane. Usually the former.
Strangely enough, driving Granville road from downtown, to the Airport reminds me of Montréal traffic. You see, there is no highway from downtown Vancouver to the airport. In Canada, it’s one of the closest city’s airports to its downtown cores. On a good day, the taxi fare is under $30.
But herein lies the problem. Since there is no highway, Granville, being a 6-lane road, is used as a stand-in expressway to the airport by the taxis. I love this stuff; it reminds of driving in downtown Montréal traffic. I thought I had returned to the roadways of my youth. I was happy. My wife was not. She values her life, or so she keeps reminding me from behind clenched teeth, firmly grasping the Jesus bar.
Some of the frustration of BC driving comes from the drivers, and some comes from the planners. 2 of the more famous Vancouver bridges have an odd number of lanes. The Lions Gate Bridge has 3 lanes, as does the road through Stanley Park. Yes 3. My cousin Mike has serious concerns about the intelligence of those who thought this was planning. My cousin Mike is a very intelligent and astute fellow.
The Port Mann Bridge is a 5-lane um, well, oddity. There are 3 eastbound lanes, and 2 westbound. Analyzing this in logical terms, they want more people out of Vancouver more than they want going in. I know that BC’ers are aware of the inequity, yet it remains. In order to compensate for it, Highway 1 east of the bridge is only 2 lanes westbound. With this planning gem in hand, Sunday afternoon traffic backs up at least half-way through Langley & Surrey. On a bad day, you can tell someone from Surrey by how surly they are. Bad joke? Sorry.
Highway 1 through Burnaby is the most traveled highway in the lower mainland. Highway 1 only goes through Vancouver for about 3 Km. Yes that is correct. The largest city in western Canada is serviced by all of 3 Km of highway, and only through its eastern tip. Wisconsin Tourism Federation!
Now let me dicuss the drivers. I think they have all OD’ed on granola. Either that, or while hugging trees, they have had their free will was sucked out of them by their friendly neighborhood cedar. Highway 1 through Burnaby is a six lane road. There are 3 eastbound and 3 westbound lanes. The left-most lane in either direction is a diamond lane, reserved for buses, motorcycles, and vehicles with more than 2 people.
No that wasn’t a typo. Most of BC’s HOV lanes require 2 occupants. And for those who were wondering, the HOV lanes are less than a tenth as busy as the regular lanes, anytime of day. Logic tells us from this that a vast majority of cars on the highway have only 1 passenger. Good old green BC.
Now in the right & middle lanes, one would assume that we would see slower and faster traffic respectively. Not so. This is where the free will or granola poisoning comes in. Much to the disdain of anyone from other parts of the country, dude in the center lane is quite content to match dude in the right lane’s 85 klicks. C’mon folks, tune in to our world, please?!?
Montréalers don’t do well in Vancouver. They expect to be able to go fast. Not gonna happen. Get behind the two-some doing 85 side-by-each and start flashing your high beams; nothing. If anything, it usually forces both cars to slow slightly, trying to figure out why you’re flashing them. The one time in 100 you get them to separate and manage to pass them, both are blissfully unaware of the world around them, happily staring blankly ahead. Do you remember the movie “The Stepford Wives”?
I sometimes wonder if all these drivers think that it is their duty to make sure no one goes over the speed limit. But then again I notice how disconnected they are from the frustrations they cause. So now it’s lesson time. Every time you think that someone is doing something on purpose or to just to tick you off, remember that most people are so engrossed in their own little world that they just don’t have enough bandwidth to waste on you. After all, you’re just another car on the road.
And folks, it’s not juts driving; it’s everything. If your boss isn’t paying you the attention you think is your due, it’s probably because he/she is focused on something that is important to them. To put a different spin in this, when a 3-year-old is engrossed with their Barbie, or Pogs, or Tamagotchi, we don’t rail on them, do we?
Treat others the way you would treat a 3-year-old, even those who aren’t acting like one.
Cheers folks!
And now, the end of the trilogy. Driving in BC is sometimes an exercise in patience, and sometimes it’s a trip down memory lane. Usually the former.
Strangely enough, driving Granville road from downtown, to the Airport reminds me of Montréal traffic. You see, there is no highway from downtown Vancouver to the airport. In Canada, it’s one of the closest city’s airports to its downtown cores. On a good day, the taxi fare is under $30.
But herein lies the problem. Since there is no highway, Granville, being a 6-lane road, is used as a stand-in expressway to the airport by the taxis. I love this stuff; it reminds of driving in downtown Montréal traffic. I thought I had returned to the roadways of my youth. I was happy. My wife was not. She values her life, or so she keeps reminding me from behind clenched teeth, firmly grasping the Jesus bar.
Some of the frustration of BC driving comes from the drivers, and some comes from the planners. 2 of the more famous Vancouver bridges have an odd number of lanes. The Lions Gate Bridge has 3 lanes, as does the road through Stanley Park. Yes 3. My cousin Mike has serious concerns about the intelligence of those who thought this was planning. My cousin Mike is a very intelligent and astute fellow.
The Port Mann Bridge is a 5-lane um, well, oddity. There are 3 eastbound lanes, and 2 westbound. Analyzing this in logical terms, they want more people out of Vancouver more than they want going in. I know that BC’ers are aware of the inequity, yet it remains. In order to compensate for it, Highway 1 east of the bridge is only 2 lanes westbound. With this planning gem in hand, Sunday afternoon traffic backs up at least half-way through Langley & Surrey. On a bad day, you can tell someone from Surrey by how surly they are. Bad joke? Sorry.
Highway 1 through Burnaby is the most traveled highway in the lower mainland. Highway 1 only goes through Vancouver for about 3 Km. Yes that is correct. The largest city in western Canada is serviced by all of 3 Km of highway, and only through its eastern tip. Wisconsin Tourism Federation!
Now let me dicuss the drivers. I think they have all OD’ed on granola. Either that, or while hugging trees, they have had their free will was sucked out of them by their friendly neighborhood cedar. Highway 1 through Burnaby is a six lane road. There are 3 eastbound and 3 westbound lanes. The left-most lane in either direction is a diamond lane, reserved for buses, motorcycles, and vehicles with more than 2 people.
No that wasn’t a typo. Most of BC’s HOV lanes require 2 occupants. And for those who were wondering, the HOV lanes are less than a tenth as busy as the regular lanes, anytime of day. Logic tells us from this that a vast majority of cars on the highway have only 1 passenger. Good old green BC.
Now in the right & middle lanes, one would assume that we would see slower and faster traffic respectively. Not so. This is where the free will or granola poisoning comes in. Much to the disdain of anyone from other parts of the country, dude in the center lane is quite content to match dude in the right lane’s 85 klicks. C’mon folks, tune in to our world, please?!?
Montréalers don’t do well in Vancouver. They expect to be able to go fast. Not gonna happen. Get behind the two-some doing 85 side-by-each and start flashing your high beams; nothing. If anything, it usually forces both cars to slow slightly, trying to figure out why you’re flashing them. The one time in 100 you get them to separate and manage to pass them, both are blissfully unaware of the world around them, happily staring blankly ahead. Do you remember the movie “The Stepford Wives”?
I sometimes wonder if all these drivers think that it is their duty to make sure no one goes over the speed limit. But then again I notice how disconnected they are from the frustrations they cause. So now it’s lesson time. Every time you think that someone is doing something on purpose or to just to tick you off, remember that most people are so engrossed in their own little world that they just don’t have enough bandwidth to waste on you. After all, you’re just another car on the road.
And folks, it’s not juts driving; it’s everything. If your boss isn’t paying you the attention you think is your due, it’s probably because he/she is focused on something that is important to them. To put a different spin in this, when a 3-year-old is engrossed with their Barbie, or Pogs, or Tamagotchi, we don’t rail on them, do we?
Treat others the way you would treat a 3-year-old, even those who aren’t acting like one.
Cheers folks!
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Still Driving
Yes CJ, its storey time with Gerry again.
And now, back to the regularly scheduled victims, Torontonians. Toronto drivers are, for the most part, extremely frustrating in their lack of attention. I remember stories on the news of commuters on the DVP getting into fender-benders as they were reading the newspaper. I have personally seen drivers reading a book in crawling traffic. I can just imagine today (I left Ontario in 2002), with the profusion of texting and e-mailing, how much more dangerous it would be.
Driver memory in Toronto is very sketchy & scary. When the first winter storm hits, people have usually forgotten how to drive in snow. You end up with lots of headlights pointing at you from the ditch. Once they remember, you get odd disconnects. I have been stuck in crawling traffic in a gentle drizzle, and 2 days later, the 401 is bombing along at 120 through a snow storm. And then 6 months later, the complete reverse; crawling through a gentle snowfall, and barreling along above 100 in driving rain.
And finally, the use of horns. Torontonians love their horns. I think this is an indication of a short fuse, and leads to the some of displays of rage I have seen. I have seen wronged drivers (in their worlds) race down residential streets after someone who had the temerity to pass them on the highway, just so they can wave at them. It can be a scary city to drive in.
Next on my Cross Canada sojourn was Calgary, followed by Edmonton. On pain of being disallowed to re-enter either city, I will lump Albertans together. Albertans like big; they think they’re Texans on a number of levels. Pick-me-up trucks are rampant; mostly oversized, with supercharged engines, and king-cabs. For the gentry, there is the SUV. The bigger the truck, the smaller the…. Wait a second, my mom reads this.
Albertans love to drive fast. Unlike Québecers, the fast is alone; it does not get appended with well. Fortunately, the highways of Alberta do not have the volume of Québec, Ontario, or BC. QE II highway (formerly Highway 2), between Edmonton & Calgary, is usually wide open for traffic, and people routinely do 130 K/H on a road whose limit is 110. I have seen people doing 125 and getting waved at from others wanting to go faster.
Once again, with my personal safety as a concern, I will state that of all the provinces, Albertans are too often the lamb being led to slaughter. Too often I have heard Calagarians whine about the Deadfoot (Dearfoot), or Edmontonians bitch about the Whitemud, without them being the least bit interested in finding another route. Perhaps their concern is that without taking either crawling freeway, they couldn’t complain about it. I know dozens of ways to traverse Toronto without using the dreaded 401. And I have learned many alternate routes through Calgary & Edmonton.
I will take one last shot at Edmonton, and their road planning (or lack thereof). The Whitemud freeway has level intersections with traffic lights. Yes that is correct; a freeway with traffic lights. They liked this idea so much, they have recreated it for the Anthony Henday. This is the new ring road. It also has level/light controlled intersections. The real head-shaker comes when you look to the side at these intersections and see they have built up the earth in preparation for overpasses. The reason they did not build the overpasses initially? It would have been too expensive, so they will build them later. Trying to reason this out makes my head sore.
I really do have to complement Albertans on their winter driving skills. I have seen none better. Mind you, I have never driven in Saskatchewan. The winters in Edmonton are, as I have stated in a previous blog, colder than anywhere else I have lived. When they start talking about wind chills in the -50’s, you would think it would keep people off the road, but not so. Obviously, the abattoir is open daily.
This has turned into a 3-part submission on driving, so I will close with BC on my next post. I hope I can get BC into 1 post.
Cheers folks!
And now, back to the regularly scheduled victims, Torontonians. Toronto drivers are, for the most part, extremely frustrating in their lack of attention. I remember stories on the news of commuters on the DVP getting into fender-benders as they were reading the newspaper. I have personally seen drivers reading a book in crawling traffic. I can just imagine today (I left Ontario in 2002), with the profusion of texting and e-mailing, how much more dangerous it would be.
Driver memory in Toronto is very sketchy & scary. When the first winter storm hits, people have usually forgotten how to drive in snow. You end up with lots of headlights pointing at you from the ditch. Once they remember, you get odd disconnects. I have been stuck in crawling traffic in a gentle drizzle, and 2 days later, the 401 is bombing along at 120 through a snow storm. And then 6 months later, the complete reverse; crawling through a gentle snowfall, and barreling along above 100 in driving rain.
And finally, the use of horns. Torontonians love their horns. I think this is an indication of a short fuse, and leads to the some of displays of rage I have seen. I have seen wronged drivers (in their worlds) race down residential streets after someone who had the temerity to pass them on the highway, just so they can wave at them. It can be a scary city to drive in.
Next on my Cross Canada sojourn was Calgary, followed by Edmonton. On pain of being disallowed to re-enter either city, I will lump Albertans together. Albertans like big; they think they’re Texans on a number of levels. Pick-me-up trucks are rampant; mostly oversized, with supercharged engines, and king-cabs. For the gentry, there is the SUV. The bigger the truck, the smaller the…. Wait a second, my mom reads this.
Albertans love to drive fast. Unlike Québecers, the fast is alone; it does not get appended with well. Fortunately, the highways of Alberta do not have the volume of Québec, Ontario, or BC. QE II highway (formerly Highway 2), between Edmonton & Calgary, is usually wide open for traffic, and people routinely do 130 K/H on a road whose limit is 110. I have seen people doing 125 and getting waved at from others wanting to go faster.
Once again, with my personal safety as a concern, I will state that of all the provinces, Albertans are too often the lamb being led to slaughter. Too often I have heard Calagarians whine about the Deadfoot (Dearfoot), or Edmontonians bitch about the Whitemud, without them being the least bit interested in finding another route. Perhaps their concern is that without taking either crawling freeway, they couldn’t complain about it. I know dozens of ways to traverse Toronto without using the dreaded 401. And I have learned many alternate routes through Calgary & Edmonton.
I will take one last shot at Edmonton, and their road planning (or lack thereof). The Whitemud freeway has level intersections with traffic lights. Yes that is correct; a freeway with traffic lights. They liked this idea so much, they have recreated it for the Anthony Henday. This is the new ring road. It also has level/light controlled intersections. The real head-shaker comes when you look to the side at these intersections and see they have built up the earth in preparation for overpasses. The reason they did not build the overpasses initially? It would have been too expensive, so they will build them later. Trying to reason this out makes my head sore.
I really do have to complement Albertans on their winter driving skills. I have seen none better. Mind you, I have never driven in Saskatchewan. The winters in Edmonton are, as I have stated in a previous blog, colder than anywhere else I have lived. When they start talking about wind chills in the -50’s, you would think it would keep people off the road, but not so. Obviously, the abattoir is open daily.
This has turned into a 3-part submission on driving, so I will close with BC on my next post. I hope I can get BC into 1 post.
Cheers folks!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Driving
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once again.
There 2 things that most Canadians do almost instinctively. Tim Horton’s and translating distance into driving time. You can change Timmie’s into your own favorite; Second Cup, Starbucks, Timothy’s World Café. The list goes on, and grows exponentially in Vancouver. A wider range of drive through caffeine pushers is available here on the left coast.
One really has to wonder whether pumping ourselves full of double-shot fat-free caramel mocha-lattés is the best thing to be doing before getting into high-pressure situations at the controls of a 1000 Kg metal conveyance barreling along at 115 klicks.
Translating distance into time is all about driving. Having lived in many cities, I consider myself an expert on our cities and their different driving personalities. (“After all, I’m an excellent driver” Can you place the quote, without the internets?)
Driving on the mean streets of Montréal is a trial of machismo, or road-ismo. I’ve tried explaining to friends over the years that to survive mentally and philosophically in Québec, you must believe that everyone will cut you off. With this thought placed in mind, only 25% of the people will disappoint you.
In Montréal, you must never back down. If you need to squeeze your 5.5 M car into a 6 M space between 2 dilapidated 1978 New Yorkers doing 120, wait until the trailing driver looks down to light a smoke, and merge in. He wasn’t looking; you took it, good for you. He’ll respect you. That’s why he’s waving to you.
And yes, you may well find the 1978 New Yorkers, but their condition may surprise you. Apart from not wanting claims to go through on their insurance, home car repairs can be very amusing. The use of all kinds of tape on cars predates even myself. I personally believe that Red Green was inspired to use duct tape after visiting Québec.
Now Ottawa is a city of rubber-neckers. It sometimes is quite infuriating. I remember driving in to work one morning with my buddy Doug, and the Queensway was crawling. I joked to him that it was probably some dude out of gas and everyone was slowing to get a look. I was wrong it was a flat tire. I felt like waving at him.
I was at a breakfast meeting one morning with the guys I worked with in Ottawa, and one of my work mates joked about dumb Frenchmen. I had just been delayed on the way in by another brilliant rubber-necking incident. Being on the far side of grumpy that morning, I shot back with; “We’ll we might not be as brilliant as you, but we are at least smart enough to be able to take in some idiot who can’t read his gas gauge, while we're doing 120 klicks!” Have I mentioned that my wife refers to me as a snark-asaurus.
In Ottawa, if you have Ontario plates, you must bitch about crazy-fast Québec drivers. If you have Québec plates, you have to complain about careless and inattentive Ontario drivers. All drivers learn to watch out for red Ontario plates. These are diplomatic plates. Some of the embassies in Ottawa represent countries that have questionable drivers’ license requirements, as well as right-hand-drive automobiles. Not all of these skills translate well to the Queensway. I have noticed a lot of people waving at red-plates.
I spent most of the 90’s living in Guelph and Whitby. In both of these cities, the further you get from the 401, the calmer people become. Unfortunately most of those in Guelph and Whitby spend either their work time or leisure time in Toronto, and for some people the simple act of driving in Hogtown is like downing 5 double-shot cappuccinos, with a Red Bull chaser.
When I was transferred to Guelph, I took a week off to go house-hunting. I had this all wrapped up by Wednesday evening, so I decided I would check out the Guelph rush hour Thursday afternoon. I looked and looked, and then looked some more, but to no avail.
One day, while driving in Guelph, I was trying to merge left; I slowed and dude beside me slowed. OK. I sped up, so did he. I think he was a Torontonian. I braked, and he did, but then I tromped on it and scooted in, in front of him, and moved over to the left turn lane. Dude was fuming beside me and as the light was about to turn green, I rolled down the window and yelled; “Yo! If you own the road, fix the bloody potholes!!!” He was apoplectic, and waving at me.
Outside of this run-in, I can not recall any other serious problem in either Guelph or Whitby. The waving between cars in these cities usually included all fingers.
I will cover Toronto and points west in a subsequent blog.
Cheers folks
There 2 things that most Canadians do almost instinctively. Tim Horton’s and translating distance into driving time. You can change Timmie’s into your own favorite; Second Cup, Starbucks, Timothy’s World Café. The list goes on, and grows exponentially in Vancouver. A wider range of drive through caffeine pushers is available here on the left coast.
One really has to wonder whether pumping ourselves full of double-shot fat-free caramel mocha-lattés is the best thing to be doing before getting into high-pressure situations at the controls of a 1000 Kg metal conveyance barreling along at 115 klicks.
Translating distance into time is all about driving. Having lived in many cities, I consider myself an expert on our cities and their different driving personalities. (“After all, I’m an excellent driver” Can you place the quote, without the internets?)
Driving on the mean streets of Montréal is a trial of machismo, or road-ismo. I’ve tried explaining to friends over the years that to survive mentally and philosophically in Québec, you must believe that everyone will cut you off. With this thought placed in mind, only 25% of the people will disappoint you.
In Montréal, you must never back down. If you need to squeeze your 5.5 M car into a 6 M space between 2 dilapidated 1978 New Yorkers doing 120, wait until the trailing driver looks down to light a smoke, and merge in. He wasn’t looking; you took it, good for you. He’ll respect you. That’s why he’s waving to you.
And yes, you may well find the 1978 New Yorkers, but their condition may surprise you. Apart from not wanting claims to go through on their insurance, home car repairs can be very amusing. The use of all kinds of tape on cars predates even myself. I personally believe that Red Green was inspired to use duct tape after visiting Québec.
Now Ottawa is a city of rubber-neckers. It sometimes is quite infuriating. I remember driving in to work one morning with my buddy Doug, and the Queensway was crawling. I joked to him that it was probably some dude out of gas and everyone was slowing to get a look. I was wrong it was a flat tire. I felt like waving at him.
I was at a breakfast meeting one morning with the guys I worked with in Ottawa, and one of my work mates joked about dumb Frenchmen. I had just been delayed on the way in by another brilliant rubber-necking incident. Being on the far side of grumpy that morning, I shot back with; “We’ll we might not be as brilliant as you, but we are at least smart enough to be able to take in some idiot who can’t read his gas gauge, while we're doing 120 klicks!” Have I mentioned that my wife refers to me as a snark-asaurus.
In Ottawa, if you have Ontario plates, you must bitch about crazy-fast Québec drivers. If you have Québec plates, you have to complain about careless and inattentive Ontario drivers. All drivers learn to watch out for red Ontario plates. These are diplomatic plates. Some of the embassies in Ottawa represent countries that have questionable drivers’ license requirements, as well as right-hand-drive automobiles. Not all of these skills translate well to the Queensway. I have noticed a lot of people waving at red-plates.
I spent most of the 90’s living in Guelph and Whitby. In both of these cities, the further you get from the 401, the calmer people become. Unfortunately most of those in Guelph and Whitby spend either their work time or leisure time in Toronto, and for some people the simple act of driving in Hogtown is like downing 5 double-shot cappuccinos, with a Red Bull chaser.
When I was transferred to Guelph, I took a week off to go house-hunting. I had this all wrapped up by Wednesday evening, so I decided I would check out the Guelph rush hour Thursday afternoon. I looked and looked, and then looked some more, but to no avail.
One day, while driving in Guelph, I was trying to merge left; I slowed and dude beside me slowed. OK. I sped up, so did he. I think he was a Torontonian. I braked, and he did, but then I tromped on it and scooted in, in front of him, and moved over to the left turn lane. Dude was fuming beside me and as the light was about to turn green, I rolled down the window and yelled; “Yo! If you own the road, fix the bloody potholes!!!” He was apoplectic, and waving at me.
Outside of this run-in, I can not recall any other serious problem in either Guelph or Whitby. The waving between cars in these cities usually included all fingers.
I will cover Toronto and points west in a subsequent blog.
Cheers folks
Monday, September 7, 2009
Safety
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.
Over the years I have hurt myself in some very creative ways. If you stretch your fingers apart, you will see the small web of skin between the base of your fingers. I cut myself there once with a pair of scissors. Because it was in such an odd spot the doctor could not put in stitches. I was such a klutz that I took CPR just in case I did something really serious to myself.
When I was a teenager, I was working at a restaurant, and was attempting to tighten a pipe fitting. The wrench slipped, and I ended up mashing my hand, at the base of the thumb, into a piece of metal. The doctor at the hospital informed me that I had done quite a job; he told me I had damaged muscle, nerves, and a vein. It would require 7 stitches to close a wound that was less than an inch long. He was examining the wound with a probe, and then asked me if he’d given me freezing yet. He hadn’t.
Shortly after this, I had to move my motorcycle, which was in pieces on the garage floor, out of the way so my Dad, Big Al, could park the car in the garage. On the way out of the garage, with the door partially closed, I walked into a screw-point sticking through the door, and grazed the top of my head. I ended up with 5 stitches.
I think I come by my klutzy-ness honestly. My Dad, sometime after WWII, was working at a printing plant in Montréal. He was waiting for the freight elevator, and after a bit, became impatient. He stuck his head through the gate to look for where the elevator was. Unfortunately, it was there.
He was in the hospital for almost a year. Big Al’s skull and jaw were fractured, among other things, and required some re-building. When they rebuilt his nose and sinuses, things were a little amiss. After he was discharged, every time he lay down with even the lightest of sniffles, his nose and sinuses would plug up in seconds.
When he was in his mid-fifties he suffered some sort of episodes that were later decided to have been a cross between seizures and strokes caused by scar tissue on the surface of his brain. His neurologist believed the scars came from the elevator. It is a very scary day when your old man is squeezing your hand, out of fear, lying in a hospital bed, wondering if he’s going to die. He was the strong one; he was my Dad, and there I was holding his hand to make him feel safe. This was a life defining moment for me.
Big Al did regain his mobility, but never was able to return to work. Interestingly enough, the birthing hospital where my siblings and I all came into this world had been turned into a rehab hospital. After a few months at the Catherine Booth Hospital, he was able to walk around with a cane. In later years, he became a fixture around Benny Farm, walking slowly around the development with his cane, every day.
There were other long term issues; he lost his motivation, lost his organizational skills, and his memory was spotty. He also would later have problems with his gag reflex.
In 1999, while visiting my parents, my daughters and I took Gramps out to dinner. My mom was not feeling well so she passed on dinner. In the middle of the meal, he became distressed and was unable to tell me what was wrong. I was escorting him to the washroom when he collapsed. The restaurant staff immediately called an ambulance, and were being very helpful. One of the ladies pointed out that he was turning blue. My CPR training came back to me immediately and I sat him up and performed the Heimlich maneuver. After 3 deep pulls into his solar plexus, he resumed breathing.
The hospital discharged him that night. My Mom had to do the Heimlich on Big Al at least once herself, in later years. Thanks to my Mom and me, we were to enjoy my Dad’s company for another 5 years.
I can not recall how much the Guelph Fire Department charged me for the CPR course, but it was the greatest bargain ever. It was also the best spent Saturday morning of my life.
Cheers Folks.
Over the years I have hurt myself in some very creative ways. If you stretch your fingers apart, you will see the small web of skin between the base of your fingers. I cut myself there once with a pair of scissors. Because it was in such an odd spot the doctor could not put in stitches. I was such a klutz that I took CPR just in case I did something really serious to myself.
When I was a teenager, I was working at a restaurant, and was attempting to tighten a pipe fitting. The wrench slipped, and I ended up mashing my hand, at the base of the thumb, into a piece of metal. The doctor at the hospital informed me that I had done quite a job; he told me I had damaged muscle, nerves, and a vein. It would require 7 stitches to close a wound that was less than an inch long. He was examining the wound with a probe, and then asked me if he’d given me freezing yet. He hadn’t.
Shortly after this, I had to move my motorcycle, which was in pieces on the garage floor, out of the way so my Dad, Big Al, could park the car in the garage. On the way out of the garage, with the door partially closed, I walked into a screw-point sticking through the door, and grazed the top of my head. I ended up with 5 stitches.
I think I come by my klutzy-ness honestly. My Dad, sometime after WWII, was working at a printing plant in Montréal. He was waiting for the freight elevator, and after a bit, became impatient. He stuck his head through the gate to look for where the elevator was. Unfortunately, it was there.
He was in the hospital for almost a year. Big Al’s skull and jaw were fractured, among other things, and required some re-building. When they rebuilt his nose and sinuses, things were a little amiss. After he was discharged, every time he lay down with even the lightest of sniffles, his nose and sinuses would plug up in seconds.
When he was in his mid-fifties he suffered some sort of episodes that were later decided to have been a cross between seizures and strokes caused by scar tissue on the surface of his brain. His neurologist believed the scars came from the elevator. It is a very scary day when your old man is squeezing your hand, out of fear, lying in a hospital bed, wondering if he’s going to die. He was the strong one; he was my Dad, and there I was holding his hand to make him feel safe. This was a life defining moment for me.
Big Al did regain his mobility, but never was able to return to work. Interestingly enough, the birthing hospital where my siblings and I all came into this world had been turned into a rehab hospital. After a few months at the Catherine Booth Hospital, he was able to walk around with a cane. In later years, he became a fixture around Benny Farm, walking slowly around the development with his cane, every day.
There were other long term issues; he lost his motivation, lost his organizational skills, and his memory was spotty. He also would later have problems with his gag reflex.
In 1999, while visiting my parents, my daughters and I took Gramps out to dinner. My mom was not feeling well so she passed on dinner. In the middle of the meal, he became distressed and was unable to tell me what was wrong. I was escorting him to the washroom when he collapsed. The restaurant staff immediately called an ambulance, and were being very helpful. One of the ladies pointed out that he was turning blue. My CPR training came back to me immediately and I sat him up and performed the Heimlich maneuver. After 3 deep pulls into his solar plexus, he resumed breathing.
The hospital discharged him that night. My Mom had to do the Heimlich on Big Al at least once herself, in later years. Thanks to my Mom and me, we were to enjoy my Dad’s company for another 5 years.
I can not recall how much the Guelph Fire Department charged me for the CPR course, but it was the greatest bargain ever. It was also the best spent Saturday morning of my life.
Cheers Folks.
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