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.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


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.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

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?

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

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.