Posting #1

LETTER FROM VIRGIL

INTRODUCTION

“The universe is made of stories, not atoms” (Muriel Rukeyser)

Every family has its universe of stories and this weekly blog, LETTER FROM VIRGIL, will recount some of our family’s stories.

The blog is intended primarily for our grandchildren who must wonder sometimes what kind of weird galaxy the fates have dropped them into. Perhaps the stories will help them find their place in it.

Although the blog is aimed at our family, we would be happy if others in the blogosphere enjoy the stories. We would love to hear from you.

Each posting will start with a few lines about things my wife, Pat, and I have done in the previous week in our new home in the Village of Virgil---a few kilometers from Niagara-on-the-Lake.

But the bulk of each posting will be stories from the past.

The stories won’t be organized in any particular way. We will let them flow the way stories flow after a hearty family dinner as someone says, “Do you remember the time…” And after that story someone else says, “That reminds me of the time…”

Now, here are a few stories.

Where was I?

One of our sons likes to tell bedtime stories about our family dog, Cassidy, a Golden Cocker Spaniel with an attitude. (When we went to choose a dog at the breeders, 3 black pups came running to the door. Then, a little ball of yellow fluff came bounding into the hall, chased by a little girl screaming, “Mom, Cassidy peed on my piano music.” Of course, we had to have Cassidy.)

After our son had finished his story about one of Cassidy’s misadventures, our granddaughter, who was just two and a half, asked her Dad, “Where was I then?”

“You were nowhere.”

“Oh”, she said.

The next night, she asked her father to tell the same story. Afterwards, she said, “And where was I?”

“You were nowhere.”

The daughter spat out, “I somewhere now”.

(Later on, she sorted out to her own satisfaction where she had been when Cassidy was doing his thing. She was on a shelf in a ‘baby store’, waiting for Mommy and Daddy to take her home.)

Father and the Yankees

In the early 1950s, my father who was an officer with the Ontario Provincial Police, received a two-way radio for his police car.

There were many obvious advantages to having an easy means to contact his district office. He no longer had to search out a public phone box or a friendly resident to call for help when there was an accident.

But there were downside issues as well.

Dad had to learn the now-familiar “10” series of commands, “10-4” etc.

Once during a thunderstorm, his car was hit by lightning. He and the car were fine but the radio was literally fried.

Another problem was that reception was sometimes poor because of the way radio signals bounced off the atmosphere in certain types of weather. One time, Dad was trying to call his District Office in Mount Forest from his base in Arthur, a distance of perhaps 15 miles.

The messages from Mount Forest were repeatedly interrupted by chatter from another police force somewhere in the U.S. Finally, Dad shouted, “You will have to repeat your message. The Yankees are interfering.”

There was a pause and then a clear voice with a southern drawl came through. “This is the Kentucky State Police. We are sorry for your problems but we want y’all to know that we are NOT Yankees.”

(A couple of years ago I was guilty of showing a similar lack of sensitivity to southerners. Browsing in a South Carolina bookstore, I noticed that the section that in Canada would be labeled ‘Civil War’ was called ‘The War of Northern Aggression’. On the way out I complimented the owner on his sense of humour. He glared at what I assumed he saw as another stupid Yankee.)

TEA WITHOUT MILK

In 1996, my interpreter and I were waiting at a Moscow airport for an Aeroflot flight to Ulan-Ude, the capital of the Russian Republic of Buryatia located on the eastern shore of Lake Baikal.

The Russian officials with whom I was working to improve the nation’s employment services had recommended that the existing employment office in Ulan-Ude be converted into a model office, using best Canadian practices. My job was to check out the existing office and decide whether the office and staff had the potential to become a model office. If the answer was ‘yes’ I would arrange for a team of Canadian experts to visit the office.

The flight was delayed and the interpreter and I went to a food bar for a snack. I had been in Russia for about a year and although my Russian was still pretty basic it was good enough to order food. I asked for a sweet bun and a cup of tea and the waitress banged them down in front of me. As I was reaching for my money, I saw a container of milk by the cash register.

Now, I should interject that while I can drink tea straight and I did each day at my Moscow office---the tea-trolley babushka had a samovar but no milk--- I much prefer it with milk and sugar.

Seeing the milk carton, I asked if I could have some milk in my tea. The waitress exploded with some machine-gun Russian, the only word of which I could catch was ‘Nyet’. .There was a great deal of laughter from nearby tables and from my interpreter. In fact, he was laughing so hard I thought his tea and bun were going to end up on the floor.

Back at the table, the interpreter asked, “Did you understand what the waitress said?”

“No, it was too fast. What did she say? What’s so funny?”

“She said, ‘You don’t put milk in tea, idiot’”.

The irony was that when we arrived at Ulan-Ude we were met by a few Russian officials and a group of Buryats, descendants of the Mongolian people, in national costume. A Russian leaned over to say that the Buryats would be offering me their national drink and it would be politic to appear to enjoy it.

“Just have a sip or two. It’s tea with milk!”, he whispered, with distain,”

People watched as I tasted the tea---there was milk but also some salt. I enjoyed it and had a second cup.

The story is that tea made with milk and salt was the secret to the success of Genghis Khan and his warriors.

.

HONEYMOON EXCITEMENT

Pat and I were married in Aurora, Ontario and our honeymoon was spent at a summer cottage on Ice Lake on Manitoulin Island.

Pat had worked as a chauffeur for the family during her university vacations and they invited us to use the cottage for our honeymoon. The family arranged for the local person who looked after the cottage during the winter to open it for us, put on the screens, clean out the cobwebs and do all the other things necessary after a long winter.

There was the large main cottage, built in the 1800s, and several cabins. We decided to sleep in the cabin that Pat had used during her summers with the family. We gathered sheets and pillows from the cottage and made the bed.

After a dinner in the screened porch overlooking the lake, and a quiet paddle in the canoe we went to bed.

In the middle of the night, Pat suddenly screamed.

“A mouse just ran up my face and went up there”, pointing to the unfinished wall of the cabin.

I sat up ready to do battle with the varmint that had harassed my new wife.

And the bed collapsed.

We and the mattress ended up on the floor, looking up at the side rails of the bed.

We got up, anchored the slats in the bed, hoisted the mattress up, re-made the bed, and checked to make sure the mouse had left us.

It took a good bit of time to get back to sleep what with the shock of the mouse and the collapse of the bed but when you are newly married time can be your friend.

NEXT SUNDAY

Watch for more stores from our universe in next Sunday’s Letter from Virgil.