POSTING # 13

Strolling in the Park; Why a Cruise on the Thames?; Planning and Selling the Cruise; The Cruise Begins; The Proper Role of a Wife on the Thames (and in Life Generally). Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)

Strolling in the Park

This week Pat asked me if I would like to go for a walk and we went for a stroll in the Virgil Athletic Park.

Why am I bringing this up?

After all, a walk in the park isn’t newsworthy.

Or, is it?

Actually, it is.

Pat has had wonky knees for years and years. We first met in 1959, and I remember hearing her knees ‘pop’ whenever we went for a walk. Things got worse, what with pregnancies, ‘wiping out’ while chasing kids on a rink, arthritis, and all the stair-climbing involved in running a B&B.

A few years ago, I watched as Pat, sitting on a stool in our Grimsby kitchen, tried to decide whether the struggle to get to the fridge for an apple was worth the pain.

Finally, Pat decided the time had come to do something.

The orthopedic surgeon examining her x-rays said that she had the knees of a 95 year old person. He recommended two artificial knees.

The first knee was done in December 2006 and the second, 20 months later, in August 2008. (Each operation was followed by about two months of intensive physiotherapy.)

After our walk this week, Pat said she had enjoyed the walk, and had absolutely no pain.

It was hard to believe, after all the suffering.

When we told the children that Pat had asked me to go for a walk, each had the same response, “Mom said what?”

We are so very grateful for the extraordinary skill of our surgeon, Dr. Punthakee, and the support and care from the wonderful folks at the Hamilton Henderson Hospital, and the Hotel Dieu’s Shaver Health and Rehabilitation Centre in St. Catharines.

And, of course, for the often criticized OHIP.


Why a Cruise on the Thames?

I received a letter this week inviting members of the Jerome K. Jerome Society to its annual dinner on May 1, in Walsall, England. The letter said that this particular annual dinner “…is a unique occasion falling as it does on the eve of the 150th anniversary of JKJ’s birth---2nd May 1859.”

We won’t be able to attend, but the letter brought back memories of our 1991 cruise on the Thames from London to Oxford as we tried to replicate the journey described in JkJ’s book, “Three Men in a Boat---Not to Mention a Dog.”

When I was 13 or 14, I came across an old Ontario Reader in our attic that had an excerpt from “Three Men…” It described attempts of three young men in London in the 1880s to prepare for a boating holiday on the Thames.

I found it hilarious---and still do.

(Perhaps you are familiar with the story. If not, “Three Men…” is now available on line here
and you can check and see if you think it is funny---humour is a very individual thing. On the website, scroll down to Chapter IV, and about half way through look for a section starting, “I said I'd pack.” Don’t forget to come back to the blog!)

Later on, I read the whole book and it became one of my take-to-a-desert-island books. I used to keep it by my bed and read it when I felt blue. It worked better than any sleeping pill.

I remember once reading it to the children and laughing so hard I had to stop to catch my breath. When I looked at the children, they were studying me with sober faces, totally perplexed, wondering if I was OK.

When I was in the government, I had a friend who had seen some terrible fighting in World War II. He said that when he was lying in a foxhole, listening to artillery shells screaming overhead, he would return to the same dream: of the greenhouse he would buy after the war and the flowers he would grow. (He joined the government instead but when he retired from the public service he bought a greenhouse and grew flowers.)

During bureaucratic battles in the public service, my sanity dream was to be able to retrace the journey in “Three Men…”, ---to cruise along the Thames, visit the pubs, restaurants, and historical sites mentioned in the book. I also thought that I might be able to occupy part of my retirement life by writing about our trip. I might write some travel articles or even a book.

As the date for retirement (1991) came closer, I kept asking myself, “Why not?”

I sounded out Pat but her reaction was definitely lukewarm. She had some good reasons. First, JKJ is not her cup of tea. Second, the trip on the boat sounded a lot like camping and Pat loathes camping. Third, there were her wonky knees---could she clamber in and out of boats and walk on wet decks. And, finally, we had absolutely no experience of boating, except for the odd trip in a rowboat on a quiet lake.

Clearly, I had a real challenge ahead of me---to plan and sell the idea of a cruise.

Planning and Selling the Cruise

The big thing was the boat. I felt sure that if Pat liked it, all the other pieces would fall into place.

In 1988, three years before my retirement, we were in Windsor, England, for a brief holiday after a conference. Earlier, I had contacted a company in Staines---a town on the Thames between Windsor and London---that rented boats. They had a boat that would sleep up to 8, in case we could persuade our children and their partners to join us for the retirement cruise.

We drove over from Windsor and the owner took us down to the dock and showed us an example of the boat I had selected. The cruiser was bright yellow (one of Pat’s favourite colours), and 39 feet long. I saw Pat’s eyes widen a bit. This wasn’t some dinky boat with a canvas top that leaked when it rained.

Pat managed the step onto the boat with no trouble, and the owner took us on a tour. There were two bedrooms and two bathrooms (OK, I know they are ‘heads’ but I don’t want to pretend that I am anything but a landlubber) with showers. There was a small but amazingly well-equipped kitchen with an eating area that converted into more beds at night.

There was also a central heating unit (propane) for cool nights on the river.

This was definitely not camping.

The owner took us to the bridge and showed us the controls. He said everything was designed so that a total novice could run the boat.

He started the engine and it purred with a satisfying sense of power.

Now, Pat loves to drive things. She learned to drive a car at 13 and has test-driven a tractor, a front-end loader, an all terrain vehicle and has always dreamed of driving an 18 wheeler.

As she stood on the bridge, it didn’t take much imagination to realize that she was seeing herself at the controls, plowing upstream under full steam (or, diesel).

We came off the boat, and Pat was sold.

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As the next step, we went to the JKJ Museum in Walsall, near Birmingham, and did some research on the writer. Much of the information we obtained is now contained in the JKJ Society website for anyone who wants more information on ‘himself’.

In preparing for the trip to Walsall, I had gone to the Windsor train station to phone the museum about directions and hours. The line was poor and as I talked two buskers moved close to me and started playing guitars and singing loudly. I put the museum person on hold and asked the buskers if they would move away.

One of them grinned at me, “What’s in it for us? It’s a market economy, man.”

They continued strumming and singing, just as loudly, or perhaps a little more loudly.

I finished the call and shook my head at the buskers in what I hoped was a show of disappointment. My old-fogey reaction was that this would not have happened in the 1960s during our time in England.

Prime Minister Thatcher and her market economy, I fumed, had made the UK more competitive but at a cost.


The Cruise Begins

The two-week cruise began in November 1991 with Pat and I and our son David, the only family member who could get away (and he could only stay with us for part of the trip).

After we had loaded our belongings and groceries onto the boat, a marina employee came on board, started the engine, and gave us instructions on how to move the boat into the river. The Thames at Staines is about 200 feet wide, enough width to give us some practice in steering, going forward and backward, under the eye of the employee. He also ran through some of the details about taking on drinking water, getting rid of sewage (at marinas), fueling and so on.

Then after about twenty minutes, he asked us to steer the boat close to the shore by the marina. I thought this was some kind of mooring practice but as we came close to the shore, he said, “There’s the first lock up there. Good luck.”

And he jumped ashore.

Wow!!

I had expected at least an hour’s coaching with lots of time for questions and answers. And suddenly, we were in charge of an expensive boat, heading for a lock, a lock that we had absolutely no idea how to get ourselves into or out of.

Luckily, the gate on the lock was open so we didn’t have to tie up and wait for it to be opened. We crept into the lock, terrified of crashing into the far-end gate, and managed to get ourselves positioned along the wall of the lock. The lockmaster shouted down for us to throw up ropes at the front and back of the boat. He slung the ropes around bollards (stubby iron posts) and, passing the ends back to us, told us to keep the ropes tight as the water filled the lock.

At that point, we began to breathe again.

The lockmaster closed the gate behind us and water began to fill the lock. As the water rose, the lockmaster gave us some advice on the stretch of river ahead of us. (We learned later that the lockmasters referred to the yellow boats from our company as ‘the yellow peril’---full of novices ‘who could be counted upon to do the damnedest things’. Looking back, I think they secretly enjoyed the arrival of a yellow-peril boat because it would break the monotony of what was a pretty boring job. With one or two exceptions, the lockmasters were great.)

When the water reached the top of the lock, the lockmaster opened the upstream gate and we were off for Oxford---only 30 or so more locks away.

The Proper Role of a Wife on the Thames (and in Life Generally)

We didn’t go very far the first day, feeling jet-lagged, and finding a quiet meadow we decided to moor there for the night. We drove some iron stakes into the field and tied the boat snugly front and back. Although tired, we managed to eat a huge dinner and then went to bed.

As the days passed, we became used to the boat and the Thames. David proved to be very adept at driving the boat, so Pat and I looked after the ropes in the locks---Pat took the stern rope because the deck was flat and therefore kinder to knees, while I took the bow with its sloping deck.

Pulling into one lock---I won’t mention which one in case the lockmaster is still there--- David did a good job of guiding the boat into the lock and Pat and I did the rope trick. The lockmaster leaned over and said, “The Lord has given us a beautiful day.”

We looked at each other as much as to say, “Oh, what is this?”

During our six years in Britain in the 1960s with Canadian Immigration, it was rare to hear someone make a religious comment like that.

In fact, many people left blank the Religion box on the Immigration Application form. Our superiors in Ottawa always complained about blank boxes so we would say to the people, “C. of E.?” (Church of England). The people would generally nod as though to say, ‘whatever’. (Soon afterwards, Canada stopped asking about religion.)

To continue the digression, (JKJ loved digressions!), the Immigration Form also had a blank box labeled SEX, with no M or F to tick. I remember interviewing one older couple, and, checking the husband’s form, found that he had written in, ‘Satisfactory’. I then checked the wife’s and she had also written, ‘Satisfactory’. I would love to have been a fly on the wall as they were filling out the forms and hearing their conversation when they got to that question. (Ottawa soon added M and F boxes.)

Back to the lockmaster, he complimented David on how he had handled the boat coming into the lock.

Pat doesn’t know what possessed her, but she said to the lockmaster, “When we come back, I will be driving the boat.”

The lockmaster looked at her for a moment, and then said, “And I will run.”

Perhaps realizing that he was on shaky ground, the lockmaster attempted to bolster his position by saying, “The Good Book says, ‘Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord’” (he seems to have been quoting Colossians 3:18). In other words, God doesn’t want women in control of boats on the Thames, (or, in the view of that lockmaster, of anything else).

Now, let’s try a bit of British understatement.

Pat has strong views about any person, organization or religion that tries to tell women what they can or can’t do.

Really strong views.

Pat took over the driving responsibilities after David had to return to his studies, while I looked after the ropes. As we cruised up the river, Pat kept muttering that she would practice until she could enter that SOB’s lock perfectly. She would show him!

The day finally came, on our way back to Staines, when we had to enter the SOB’s lock. The weather was perfect, lots of sun but very little wind to blow the boat about. Pat was at the wheel, getting herself psyched up.

She confidently eased the boat into the lock until it was exactly between two bollards, and then used a bit of reverse thrust to hold it there. I did the ropes and we waited for the lockmaster to operate the machinery to close the upstream gate and open the valve to drain the lock. Then he came back to see us.

Pat looked at him, triumphantly, “See, I did it!”

He looked at her for a moment, then said, “God bless”, and walked off.

Pat is still irate that he got the last word.

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We had a British couple at our B&B in Grimsby a few years ago, and the man noticed that the wife next door was mowing the lawn. He said that would never happen in Britain and he thought it would be good to introduce that notion into their country. His wife said, “He thinks he’s so funny”.

I wonder if driving boats and mowing laws are still reserved for males in Britain. We may have to go back and conduct some research.


Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)

First Ride on the Pony

When they got together, my dad and his brothers and sisters would sometimes bring up the arguments they had when they were young about who would have the first ride on the pony that my grandfather had hinted he might buy.

They would laugh about how silly the arguments had been, and would joke about what each of them had said and done. But after a time, the laughing diminished and the joking stopped, as they moved, imperceptibly, into a sibling fight. Soon they would be accusing each other of always wanting to be first at everything, and on and on. There would be much shouting.

I remember once saying to my mother, who always stayed well clear of Hunter arguments, “But in the end they never got a pony.”

“That’s right”, she said and shook her head as much as to say, what can you do with the Welsh?

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See you next Sunday for more stories from our family’s universe! Posting #14 will include stories about how the Hunters moved from Wales to Australia, back to Wales and then to Canada.

POSTING # 12

People, Places and Events: Renting a House in Baku; To Russia with Galoshes; Finding a Wife in Amman; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)

People, Places and Events

Linda Gula , the Niagara-on-the-Lake Library’s Archivist, organizes periodic meetings of a local history group she calls, People, Places and Events.

Two weeks ago, Mike Tenszen, a journalist born in Welland, spoke about his “Forty Years of Fun” working for small and large Canadian newspapers (including the Niagara Falls Review, the St. Catharines Standard, the Toronto Star, the Toronto Sun and the Globe and Mail).

Mike had a fund of stories, including tales about train crashes, murder trials, royalty, and the Pope. I hope he will find time to put some of them on paper----although nominally retired, he is busy writing for a local magazine and authoring biographies of Niagara notables.

Mike is troubled about the effect on journalism of the disappearance of some newspapers and the severe staff cutbacks at others. Who will keep the politicians honest if there are no investigative journalists asking tough questions? Can TV and the Internet take the place of newspapers? Or will it be a case of a kind of Gresham’s Law in which bad journalism drives out good? There was much to think about.

Mike Tenszen’s presentation was just about perfect---it informed, stimulated and entertained.

Well done, Linda and Mike!


Renting a House in Baku

Talking about keeping politicians in line, reminds me of Azerbaijan. In 2002, I was manager of an aid project designed to try to reduce corruption in that nation’s public service (according to Transparency International’s respected index of perceived corruption, the nation with the worst score was Bangladesh at 102 while Azerbaijan’s was 95—Canada’s was 7 and the United States’ was 16).

I was looking for a house to rent in Baku, Azerbaijan’s capital, and had seen several. I went back for a second look at one of them and the owner took me through the various rooms once again. His English was pretty good (infinitely better than my Azeri!) but he sometimes had to stop and search for words.

As we toured the house, he pointed out the modern, Japanese, in-wall heater/air conditioners. He said they made the house comfortable in both winter and summer and added, “You can use as much electricity as you want. No problem”.

Thinking that he was just being polite, and knowing that electricity was expensive in Baku, I said that if we took the house my wife and I would be careful.

“No, no, use it, don’t worry”, he said.

I guess I looked skeptical and he said, “You an old man…” and he paused. Then he took a couple of minutes to explain that he didn’t mean ‘old’, ‘old’. He meant that I came from an older generation, and that I mightn’t understand how things worked today.

“Come with me’, he said and led me to a closet. As he opened the closet, I saw two electrical panels, side-by-side. He pointed to one panel and explained that its circuits didn’t consume much power, for example lights and TVs, and the electricity for this panel came THROUGH the meter. The circuits in the other panel were for the water heater, the heater/air conditioners and other units that consumed a lot of electricity, and the power for this panel BYPASSED the meter.

“So you see, you can use lots of electricity”, he said.

He also told us that if we took the house, we should not let the meter reader into the house. We should call him and he would come over and deal with the meter reader.

So, you go to a country on a mission to fight corruption and immediately run headfirst into someone cheating the system. Does one say ‘no’, or just go along with things? This was the first of many such ethical issues we had to face during our brief stay in Azerbaijan.

(As I mentioned in Posting # 5, December 21, 2008, I became ill before the project really got started and I had to leave Baku and the project.)

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The owner of the above house was well off by Baku standards and he had developed a relatively sophisticated way to keep his electricity costs low.

Poorer people had another solution. Power lines in most of the residential areas of Baku ran from house-to-house resting on short poles mounted on the flat roofs of homes. When there was a power interruption---a pretty frequent occurrence---some people would put ladders up the roof-top poles and tap into the line. There was always the risk, of course, that the power would come on while they were splicing the wires, but I was told that they worked quickly and there were few accidents.

To Russia with Galoshes

In the World Bank foreign aid contract with the Russian Government (1995-1997), the agreement stated that the Russians would give me, as the project manager, an office in the Federal Employment Service HQ in Moscow and would provide all the usual office equipment, including a fax machine. (See Posting # 8. February 22, 2009, for the story of how I ended up in Russia.)

A fax machine was delivered but it didn’t work. The Service’s repairman came, tested the machine and shook his head. He then said the word no Westerner working in Russia at the time wanted to hear, “Problema”.

He said he would try to fix it as soon as he could.

In that era before the transmission of documents via the Internet, a fax machine was really important for me to stay in touch with my base in Ottawa.

Two weeks went by and still no action. I told my office manager that I would have to complain to the head of the Employment Service, but the manager asked me to leave it to him.

He came back from a visit to the repair shop and said that the repairman had noticed my toe rubbers when he came to check the fax machine. He really liked them, there was nothing like them in Russia and he would love to have a pair.

The office manager suggested that if I promised to bring the repairman a pair of rubbers from Canada, he might be able to fix the fax machine.

The next day, the fax machine was fixed. I thanked the repairman, and looking at my rubbers, he said the words all Westerners in Russian wanted to hear, “Nyet problema”.

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I brought back rubbers from my next trip to Canada, and the office manager delivered them to the repairman.

When he came back, he told me, “The repairman is really pleased with the galoshes”.

I told him that they were rubbers, not galoshes but he said that the Russians called them galoshes. Case closed.

The manager said with a smile that the word ‘galoshes’ was also slang for condoms.

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The office manager also told me that I had just had a practical lesson in the old Russian custom of ‘blat’. He said that a rough translation for blat is, ‘You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours’.

After that, whenever there was a ‘problema’ I asked for advice on an appropriate ‘blat’.


Finding a Wife in Amman

It is spring, and our thoughts are supposed to turn to love and marriage.

In February 2001, I was having my hair cut in a hotel barbershop in Amman--- I was working on an aid project, in the Kingdom of Jordan at the time,

The barber wanted to know what I thought of Jordan and I told him I was enjoying the people, the food and the historic sites very much. He replied that Jordan was OK but it was hard for men to get married. And then his story tumbled out.

He was 36 and had been saving his money for years but still didn’t have enough to get married. He said that a man needed between US $15,000-20,000 to get married. This was an astonishingly large amount, given the relatively low wages in Amman at that time.

He went on to break down the cost of getting married. First, he would have to give the young woman’s father $3,000 in gold. Then he would have to buy some expensive jewelry for his bride, and rent and furnish an apartment. He would also need a car. And then there was the cost of the wedding reception.

Even if his wife was working before the wedding, she would expect to stop work and get ready for children. His parents would help but there were many children and their help would have to be modest.

I thought at first that his story was a way of softening me up for a big tip but the friend who had recommended him confirmed the story.

I left him a good tip, anyway.

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Prices of rental accommodation, cars and everything have risen greatly in Jordan since 2001.When I was back in 2006, there were signs that compromises were being worked out that allowed more people to get married. For example, some couples were living with one of the sets of parents in sub-divided space and some women were continuing to work after marriage.


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After my friend and I discussed the barber and his plight, my friend told me how he got married, some twenty-five years earlier.

He and his father were running a successful small business and he had been able to save enough money to get married.

His family passed word around that he was now interested in finding a bride. Families with daughters contacted my friend’s family and discussions were held. His father would make sure that the young woman’s dad was solvent and of good character while my friend’s mother would have a look at the prospective bride and see whether she was good enough for her son.

When the two families had agreed that a match seemed to make sense, it was time for the young people to meet. This was at a dinner with the two families. The young woman would wear a headscarf, a veil over her face with only her eyes showing, and a floor-length dress. As she ate, she would pull her veil out a little so she could transfer the food under the veil to her mouth.

After watching and listening to each other, the young people had to decide whether they liked each other enough to move to the next stage.

My friend said that it took several dinners like this for him to find someone whom he liked and who liked him.

Then there was another dinner with the two families and at the end, the young couple was allowed to go into a room by themselves. The girl removed the veil and my friend was able to see her face for the first time. Looking back at that moment he said, “It is good when it works up here,” pointing to his head, “But it is even better when it also works here,” thumping his chest.

He said that after twenty-five years he was still in love with his wife, and proud of the three daughters and the son they had produced.


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On a side note, my friend said that he was determined that his daughters should be happy in their marriages.

He wanted them to have husbands who could look after them, would treat them with respect, and would be good fathers. He didn’t want potentially good husbands to be deterred by the need to give him a large amount of gold. So he made it known to families of suitable young men that the only gold he expected would be in a small piece of jewelry that the young man would present to his daughter on their wedding day.

He said that the three daughters are now happily married and raising grandchildren.


Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)

A Red-Headed Arab

Jordan is full of dazzling tourist sites from Petra, the city carved from stone, the Dead Sea, Mount Nebo, from which Moses looked down at the Promised Land, Aqaba on the Red Sea---the list goes on and on.

Unfortunately, the 9/11 attacks, the Iraq War and continuing problems in Lebanon and Palestine have persuaded many Western tourists to give Jordan a pass. I always try to persuade people that Jordan is safe and that if they are at all apprehensive they should take an organized tour.

In the spring of 2001, Pat and I were lucky to visit many of Jordan’s attractions, thanks to the help of some good friends.

During a trip to Jerash, which is often called Jordan’s Roman City, we were touring the amazing ruins (including a spectacular amphitheatre) when we saw a Jordanian mother with four children and an older woman, perhaps her mother, coming toward us. Three of the children looked Jordanian with dark hair and eyes. The fourth child, a boy of about 5, had freckles, bright red hair and blue eyes.

He looked exactly like our son David at that age and we started to laugh with delight.

The mother thought we were making fun of her son and, became visibly annoyed. (I understood, perhaps, a little of her reaction having been teased about how a person with my dark hair--- at that time---produced a redheaded child. You know the usual---milkman, postman etc. This was despite the fact that my wife, Pat, has red hair, as had my father.).

With the help of our guide we explained that we had a son who had looked exactly like her son, that rather than mocking him, we adored him and would, if we could, take him home with us.

Calming down, the mother explained that she had an aunt with red hair and she assumed that somewhere in the past, perhaps during the Crusades, red hair had entered her family’s genetic make-up. Perhaps a lusty Irish or Spanish knight!

We parted on very good terms.

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See you next Sunday for more stories from our family’s universe! Posting #13 will include stories from the time Pat and I rented a boat to cruise the Thames from London to Oxford, in an attempt to reprise Jerome K. Jerome’s journey in “Three Men in a Boat, Not to Mention a Dog”.

POSTING # 11

Post Office Parking Problems in Virgil; Making Barbie Dolls in Malaysia; What to do with a Gift Durian?; Washing Slip Covers in Ottawa; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)


Post Office Parking Problems in Virgil

Like most people in Virgil, we pick up our mail at the Post Office (I have seen only one neighbourhood set of mailboxes). The Post Office lobby, with rows of mailboxes, is open from 9 to 5, but the heaviest traffic is from 3---when the mail is sorted---to 5.

Some people can walk to the Post Office but many people drive, parking in front of the Post Office in a small rectangular parking lot. The lot is off a narrow lane, and has space for 6 cars.

The one entrance/exit is often congested as cars jostle to get in or out. In the lot itself there is more congestion as cars jockey to get in and out of the parking spots.

Our population is growing and I noticed they have added more boxes in the lobby, but have no new parking spots.

It can be frustrating (I overheard one woman in the lobby talking about “the parking rage out there”) and also potentially dangerous, especially to toddlers and seniors who are walking to or from the Post Office, as cars are backing up.

That’s the problem, now what are the solutions.

One is to have home delivery but that seems unlikely, given the cost.

Another is to put up neighbourhood boxes within walking distance of people’s homes (a good, green solution but again there are costs).

I like an ‘outside-the-box’ (or perhaps more accurately, an ‘outside-the-lobby’) solution.

I suggest we use some of Mr. Harper’s stimulus money to create Canada’s first-drive through post office. With a modest reconfiguration of the post office building and property, one could have a speaker post, like at Tim Hortons, where the person asks for the mail for box xxx and gives a PIN. Then the driver pulls up to a window and is handed the mail.

I wonder if the Post Office has a suggestion award program.

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I wrote the above on Wednesday and on Friday our daughter and son-in-law came to visit. She went with me to get the mail and seeing the parking lot congestion said, “This is crazy, why don’t they put in a drive-through?”

And I thought I was being so creative!


Making Barbie Dolls in Malaysia

In 1991, I was in Malaysia studying the nation’s Employment Service in order to prepare and deliver a training course for senior managers on how to make the Service more effective. My project was part of Canada’s support for the Prime Minister of Malaysia’s 20/20 strategy, that Malaysians should have a western standard of living by 2020.

Accompanied by an official of the Service, I toured some local employment offices and looked at the help being offered to unemployed workers. Then, we visited a few employers to see what they liked or didn’t like about the Service.

One of the employers was Mattel, which had recently opened a factory in Malaysia to make Barbie Dolls. An American from the Human Resources department described how they had recruited several thousand workers, most of them young, Muslim women. With help from the Employment Service, they had toured small farming and fishing villages, met with elders in each community and told them of the arrangements the company would make to ensure that the young women would be protected.

The company had built dormitories for the workers, had a fleet of buses that would carry them to and from the factory, and had hired older women who would ensure the younger women would have no unsupervised contact with men on or off the job. The community elders explained all this to the fathers of young women and, in general, the fathers agreed to let their daughters work for Mattel.

The Human Resources persons asked if I would like a tour of the plant, and I nodded. We went down a corridor, he opened a door, and gestured for my guide and me to go ahead.

Suddenly, we were in a vast, brilliantly-lit hall facing many hundreds of women seated at small work stations. The women, who wore head scarves and long Islamic clothing (but no veils), looked up, stared at us for a few moments and then went back to their particular task in the making of Barbie dolls--- clicking arms and legs into the doll torsos, making outfits and accessories, dressing the dolls and putting them into boxes.

We moved on to a much smaller room where men were seated at work stations stitching hair into the rubberized Barbie heads, pushing a large needle, threaded with ‘hair’ through the scalp, and tying off the strands. I was told that the men were paid more than the women in the other room because their work was more skilled. I wasn’t sure that the women couldn’t have been taught to do the job but every culture has its own customs and mores.

Years later, I can still recall vividly the feeling of awe as I looked out at the row upon row of Muslim women making Barbie Dolls.

Part of the awe was sparked by the incongruity of Muslim women assembling dolls that reflected values so foreign to traditional Islam---for example, uncovered hair, skimpy clothing, and bare arms and legs.

And part of it was the enormity of the change in these women’s lives. They had been living with their families in small rural communities, helping their parents, learning how to be homemakers and waiting for an arranged marriage. And suddenly they agreed (there was no suggestion of any compulsion) to a new life that involved being away from their families, living in dormitories and working in an enormous factory.

I wonder if any studies have been done on the impact of that abrupt change on their lives. Did the women work for a few years and then return to their communities and marry? If not, what happened to them? Were husbands found for them near the factory, and if so, did the women continue working? Did they feel happy with their decision to take these jobs?

It would be good to know.

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By the way, the Mattel plant was a financial success and Mattel subsequently opened other plants in Malaysia.

Evidence of Malaysia’s progress toward its 20/20 strategy was the opening in 1998 of the twin Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur, for a time the tallest buildings in the world (the CN Tower is the tallest structure).

Overall, although there have been some ups and downs, Malaysia has made considerable economic progress since 1991, helped, I hope, by a more effective Employment Service.



What to do with a Gift Durian?

On the weekend after my tour of the Mattel plant, one of the Malaysian officials and his wife took me on a delightful tour of Kuala Lumpur. He was about 30 and his wife, dressed in head scarf and long dress, was in her early 20s. She sat in the backseat during our tour.

On our way back to my hotel, the official stopped by a fruit stand and I got out and admired the papayas, mangoes and local bananas. The official pointed to a fruit about the size of a large coconut, covered with sharp spikes, and asked the clerk if we could have a taste. The clerk sliced the top off one and dug out a small sample for each of us. The flesh was sweetish and mild but the smell was nose-holdingly bad. My host said the fruit was a durian, and he bought two and put them in the trunk. From the money handed over, I could tell they were expensive.

I had heard about durians but never seen one. There was a sign at the entrance of my hotel saying that durians were not allowed in hotel rooms and when I asked someone what the sign meant, he said that durians were a local fruit with a strong smell that was almost impossible to get out of carpets, drapes and bedding. Here is the Wikipedia article on durians.

Malaysians tell me they love the smell of durians, just a little whiff is enough to get them salivating. For me, durians have a sweet, rotting-vegetation odour that is really unpleasant. It all depends, I guess, on what one grew up with.

As I re-read what I have just written, I’m afraid that I haven’t adequately described the smell of durians.I keep thinking about the old challenge: how do you describe the taste of chocolate to someone who has never tried it.

Perhaps instead of trying to describe the smell, I should try to give some idea of its power and pungency. Here, there seem to me to be some parallels with Limburger cheese. First, both have smells that many people find objectionable. (Apparently, the odour of Limburger comes from bacteria that are added to the rinses that keep the ripening cheese moist. The bacteria are similar to those that cause body odour, and therefore things like stinky work socks.) Second, the taste of the product is surprisingly mild, and even pleasant.

The problem is that most people today have never smelled Limburger cheese---they have just heard comedians make fun of it.

When I was growing up there was a cheese factory in Western Ontario that produced it, and wrapped it in foil with three large X’s on it, signifying, I suppose, that this was really powerful stuff.

After my father had been called out at night to investigate a traffic accident, my mother would often prepare a sandwich for him made of Limburger cheese, Spanish onion and honey. He loved those sandwiches!

But back to my tour of Kuala Lumpur, we got out of the car at the hotel and I told the official and his wife how much I had enjoyed the tour. The official reached into the trunk and bringing out one of the durians tried to hand it to me.

“You will enjoy this”, he said.

I thought, what do I do now? How do I reject the durian without insulting or embarrassing this young, very kind couple? I can’t take it into the hotel, even if I wanted to. I could take it and give it to the doorman, but it was expensive and the couple should have the enjoyment of it.

Finally, I thanked them but told them I could not accept it, that they should take it and enjoy it.

He kept insisting that I should take it.

Growing flustered, I tried to put an end to the to-ing and fro-ing by holding out my hand. He took it, we shook hands, I said again how much I appreciated their kindness and said we would see each other at the office on Monday.

And then I did a really dumb thing.

I reached out my hand to his wife. She paused for a moment and then took it.

Later, in my room, I re-played the incident and realized that by shaking her hand I had rendered her unclean (a man other than her husband had touched her). She would have to go home and cleanse herself through a ritual washing.

I apologized on Monday but I still feel badly about my gaff.

If I had a chance of a re-do, I would take the darn durian and give it to the doorman.

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Sometime later, Pat and I were in London, England on holiday and we stopped in at Harrods’ Food Halls. We browsed through what must be the most comprehensive (and expensive) collection of foods on earth. On a whim, I asked a clerk in the fruit section if they ever had durian. He grew very apologetic and said, with a polished accent, that they didn’t stock them but they could get one for me in 24 hours.

Then he added, in a lowered voice, “We used to stock them, but they smelled up the Hall something awful.”

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One last story about durians.

After my trips to Malaysia, I read a news story about a man who was sleeping under a durian tree in, I think, Thailand, He was killed when a durian fell on his head and the spikes punctured his skull.

Definitely, a fruit to be avoided!!


Washing Slip Covers in Ottawa

One day, when we lived in Ottawa, Pat dropped in on one of her best friends and was surprised to see that she was washing the living room slip covers---surprised because the slip covers weren’t that dirty and because the friend, although a fine mother, was not a ‘neat freak’.

“Why are you washing the slip covers?”, Pat asked.

“Because they are dirty.”

As Pat looked at her quizzically, the friend confessed, “Because I have to do the income tax.”

Since then whenever we procrastinate, we say that we are washing slip covers.


Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)

Some of Cassidy’s Quirks

We bought our first home in 1967 on a quiet crescent in Beacon Hill North, a new development on the eastern edge of Ottawa. A few years later, Cassidy, our blond American Cocker Spaniel, joined us.

Usually, Cass enjoyed going for a walk to do his business but sometimes he would resist. He would plant his front paws at a forty-five degree angle and no amount of leash tugging could get him to budge.

I could never figure out why he rebelled sometimes and not others. Was it that he didn’t really have to ‘go’? Or was it fear of MacDuff, a German-Shepherd-type of dog at the top of our crescent. MacDuff had a loud, deep and ferocious-sounding bark, and a tremendous sense of smell. If MacDuff was in his back yard, and a dog ventured anywhere onto the crescent, MacDuff would soon pick up the scent and start barking.

Whenever Cassidy heard MacDuff bark, his head and shoulders would sink. Sometimes, he would start to shake.

Whatever the reason for the refusal to go for a walk, the children knew they had to get him to do his business. Finally, they found that if they carried him up the street, he would willingly walk back. So they would carry him up to the top of the crescent, not far from where MacDuff lived. On the way back, Cass would stop on top of the same manhole cover each day, squat, and do his widdle. As he widdled, he would twist his head to the side so he could hear the liquid hitting the water in the bottom of the drain.

When he was finished, he would shake himself, stand up and trot proudly home.

Looking back on it, I wonder if Cass thought that widdling down the manhole cover was a safe way of showing his disdain for MacDuff.

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I mentioned that Cass would ‘squat’ on the manhole cover. This was another of his quirks. He could cock his leg against a tree or fire hydrant but it was not a confident, steady cocking-of-the-leg. He tended to wobble a bit when he was on three legs and sometimes he had to rest his leg on the tree or fire hydrant to steady himself.

He generally preferred to squat.

This bothered the boys, “You are a boy-dog, Cass. You’re not supposed to squat.”

I guess we would say today, that Cass, who had not been ‘fixed’, was secure in his sexuality.

He would squat if he wanted.


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See you next Sunday for more stories from our family’s universe!

POSTING # 10

A Revolution in Bread Making; In the Toilet in Russia; A Gift From Russia; Calling a Moose; Buzzing the B&B; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)


A Revolution in Bread Making

Although the Virgil area has several bakeries that turn out fine, made-from-scratch bread, I still like to bake bread from time-to-time---to experiment with different textures, tastes and flavours.

My breads are not bad, but I have never been able to make loaves with a deep, crunchy crust, despite many attempts. Bakeries get that kind of crust by adding moisture during the baking process, by injecting steam into the oven. Amateur bakers have suggested ways of replicating the steam by, for example, putting ice cubes into a very hot oven when the bread goes in or opening the oven door several times and spraying in water. The results are not bad, but no cigar.

Then, a few weeks ago I came across an article in the Buffalo News that promised not only crusty bread, but crusty bread with NO kneading. Now, as they say in financial affairs, if something sounds too good to be true, it is.

But, I tried a loaf and the bread was fantastic. And the family has been having the same success. One of our sons summed things up well, “It is ridiculously good and unbelievably easy”.

I think that the developers of the recipe deserve the culinary equivalent of the Nobel Prize.

But, I don’t want the Virgil area bakeries to become alarmed. We need you, even if we don’t knead our bread (sorry about that!).


In the Toilet in Russia

Talking about bread reminds me of an article I read when I was preparing for the Russian contract. The writer said that there was an old Russian proverb, “Eat bread and salt and speak the truth”. I dropped this proverb into a conversation with a Russian friend and he laughed and laughed, “There is no such proverb in Russian culture. It is just another piece of Western disinformation.”

The Russians love stories and I am sure that my friend regaled his chums with my gaff about the Russian proverb.

Later on, my friend told me a story about a friend of his, a conscientious and hardworking traffic engineer, who, in the 1980s, was engaged in trying to improve the flow of the cars and trucks in one of Russia’s largest cities.

One day, a senior Party Official called him in and asked to change the design of certain roads (we don’t know why--- perhaps his mistress wanted less noise on the streets outside her apartment).

The engineer objected forcefully that the requested changes would ruin an important part of his traffic system. The Party Official insisted, but the engineer resisted. Finally, the Party Official decided to get rid of the engineer and replace him with someone more flexible. He knew he couldn’t fire the engineer so he decided to force him to resign by humiliating him.

The Party Official announced that the engineer was being moved and henceforth would be responsible for the operation and maintenance of the dozens of squat public convenience buildings that were located on most of the major intersections in the city.

The engineer was indeed humiliated, and his first impulse was to resign. My friend talked to the engineer and told him not to be stupid. The Party Official might anger his superior and be shifted somewhere else, things like that happened all the time. The best thing was to swallow his pride, take the new job and just wait to see what happened.

What happened was that the Berlin Wall came down, the USSR was dissolved and Russia started on the road to a market economy. Western entrepreneurs flooded into the city hoping to establish their retail firms in the newly open country. They looked for street-level properties that could be converted into stores to sell sporting goods, clothing, electronics and other Western merchandise. But suitable spots were very scarce.

One of the entrepreneurs noticed the public convenience buildings. They were perfect--- ground level and situated on busy intersections. Soon the traffic engineer was inundated with calls about converting parts of the public conveniences to store-front space. The engineer negotiated deals on behalf of the city and the grateful entrepreneurs made sure that the engineer was generously rewarded for his cooperation.

It wasn’t long before the engineer had enough expressions of gratitude to build a huge dacha in the country, a dacha that was much larger and nicer than that of the Party Official with whom he had fought.


A Gift from Russia

Part of our Russian project involved bringing Russian officials to Canada to show them how our employment offices and systems worked. One of the visitors was the Director of a large regional employment operation whose job involved overseeing a large number of local offices, and collecting huge amounts of unemployment insurance premiums from hundreds of employers in his region. The premiums were used to pay benefits to thousands of unemployed workers.

The visit started in Ottawa, where we were living at the time. Pat and I invited the visitors to have dinner with us. Soon after they arrived, the Director and the other visitors asked if they could tour our home (it was the only Canadian home on the tour) and they went from basement to attic, asking dozens of questions about furnaces, bathrooms, appliances and so on.

After dinner, the Director gave Pat a gift, a large Palekh box with a mythological scene that had been hand painted by skilled artists. We were a little bowled over by the beautiful and very generous gift. (For more information on the fascinating story of Palekh boxes please click here.)

Some months later, we heard that the police had arrested the Director after searching his apartment and finding many thousands of dollars, a rifle and a revolver.

It is important to point out that in Russia at the time, police investigations were sometimes the result of political in-fighting between governmental rivals. It is possible that someone in the government was unhappy with the Director’s superior and instead of attacking him directly, attacked his subordinate.

On the other hand, it is possible that the police raid was legitimate, that the police had received information that the Director was involved in bribery or some other form of corruption, and that he was keeping the fruits of his criminal activity in his apartment.

In any event, the Director handled the police questions with the coolness that one would expect from a person who was able to survive and prosper in the Machiavellian politics of the old USSR

Concerning the money, the Director said it had been paid into the unemployment fund by employers and since the banks were unreliable (certainly true at the time) it was safer for him to keep the money in his apartment so that it would be available to pay the unemployed. And, since he had so much money in his house, he needed the firearms to protect it from thieves.

After some time in detention, he was released without charge.

We think of him every time we look at the gorgeous Palekh box, and wonder whether he paid for it with his own money or with money he shouldn’t have had.


Calling a Moose

Pat and I have been talking recently about the summer family reunion that takes place each year in July or August at the cottage our daughter and son in law bought in the Hastings Highlands near Bancroft.

The kids and grandkids stay at the cottage, while Pat and I stay at a nearby bed and breakfast called Jewel on the Hill (link to http://www.jewelonthehill.com/)

Ten or so years ago, a Toronto couple, Linda and Larry, decided to move to the country and start a B&B. They built a 4000 plus square foot log house on a hill with a spectacular view of the Hastings Highlands. Unfortunately, Larry died a couple of years ago, but Linda is carrying on the B&B, and very successfully.

A few years before his death, Larry was returning from a moose hunting expedition in Northern Ontario and, driving through Algonquin Park, saw a bus and its passengers beside a small lake. He decided to stop in case the bus had broken down.

As he pulled over, he realized that it was a busload of tourists from Asia, watching a big bull moose, with a fine set of antlers, standing in the lake about 200 meters away. The passengers were taking photos and Larry thought it might be good if he could bring the moose a little closer.

He got his moose call from the back of the truck and putting the three foot cone of curled birch bark to his lips began to imitate a cow moose in heat. The bull moose’s head came up instantly and he stared at the bus. Larry made the call of a cow moose again and the bull moose, after a moment or two of reflection, started lumbering toward the bus.

The tourists were delighted and snapped more pictures as the moose came closer. Larry had assumed it would stop but it didn’t and then he became alarmed about the damage a frustrated moose (and its antlers) might do to the tourists or the bus.

Thinking quickly, Larry put the moose call to his lips again and this time imitated the sound of what he hoped would be perceived as a big, big bull moose. The moose out in the lake stopped dead, thought for a while and then trotted off.

The tourists, not realizing they had been in any danger, congregated around Larry and asked to see the birch bark moose call. One man came forward and asked, “How much, you want”, pointing at the call. “A hundred dollar?”

Larry shook his head.

The tourist persisted, “Hundred and fifty? Two hundred?”

Larry finally convinced the tourist that the call wasn’t for sale.

The smiling tourists, chatting about their experience, got back on the bus, while Larry wiped his brow and headed for home.


Buzzing the B&B

Last year when we were staying at Jewel on the Hill, Linda told us that the previous year a large plane had flown over the B&B at tree-level, frightening guests, rattling china, and scaring a deer that was nibbling on some apples at the back of the house.

Then a few weeks later the house was buzzed again. Running onto the deck, Linda saw that it was a military aircraft.

Linda decided she would have to complain to someone but she wasn’t sure to whom, and since she was busy with B&B guests, let it slide.

One day, a young couple arrived at the B&B and asked for details about renting a room. Linda asked them how they had found her B&B. (Jewel is at the end of a winding, half mile lane that in turn is off a narrow, logging road. Linda tells us that guests often get lost even when they phone ahead for directions.)

The young man said that he was in the Canadian Air Force, based in Trenton, and training to go to Afghanistan. He was part of a crew that had been practicing low-level flying of the kind they would have to do in Afghanistan. He had had a good look at the B&B from the air and decided that it looked like the perfect place for a weekend getaway for him and his wife before he shipped out for Afghanistan.

Linda made sure their weekend was special, and in return, the young man persuaded his colleagues to choose another area for their low-level flights.


Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)

Robins of Virgil

On Wednesday this week, I saw my first robins, a male and female, and wondered if they were the ones who had caused us so much trouble last year, just after we had bought our house in Virgil.

We bought the house at the end of February but didn’t move in until the contractor had finished the basement for us. We did, however, drive over from Grimsby two or three times a week to drop off things we didn’t want to trust to the movers.

On an early visit we found a robin’s nest on the ledge of the transom above the front door. They say that birds don’t foul their nest but that doesn’t mean they don’t foul everything around it. There were ugly white streaks on the freshly painted front door, and a mess on the floor of the porch.

Luckily there were no eggs in the nest, so I removed it, cleaned things up and assumed that the birds would go elsewhere.

A few days later, there was a half-finished nest in exactly the same spot.

I cut a piece of 2X4, nailed a couple of small blocks to it and placed it over the half-finished nest.

Two days later there was another half-finished nest, on the 2X4 exactly above the one under the board. (It looked like the start of a condo nest.)

Our contractor suggested starting over, removing the nests, attaching some balloons and ribbons to the 2X4 and placing it above the door.

We did that, with the robins watching us from a nearby lawn, and then sat in the car on the street and waited to see what would happen. The male robin cocked his head and looked at the transom and quickly looked away. A few seconds later, he looked again, as though to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. After a few minutes, he flew close to the transom but fluttered away when the balloons moved in the breeze.

We went back to Grimsby, thinking that we had triumphed.

We HAD triumphed---for a week, until the air had seeped out of the balloons. We arrived to find the 2X4 on the porch floor and the beginnings of a new nest above the door.

We have no idea how the robins managed to push the 2X4 off the ledge. Virgil robins are clearly something special.

I went down to Penners, Virgil’s hardware store extraordinaire, and pleaded with a clerk to help me. He suggested using a strip of plywood with projecting nails that carpet layers use for the edges of wall-to-wall carpeting. I anchored it above the door with some duct tape.

And that did the trick.

And I just want the Virgil robins to know that if, during the winter in Florida, they figured out a way of building a nest on top of all those sharp nails, I have a Plan B.

A son in Toronto and his neighbours had trouble with pigeons last year and bought strips of steel with long, embedded metal prongs. I have a set ready to install.



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See you next Sunday for more stories from our family’s universe!

POSTING # 9

Funds for the Shaw Festival; Old Money; Starting with a Bang; A Brave Man; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)


Funds for the Shaw Festival

The Shaw Festival raises about three-quarters of its budget from ticket sales, gets a small amount from governments and depends on donors for the rest.

The Festival is looking at ways of increasing donor contributions, perhaps because they expect that ticket sales will be down this year, given the economic situation, As part of this effort, the Festival is developing a questionnaire to be sent to people who have bought tickets in the past trying to find out if they might be prepared to join the donor program. I was asked to be part of a focus group this week to review the draft questionnaire---something I enjoyed doing.

I was impressed with the sophistication of the communications program the Festival has developed. In addition to the usual methods of reaching the public, it is making good use of emails, has developed a FaceBook page and is considering joining the Twitter phenomenon.

I was thinking about the speed of changes in digital social networking and remembered a story our son, Andrew, told a few years ago about an incoming class at his university. FaceBook had just started to take off, mainly among high school students, and many of the first year students had their own FaceBook pages. The second year students, on the other hand, were still using MySpace, and our son overhead one of them asking a first year student, “What’s this FaceBook?” (It must have been hard for a ‘sophisticated’ second-year student to seek help from a lowly frosh!)


Old Money

Talking about raising money, reminds me of a queer story I heard while I was working in Amman, Jordan in 2001.

I was living in a hotel and had a deal with a taxi driver to take me to and from my office each day.

In addition to Arabic, he spoke English and Spanish (he and his father had lived for some years in Venezuela). These languages plus his outgoing personality meant he was often sought out by hotel front desk staff whenever they had to find a taxi driver for a special guest.

On the way back to my hotel one evening, he told me that a Spanish-speaking visitor from Latin America asked him to spend the day going to money changers in Amman. He said he was looking for cheap currency from nations (he didn’t care which) whose currency had been devalued, or whose currency had been replaced by new bills and the old ones had only limited or no convertibility. The key thing was that the bills had to be cheap. He asked if the taxi driver could interpret for him.


At first, the money changers thought the visitor was crazy, but when they realized he was serious they reached into the bottom of their safes for bills they had thought they would never get rid of. The visitor would finger the bills and then hold them in his hand as though he was mentally weighing them. He would nod or shake his head as the taxi driver haggled with the money changers.

After each stop, the visitor stuffed the bills into a large suitcase. They found lots of cheap bills and by the end of the day the visitor was beaming.

As he dropped the visitor at his hotel, the taxi driver asked him what he was going to do with the old bills. Was he a currency collector, or what?

The visitor shook his head. He had an uncle in Latin America who was a counterfeiter and was having trouble getting high quality paper for his fake bills. Apparently, anti-counterfeiting agents in the U.S. had managed to curtail the supply of the high quality paper needed by counterfeiters.

The uncle had found a small, clandestine paper maker who could shred the old bills and produce high quality paper. Having cleaned out Amman, the visitor was off to try his luck in another city in the Middle East.

Starting with a Bang

I worked with Frontier College as a labourer-teacher during my three summers while at Queen’s. The College is a charitable organization that used to send university students to work during the day alongside labourers in mines, bush camps or railway maintenance gangs and to teach, counsel or otherwise offer help to the labourers at night.

My first summer was at a bush camp run by the Great Lakes Paper Company, north of what is now Thunder Bay, on the Dog River.

When I arrived in mid-May, the river drive had just started and all the logs cut and stacked on frozen ponds upstream during the winter began, as the ice melted, to float down to the camp. At the camp, the logs would be loaded onto trucks---there is more about this in the next story.

Another fellow, Olaf, and I were sent to one of the many rapids on the Dog River, our job was to make sure that any logs that got jammed between the rocks in the rapids were pulled out quickly before they could create a ‘jackpot’---the loggers’ name for a jumble of logs. Sometimes a small jackpot could be cleared by pulling out a key log but if it became too big, dynamite had to be used.

One day, Olaf and I had had a good lunch of the sandwiches, pie and cheese we had picked up that morning in the cookhouse. We were lying on the bank enjoying the sun, watching the logs go through the rapids. We didn’t have much to do, the water was high and the logs were easily clearing the rapids. The last thing I can remember is that we were chatting about what we would do on the weekend.

Suddenly, there was an enormous bang. Olaf and I jumped up.

“What the hell was that?”. Olaf shouted.

As we looked around, our foreman came ambling down the trail by the rapids.

“Oh, you’re awake now!”

He told us that he had come upon his two sleeping workers, gone back to his truck, got a large, empty glass jug, a stick of dynamite and a fuse. Above the rapids, he had stuck the fuse in the dynamite, lit it, put it in the jug and pushed the jug into the river. The jug cleared the rapids and exploded not far from where we were snoozing.

We learned our lesson, no more naps.


A Brave Man

The river drive was finished, and the logs were all floating in the river by the camp, collected in large booms. On the shore of the river was a jackladder, a wooden structure that sloped into the river with two huge endless chains about eight feet apart that were studded every two feet with nine inch teeth. Logs were fed onto the chains and pulled out of the water, up the jackladder and dropped into trucks for the trip to the pulp and paper mill in Thunder Bay.

I was told to work on the jackladder with a fellow named Fred. We stood on a low bridge in front of the jackladder with our backs to each other. I faced the river and using a pike pole---a long pole with a steel spike and hook in the end---pulled the logs from the boom and passed them under the bridge to Fred who fed them onto the chains.

It was important that the logs went onto the ladder straight across. If a log went on crooked it could injure the men at the top of the jackladder who had to guide the falling logs into the truck parked beneath the jackladder.

Although Fred was very skilled at loading the jackladder, he was no longer young---he was in his late 50s or early 60s----and overweight. I sensed that he found it hard to pull and poke the logs so I found ways of feeding the logs to him so that he just had to do what he was good at----arranging them carefully on the jackladder.

I wondered once or twice about his weight, or, more precisely, how it was distributed. His stomach was large but so were his hips and bottom. He was tall and carried the weight well but from his chest down to his legs he was almost egg-shaped.

We worked well together, and it was satisfying to have the fellows at the top of the jackladder tell us that they missed us when we went on break and others took over.

One day, Fred asked me if I would like to help him pick some Saskatoon berries after dinner. He and his wife were going to make jelly that weekend. As we picked the berries, Fred began talking about his life.

He been in the army in World War I and was badly wounded during a battle in France. He said that in addition to wounds to his legs and back, he had lost his manhood.

After being discharged from the army, he was full of anger, anger that he couldn’t realize his dream of marrying, settling down and having a family, a dream that had kept him going through the mud and horrors of the trenches in France.

He said he had travelled all over Canada and the States through the 1920s and into the 1930s, drinking, fighting and generally getting into trouble.

And then in the midst of the Depression, he had returned home to the Thunder Bay area and met a widow with three children. She was having a tough time raising the children on her own and he offered to help support her.

They liked each other and although the woman knew he could never be a husband in the full sense, they decided to get married. Everyone in the community knew, of course, about the loss of his manhood and when he applied for a marriage license he was told that because he could not consummate his marriage he must have the permission of the Premier of Ontario---Mitch Hepburn, at the time.

He got angry as he was telling me this, his face getting red. It was unfair that he had given so much for his country and now he had to be put through the indignity of begging (his word) for permission to marry.

Calming down a bit, he said the whole thing was made worse because of his hatred for ‘that SOB, Mitch Hepburn’. (Hepburn was a Liberal and Fred was a Conservative).

Permission finally came and he and the widow were married. He said that they had now been together for twenty years. The children had done well at school and were now on their own. And he and his wife were going to make Saskatoon jelly that weekend.

What a brave, tough, good man!



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Later on, I told Fred a story that I had heard during my summer at Mackies in Port Stanley (see Posting #8).

Mitch Hepburn lived on a farm not far from Port Stanley---he grew onions when he was not being a politician.

One busy Saturday night during the 1930s, an Ontario Provincial Policeman came into Mackies and told the owner that he had the Premier of Ontario in the parking lot and the Premier wanted to see him right away. The owner had never been fond of ‘that onion farmer’ and Premier or not, the restaurant was busy. The owner also knew that Mitch Hepburn liked his booze and he wondered if it was alcohol that was prompting the visit. He asked the policeman to tell the Premier that he was really busy, and that perhaps they could meet another day.

The policeman pleaded with him, “Can’t you help me out. The Premier is not going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

The owner sighed and followed the policeman out to the parking lot. The policeman pulled open the back door of the car and the Premier of Ontario rolled onto the ground, sound asleep and stone drunk.

The policeman lifted Hepburn back into the car and shut the door.

“Sorry”, he apologized, “I’m just his driver.” And he drove off.

Fred enjoyed that story.


Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)


When we were touring Britain with the children in the summer of 1979 (see Posting #8) we stayed one night in the Cotswold’s in an Elizabethan mansion that had been converted into an inn.

The owners had obviously spent a good deal of money converting the heritage property into an upscale inn.

The boys’ bedroom had a bidet in the ensuite bathroom, a piece of bathroom equipment that was new to them. One of the boys (I’m not saying which one) decided he would try the bidet. It was the type with a jet in the bottom of the bowl and the user had to adjust both the height of the jet and the temperature of the water---delicate operations, both.

Finally, our son was satisfied that he had things adjusted just right and he straddled the bidet and began to wash his nether regions. Pleased with himself, he shouted to his brother through the closed bathroom door that he should try it---it was great.

Just then, someone in another part of the inn flushed a toilet and the water in the jet turned scalding hot.

The next day, our son was nursing his tender nethers and muttering something about “instant vasectomies”. He is now a father so we can assume that the blast of hot water had no lasting effect.



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See you next Sunday for more stories from our family’s universe!