Sunday, August 30, 2009
POSTING # 35
“Baked from….Scratch” in Virgil; the Luther Marsh: Part II; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
“Baked from….Scratch” in Virgil
We had guests coming and I was trying to find a new restaurant to try in Niagara-on-the-Lake. Browsing through the Tripadvisor.com website I found that the website shows 55 restaurants for NOTL
The three most popular are The Charles Inn, The Hillebrand Estates Winery Restaurant, and the Peller Estates Winery Restaurant. Each is a distinguished restaurant with a renowned chef.
And then a surprise.
Number four in popularity, The Pie Plate, is not a restaurant at all but a bakery, with a few tables for café fare.
How does a bakery join those illustrious restaurants?
By producing world class pies, “Baked from…scratch’, as their slogan says. The crust is flaky, and the fillings are fresh, juicy and deep. So far, we have tried and unreservedly recommend the apple, peach, strawberry/rhubarb, grape and lemon meringue. And the quiches are outstanding.
The Pie Plate is on the Virgil main street (Highway 55, aka Niagara Stone Road) on the way to or from Niagara-on-the-Lake old town.
It is closed on Mondays and busy on weekends and holidays but it is always worth the wait.
Try it on your next visit. It is very, very special.
The Luther Marsh: Part II
In last week’s posting (Posting #34, August 23, 2009), I told some stories about the Luther Marsh, which is about 10 miles north-east of my hometown, Arthur, Ontario.
There is another story about the Marsh that I have wanted to tell for years but have never been sure how to do justice to it.
The facts are not complex but the context is. How to be fair to the two parties involved: the Guelph detachment of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police; and an elderly farmer whose ancestors had been among the 1850s settlers to the Marsh from Northern Ireland.
I suspect that from the RCMP’s point of view both the facts and the context were straightforward.
In the late 1940s, the Guelph RCMP detachment had reports that a farmer in the Luther Marsh was making whiskey, and selling it in the Arthur beer parlours on Saturday nights. If the allegations were true, the farmer was guilty of breaking a slew of provisions of Canada’s liquor laws. The production of illegal liquor was a Federal offense and that gave the RCMP jurisdiction, even though normal criminal and traffic offenses were handled by the OPP or the town police.
Now, there was no way the RCMP could have planted an undercover officer in an Arthur beer parlour to catch the farmer selling his illegal booze. Everyone knew everyone else.
In any event, the RCMP wanted to catch the farmer red-handed making whiskey so they could charge him with illegal distilling, possessing a still and a long list of other offenses.
They developed a plan.
A neighbour in the Marsh was persuaded to watch for unusually heavy smoke---the kind that is produced when someone is operating a still---coming from the suspect’s farm and to phone the RCMP detachment.
When the phone call came, they would set out for the Marsh in a couple of cars and a truck (to carry away the still and all the other paraphernalia used in whiskey making).
So, from the RCMP’s perspective this was a simple case of a person flouting the laws of Canada. He must be caught and punished.
Now let’s look at the situation from the farmer’s perspective.
He was in a bind.
His ancestors had been lured to Canada by settlement agents who told glowing stories about rich farmland in Ontario. The government would give them land on the understanding that the title to the land would be turned over to them when they had cleared a few fields and built a house and a barn. The government would also give them some grain, and farm animals to get them started.
When the farmer’s ancestors arrived they found that the land they had been allocated was in a huge marsh that, as we found last week, the surveyor in 1831 had said was unsuitable for settlement.
Despite the problems, the settlers had managed to clear some fields on heights of land and put up some humble buildings.
They grew enough grain in most years to feed a few hens, some pigs, a cow or two and a team of horses. They sold eggs and cream in Arthur on Saturdays to get some cash.
When there was surplus grain, the ancestors could have sold it to a mill in town but it is probable that they decided to use some of the skills passed down from generation to generation in Ireland to turn some of surplus grain into a liquid product that would help them get through the travails of trying to farm in a marsh.
And living and trying to farm in the Luther Marsh was hard. In addition to trying to grow crops on poor land the farmer and his sons had to maintain a long lane from the township road to their dwellings on a little hill, a lane that the Marsh kept trying to swallow up. It was a constant battle to haul enough gravel to keep the lane above the swamp and to maintain culverts for little streams to flow through.
The problems of surviving became more acute after World War II as prices shot up on the commodities the farmer couldn’t produce but had to buy---such as clothes, gasoline, tea and sugar. He was finding it harder and harder to cope.
One can see that the temptation must have been great to raise some cash by sharing their home-made whiskey with people in town.
So that’s the context for my story.
Now for the facts.
When the suspect’s neighbour called the RCMP to report a plume of dark smoke, the Mounties set off at once for the Luther Marsh in their cars and a truck.
When they turned off the township road onto the farmer’s lane they could see the plume of smoke on the hill in the distance.
They sped down the lane until---they came to a culvert that had been removed.
They jumped out of the vehicles and stared at the meandering stream that was blocking them. There was no way they could drive around the missing culvert. The shores of the stream were boggy and the bottom looked, to use the surveyor’s word we encountered in last week’s posting, ‘mirey’.
One of them said, “That son-of-a-gun [as everyone knows, Mounties don’t swear] takes the culvert out when he runs the still.”
They talked about what to do. Should they give up and return to Guelph, or should they wade the stream and march up to the house?
As they looked up at the house, they could see that the plume of smoke was growing less dense.
The officer in charge realized that just as they could see the house, the people on the hill could see them.
He told the others that they were going to cross the stream and go to the house as quickly as they could. They crossed the stream.
As they marched smartly up the grade to the farmhouse, they noticed that the smoke had disappeared.
An elderly man came out to greet them and the officer in charge handed him a search warrant.
“Go ahead and search”, the farmer said.
In an out-building with a chimney, the Mounties found a few innocent-looking pots and pans hanging on the walls but no still.
Then they went to the pig shed. The officer in charge had grown up on a farm in Saskatchewan and knew a lot about pigs. These pigs were not behaving normally. Some were rolling on the ground, while others were walking around unsteadily. They were all oinking with delight as though they had just had a recent, surprise treat.
The officer in charge sniffed the pig trough. A mix of chopped up feed, water and whiskey. He shook his head.
The Mounties took turns stabbing a hay mow with a pitch fork but didn’t find anything.
Empty handed, they walked back to the missing culvert, forded the stream, turned their vehicles around and returned to Guelph.
The story of the abortive raid spread quickly through the township and the town.
I overheard my father telling my mother the story. I suppose the RCMP might have consulted Dad about the raid since he was the local Ontario Provincial Police officer in the area that covered the marsh. But, the Mounties seemed to prefer to run their own show.
Dad didn’t seem upset that the Mounties had stubbed their toes and been out-smarted by a farmer in the Luther Marsh. In fact, I seem to remember him chuckling about it.
As I noted in last week’s posting, a dam was built in 1952 and the moonshine farmer’s land, which should never have been settled, was given back to the Marsh.
I wonder if there is a whiskey still mired in the mud at the bottom of Luther Lake?
Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
Coming home the other day, I was saddened to see a dead raccoon on the road. It made me think of some of the raccoons we had met while camping.
On one trip, we had put all the food into a very sturdy, steel Coleman cooler before going to bed and put the cooler on a picnic table. The cooler had two locking mechanisms. A clip at the front that was easy to open---it allowed the top to come up about half an inch. The clips at either end were trickier. They could only be opened if the top was held down with one hand and the clips removed with the other.
In the middle of the night, I heard a loud banging. As I peered out of the tent I saw a huge raccoon rocking the cooler back and forth. He had managed to lift the front clip but he couldn’t open the end clips.
I could sense his frustration--- the lid was open only enough to let him smell the food inside.
I shouted at him but he kept on rocking the cooler.
I threw some pebbles and he finally waddled off into the forest.
As he went, he spat out a stream of what I assume was raccoon profanity. I couldn’t understand it but the range, energy, rhythm and volume of the swearing would have done any sailor proud.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Another time, we did an unwise thing. We took some leftover stew and instead of burying it, simply dumped it a good way off from our camp site by an old tree.
Sitting around the campfire, enjoying some toasted marshmallows we heard angry hissing and growling coming from the direction of the old tree. We crept close to the tree and saw a family of raccoons surrounding the stew. The male, with his huge, fat back to us, was gorging himself on the stew while the female and the young ones watched. Whenever the female or a young one came close to the food, the male would hiss and snarl.
Our daughter, ever the feminist, was outraged. “That’s not fair. Look how fat he is!”
She wanted to throw something at the male but we told her that that would drive away the whole family and the female and babies would never get to sample our stew. It would be better to let the male have his fill and then the female and the young ones could eat.
We went back to our campfire with our daughter still muttering about how unfair it was that the male was allowed to eat his fill while the others had to wait their turn.
When we tell that story now, she still gets upset.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #36 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
POSTING # 34
Summer Delights in Virgil; the Luther Marsh; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
Summer Delights in Virgil
This week our neighbours, the Walkers, who have a market on the Niagara Parkway (see Posting #25, June 21, 2009) shared some corn that they had been asked to test by the farmer who grows their corn. The corn is of the Peaches and Cream type but a newly-developed variety that at the moment has no name, just a test number. If the variety meets with customer approval, the advertising people will be turned loose to come up with a name.
The kernels were a little smaller than the usual Peaches and Cream cobs but the corn was tender, sweet and delicious. We gave it a ‘two thumbs up, ‘way up’ rating.
Corn is one of the vegetables that I think has improved since my childhood. The Seneca and Golden Bantam varieties I grew up with were good but if the time between picking and cooking was too long the corn became starchy.
Pierre Berton argued that you couldn’t pick corn in the garden and take it to the kitchen without the starchiness occurring. His solution was to build a fire in his garden near the rows of corn---this was before pesky air pollution laws---and hang a kettle full of water over it. Once the water was boiling, his many kids would race among the rows, picking, husking and popping the cobs into the kettle. The whole operation took just a minute or two.
Berton claimed that this was the only way to have truly great corn on the cob.
Sure, a bit obsessive.
But in those days it was a very good way to have sweet, non-starchy corn.
The plant scientists who developed Peaches and Cream have obviously found a way to delay that sugar-to-starch conversion---and made our life a little easier and more pleasant.
One vegetable that hasn’t improved is the pepper squash. In my days in Arthur and even at university in the 1950s, I loved the dark yellow, dense, full-of-flavour flesh of pepper squashes. They were wonderful, baked in the oven with lots of butter, and a little salt and pepper.
While we were in England in the 1960s something seems to have happened to pepper squashes. When we came back to Canada, I remember my mother pointing out that the flesh of pepper squashes was now light yellow, watery and tasteless, almost like a summer squash. She blamed greedy farmers who were over-watering the squash so that they would grow faster and weigh more on the grocer’s scale.
She may have been right.
Or perhaps the food scientists had developed a new variety that was more profitable to grow, thus driving all the decent pepper squashes off the market.
If I could find some seeds for the old-style pepper squash, I would be tempted to dig up part of our back yard and put in some beds of squash. I could also plant some heritage beefsteak tomatoes.
Yum, yum!
The Luther Marsh
Last week, Pat and I went to Guelph to see some friends and at one point we crossed the Grand River. That started me thinking about the Luther Marsh, the source of the Grand River.
Growing up in Arthur, Ontario, the Luther Marsh was in our backyard, so to speak--- about 10 miles north-east of town.
The general view, which I am sure I shared, was that the Marsh was a great waste of land. You couldn’t farm it, or take timber off it. It was a great shame that about 6000 hectares of land (roughly 15,000 acres for dummies like yours truly) just sat there, without earning its keep by producing wheat or oats or timber. Given that the average farm when I was growing up was 100 acres in size, one could have had 150 farms out of the area occupied by the Marsh.
Today, of course, we are a little wiser. Even if we couldn’t explain to a Martian what an eco-system is, we sense that swamps, marshes and wetlands have their place, and need to be protected.
Now, we have the Luther Marsh Wildlife Management Area and a council that from all reports does a good job in overseeing the health of the marsh.
Apart from being seen as a waste of land the Marsh was also seen, especially by the young, as a spooky and dangerous place. Our parents told us that you could get lost and no one would ever find you. And if you didn’t watch where you stepped you could sink without trace.
It was a sinister place.
Here are a few stories about the Marsh.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
One story concerns how the marsh got its name. The folklore in Arthur was that the surveyor who was commissioned to survey the townships that contained the marsh was a Roman Catholic. After fighting his way through the swamps, bogs and ponds he is supposed to have declared that it was the worst marsh he had ever seen, and since Martin Luther was the worst person who had ever lived, it was only appropriate that the marsh should be known as the Luther Marsh.
I have told this story many times in many different places and people seem to enjoy it.
The other day, I thought I should really try to find out if the story is true.
A Nature Guide to Ontario (By Winifred Cairns Wake, Federation of Ontario Naturalists, P.198) reveals that the surveyor’s name was Lewis Burwell. In a report dated September 1, 1831, Burwell stated that there could be no settlement in the area because it was “…one continual swamp…”. He complained about the problems caused by fallen trees and a thick undergrowth of cedars and alders. He also remarked about “…the swamps being deep and mirey at the same time.” (Isn’t ‘mirey’ a fine word!)
The book does not refer to his religion or whether he was the one who named the marsh.
My search for the truth carries on.
Perhaps a reader can help me.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Despite Burwell’s belief that there could be no settlements in the Luther Marsh area, migrants from the British Isles, mainly Protestants from Northern Ireland (who might have found the name ‘Luther’ a good omen) were settled there starting in 1853.
Farming was difficult and in the mid-1860s the government brought in experienced lumbermen from Quebec to harvest white pine in order to give the farmers some extra income. (One wonders how the Protestant Northern Irish settlers got along with the French Catholic lumbermen) The logs were floated down the Grand River to Galt and then shipped to Toronto.
The trees and their roots that held water in the Marsh were under attack. Farmers cut down less valuable trees for firewood and drained portions of the Marsh to create hay fields. Then a forest fire killed more trees.
All of these activities reduced the capacity of the Marsh to regulate the water entering the Grand River system. In wet periods, floods occurred in the many towns along the Grand between the Marsh and Lake Erie. In dry times, there would not be enough water in the Grand to meet the needs of municipal water systems.
It was decided to build dams to control the flow of water.
In 1952 as part of this effort a dam was built across Black Creek in the Marsh. As the water rose behind the dam, the traces of a century of settlement were lost as water buried farm houses and barns and roads.
Now, the reader may be wondering what’s going on here, with all this history and ecology stuff.
A good question.
The Letter from Virgil is supposed to entertain, not educate.
Well, it took some time to set up a story that had a dramatic effect on me and on the other students in our high school at the time.
Here, finally, is the story.
A classmate at the Arthur District High School was driving his dad’s small, two-door car, carrying four friends home from a dance. He wasn’t used to the area around the Marsh and got lost. His friends started complaining that they would catch ‘heck’ from their parents if they didn’t get home soon.
As we sometimes do when we get lost, he speeded up.
He flew over a hill and suddenly saw, as the headlights focused down, that the road disappeared into water. He braked hard but the car hurtled into the water. He and the front seat passenger opened their doors and jumped out. The three people who were crowded into the back seat fought to get over the front seat and out. Finally, they were all safely out of the car, standing in water up to their waists.
Meanwhile, the car was floating out into the middle of the new Luther Lake.
They watched as the car---lights still on---floated away, settling lower and lower into the water until the lights went out and the car disappeared.
They had a long walk until they reached a farm house.
The next day at school, the driver and the passengers were still suffering from shock. One moment they would laugh about the sight of the car drifting into the lake with the lights still shining. And then they would grow sober as they realized how close they had come to being victims of the Marsh.
The episode had a chilling effect on all of us.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Next week, another story about the Luther Marsh.
Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
While in Kuala Lumpur in 1991, I went to visit the Batu Caves and the Hindu shrines built within the caves. There are some 272 steps up to the Caves and since it was a hot, sticky day I decided I should carry some liquid with me to ward off dehydration.
A man in a stall at the bottom of the steps was cutting open coconuts and pouring the milk into fresh plastic bags. At that time one worried about the safety of drinks sold at local stalls in Malaysia, but fresh coconut milk looked safe. I bought a bag.
I started trudging up the steps, making sure that I hung on well to my camera because I had been warned that bands of monkeys loved to run off with small bags, cameras and even ice cream cones being enjoyed by children.
The monkeys possess a kind of protected status at the Caves because it is a religious shrine. As a result they have become both numerous and bold.
I saw a band coming toward me and I tightened my grip on the camera with one hand while clutching the bag of coconut milk in the other.
I tried to gently shoo them away but one little fellow came in close and with his sharp claws slashed my bag of coconut milk. The milk poured down the steps, and monkeys came from everywhere to lick it up.
The slasher stopped drinking long enough to look up at me. He pulled back his lips and I swear he grinned.
I trudged up and up, getting more and more parched.
But what can you do?
Our cousins, the monkeys get dehydrated as well. And surely it is good to be charitable---even unintentionally---at a religious shrine.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #35 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Summer Delights in Virgil
This week our neighbours, the Walkers, who have a market on the Niagara Parkway (see Posting #25, June 21, 2009) shared some corn that they had been asked to test by the farmer who grows their corn. The corn is of the Peaches and Cream type but a newly-developed variety that at the moment has no name, just a test number. If the variety meets with customer approval, the advertising people will be turned loose to come up with a name.
The kernels were a little smaller than the usual Peaches and Cream cobs but the corn was tender, sweet and delicious. We gave it a ‘two thumbs up, ‘way up’ rating.
Corn is one of the vegetables that I think has improved since my childhood. The Seneca and Golden Bantam varieties I grew up with were good but if the time between picking and cooking was too long the corn became starchy.
Pierre Berton argued that you couldn’t pick corn in the garden and take it to the kitchen without the starchiness occurring. His solution was to build a fire in his garden near the rows of corn---this was before pesky air pollution laws---and hang a kettle full of water over it. Once the water was boiling, his many kids would race among the rows, picking, husking and popping the cobs into the kettle. The whole operation took just a minute or two.
Berton claimed that this was the only way to have truly great corn on the cob.
Sure, a bit obsessive.
But in those days it was a very good way to have sweet, non-starchy corn.
The plant scientists who developed Peaches and Cream have obviously found a way to delay that sugar-to-starch conversion---and made our life a little easier and more pleasant.
One vegetable that hasn’t improved is the pepper squash. In my days in Arthur and even at university in the 1950s, I loved the dark yellow, dense, full-of-flavour flesh of pepper squashes. They were wonderful, baked in the oven with lots of butter, and a little salt and pepper.
While we were in England in the 1960s something seems to have happened to pepper squashes. When we came back to Canada, I remember my mother pointing out that the flesh of pepper squashes was now light yellow, watery and tasteless, almost like a summer squash. She blamed greedy farmers who were over-watering the squash so that they would grow faster and weigh more on the grocer’s scale.
She may have been right.
Or perhaps the food scientists had developed a new variety that was more profitable to grow, thus driving all the decent pepper squashes off the market.
If I could find some seeds for the old-style pepper squash, I would be tempted to dig up part of our back yard and put in some beds of squash. I could also plant some heritage beefsteak tomatoes.
Yum, yum!
The Luther Marsh
Last week, Pat and I went to Guelph to see some friends and at one point we crossed the Grand River. That started me thinking about the Luther Marsh, the source of the Grand River.
Growing up in Arthur, Ontario, the Luther Marsh was in our backyard, so to speak--- about 10 miles north-east of town.
The general view, which I am sure I shared, was that the Marsh was a great waste of land. You couldn’t farm it, or take timber off it. It was a great shame that about 6000 hectares of land (roughly 15,000 acres for dummies like yours truly) just sat there, without earning its keep by producing wheat or oats or timber. Given that the average farm when I was growing up was 100 acres in size, one could have had 150 farms out of the area occupied by the Marsh.
Today, of course, we are a little wiser. Even if we couldn’t explain to a Martian what an eco-system is, we sense that swamps, marshes and wetlands have their place, and need to be protected.
Now, we have the Luther Marsh Wildlife Management Area and a council that from all reports does a good job in overseeing the health of the marsh.
Apart from being seen as a waste of land the Marsh was also seen, especially by the young, as a spooky and dangerous place. Our parents told us that you could get lost and no one would ever find you. And if you didn’t watch where you stepped you could sink without trace.
It was a sinister place.
Here are a few stories about the Marsh.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
One story concerns how the marsh got its name. The folklore in Arthur was that the surveyor who was commissioned to survey the townships that contained the marsh was a Roman Catholic. After fighting his way through the swamps, bogs and ponds he is supposed to have declared that it was the worst marsh he had ever seen, and since Martin Luther was the worst person who had ever lived, it was only appropriate that the marsh should be known as the Luther Marsh.
I have told this story many times in many different places and people seem to enjoy it.
The other day, I thought I should really try to find out if the story is true.
A Nature Guide to Ontario (By Winifred Cairns Wake, Federation of Ontario Naturalists, P.198) reveals that the surveyor’s name was Lewis Burwell. In a report dated September 1, 1831, Burwell stated that there could be no settlement in the area because it was “…one continual swamp…”. He complained about the problems caused by fallen trees and a thick undergrowth of cedars and alders. He also remarked about “…the swamps being deep and mirey at the same time.” (Isn’t ‘mirey’ a fine word!)
The book does not refer to his religion or whether he was the one who named the marsh.
My search for the truth carries on.
Perhaps a reader can help me.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Despite Burwell’s belief that there could be no settlements in the Luther Marsh area, migrants from the British Isles, mainly Protestants from Northern Ireland (who might have found the name ‘Luther’ a good omen) were settled there starting in 1853.
Farming was difficult and in the mid-1860s the government brought in experienced lumbermen from Quebec to harvest white pine in order to give the farmers some extra income. (One wonders how the Protestant Northern Irish settlers got along with the French Catholic lumbermen) The logs were floated down the Grand River to Galt and then shipped to Toronto.
The trees and their roots that held water in the Marsh were under attack. Farmers cut down less valuable trees for firewood and drained portions of the Marsh to create hay fields. Then a forest fire killed more trees.
All of these activities reduced the capacity of the Marsh to regulate the water entering the Grand River system. In wet periods, floods occurred in the many towns along the Grand between the Marsh and Lake Erie. In dry times, there would not be enough water in the Grand to meet the needs of municipal water systems.
It was decided to build dams to control the flow of water.
In 1952 as part of this effort a dam was built across Black Creek in the Marsh. As the water rose behind the dam, the traces of a century of settlement were lost as water buried farm houses and barns and roads.
Now, the reader may be wondering what’s going on here, with all this history and ecology stuff.
A good question.
The Letter from Virgil is supposed to entertain, not educate.
Well, it took some time to set up a story that had a dramatic effect on me and on the other students in our high school at the time.
Here, finally, is the story.
A classmate at the Arthur District High School was driving his dad’s small, two-door car, carrying four friends home from a dance. He wasn’t used to the area around the Marsh and got lost. His friends started complaining that they would catch ‘heck’ from their parents if they didn’t get home soon.
As we sometimes do when we get lost, he speeded up.
He flew over a hill and suddenly saw, as the headlights focused down, that the road disappeared into water. He braked hard but the car hurtled into the water. He and the front seat passenger opened their doors and jumped out. The three people who were crowded into the back seat fought to get over the front seat and out. Finally, they were all safely out of the car, standing in water up to their waists.
Meanwhile, the car was floating out into the middle of the new Luther Lake.
They watched as the car---lights still on---floated away, settling lower and lower into the water until the lights went out and the car disappeared.
They had a long walk until they reached a farm house.
The next day at school, the driver and the passengers were still suffering from shock. One moment they would laugh about the sight of the car drifting into the lake with the lights still shining. And then they would grow sober as they realized how close they had come to being victims of the Marsh.
The episode had a chilling effect on all of us.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Next week, another story about the Luther Marsh.
Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
While in Kuala Lumpur in 1991, I went to visit the Batu Caves and the Hindu shrines built within the caves. There are some 272 steps up to the Caves and since it was a hot, sticky day I decided I should carry some liquid with me to ward off dehydration.
A man in a stall at the bottom of the steps was cutting open coconuts and pouring the milk into fresh plastic bags. At that time one worried about the safety of drinks sold at local stalls in Malaysia, but fresh coconut milk looked safe. I bought a bag.
I started trudging up the steps, making sure that I hung on well to my camera because I had been warned that bands of monkeys loved to run off with small bags, cameras and even ice cream cones being enjoyed by children.
The monkeys possess a kind of protected status at the Caves because it is a religious shrine. As a result they have become both numerous and bold.
I saw a band coming toward me and I tightened my grip on the camera with one hand while clutching the bag of coconut milk in the other.
I tried to gently shoo them away but one little fellow came in close and with his sharp claws slashed my bag of coconut milk. The milk poured down the steps, and monkeys came from everywhere to lick it up.
The slasher stopped drinking long enough to look up at me. He pulled back his lips and I swear he grinned.
I trudged up and up, getting more and more parched.
But what can you do?
Our cousins, the monkeys get dehydrated as well. And surely it is good to be charitable---even unintentionally---at a religious shrine.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #35 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
POSTING # 33
Canadians Can Compete---Yes We Can! ; On the Road to Chita, in Eastern Siberia---Part II; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
Canadians Can Compete---Yes We Can!
Canada is going through a tough period of economic, financial and employment adjustments and it is easy to get depressed about whether we can compete successfully in the international arena. This is true even when one remembers that we have a healthy, well-educated, creative and energetic population, backed up by enormous natural resources.
But, I have had a few experiences over the last couple of weeks that have dispelled some of those blues.
The first has to do the Toronto-based Obus Forme Company that produces Sound Therapy, a gadget that fights sleeplessness by playing relaxing sounds of nature: Ocean, Summer Night, Rain Forest, Waterfall and Heartbeat.
I have had a problem of waking at night and not being able to get back to sleep, I have tried listening to the radio but news programs depress me (it’s all ‘bad’ news) and talk shows make me angry (the hosts often remind me of my grandfather’s comment: “An empty drum makes the most noise”).
In the end, I am more wide-awake than before.
Our daughter suggested the Obus Forme machine, which she had used for several years. I had trouble finding a store that stocked them but looking on-line I found that Well.ca, a Guelph-based on-line drugstore, listed them. I spoke to a consumer service representative, Nicole, who told me that Obus Forme had discontinued my daughter’s model but was coming out with a new model in early August. She said she would email me when the new models came in.
Right!
Website people never call you back.
Then a week later I got a note from Nicole saying that the models hadn’t yet arrived but she wanted me to know that she hadn’t forgotten me.
That was nice.
Another week later she sent an email saying that the new models had arrived. I phoned and ordered one. She said that Canada Post promised the model would be in Virgil in 2 to 4 business days. It arrived in 3 days.
And the machine is fantastic. The soft sound of ocean surf lulls me back to sleep in just a few minutes.
Hats off to Obus Forme, Well.ca---and Canada Post!
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Another example of Canadian competitiveness.
My brother and sister-in-law introduced us to Chez Cora’s restaurant in Milton.
The growing chain, started by a woman, Cora, from the Gaspé in Quebec serves delicious breakfasts all day and other light meals. What makes the chain unique for me is the use of fresh fruit of all kinds, presented in attractive, unexpected and appetizing ways.
I understand the company is considering expansion into the US.
Good luck to them!
I wish we had a Cora’s near us.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Yet another example of Canadians---this time new-Canadians---competing.
Our daughter suggested we visit a new store called Oceans Fresh Food Market at 499 Main St. South, Brampton. (I can’t find a website—perhaps it is too new.)
It carries a full-line of ‘Canadian’ supermarket products (the usual milk, butter, eggs, soap, toilet paper etc) plus fruit, vegetables, fish, nuts, beans and other items that in the past one could only find in Hong Kong, Kuala Lumpur, Seoul or Singapore. The aisles are wide and the design is open and friendly.
What a fun place to explore.
I am sure that the thousands of Canadian students who have journeyed to Asia to teach English as a second language will be delighted to find some of the foods they enjoyed over there.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
So there you have some experiences that have helped bolster my faith in the ability of Canadians to compete.
On the Road to Chita, in Eastern Siberia---Part II
Last week I explained that in 1996 my interpreter, Yuri, and I had arrived by train in Chita, Eastern Siberia. Our host, the manager of the Chita Employment Centre, was not happy with the available hotel rooms and arranged for us to stay at a nearby Russian Army base.
Let’s continue the story.
After a thirty minute drive in the manager’s car we pulled up at the gate to the base. The manager chatted with the armed guard, who upon learning that the manager was a retired colonel, saluted smartly and lifted the barrier.
We parked in front of a two story, frame building where a young soldier was waiting for us. He took us and our bags to the second floor and opened the door to the room that was to be mine. The room was large, fresh-smelling with a double bed and a view of a rolling countryside beyond the fence that surrounded the camp. There was a TV and some soft chairs.
The soldier opened the door to the private bathroom---large, deep tub (with plug) that was spotlessly clean, a large sink (with plug), toilet and a bidet. The bathroom was warm, the towels were soft, and there was soap and toilet paper.
After two nights on a train, I wanted to climb into the tub and soak but we had to go back to the Employment Centre and try to figure out whether it could be converted into a model office.
As we drove to the Centre, Yuri explained that he had learned that the army base was a sort of rehabilitation centre for army officers who were recovering from illness, surgery or, sometimes, too much vodka over too long a period.
Apparently, my room was reserved for generals. That explained a lot.
Rolling his eyes with delight, Yuri said that although his room was not as posh, it was still very comfortable.
When we got to the Chita Employment Centre we began by meeting the senior staff and then touring the office. As we went around the office, I made a mental list of problems that I would want to discuss with the manager and his senior people the following day. By the end of the day, it was a pretty long list---things weren’t looking too good for Chita as a possible model office.
The manager drove us back to the army base where we discovered that the base commandant had invited us to join him for dinner in his private dining room.
The commandant was in his mid-50s, tall, slim with short hair. Dinner opened with vodka toasts and then we turned to a selection of breads, plates of cheese and smoked meats, and bowls of different salads.
As was usual with Russian meals, I would have been happy to make a meal of the appetizers but I had learned that I could only nibble. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do justice to the main course---and an unfinished meal was an insult to the chef.
The commandant passed the bread basket and I took a crusty roll. Now, I should say that although I like all kinds of bread (my ancestors were master bakers, after all) I just love crusty rolls---if they are fresh and well-made. This roll was perfection: the roll broke with a satisfying crunch, flakes of the crust fell on the plate, and the inside was soft, white and smelled of yeast and fine wheat.
Although I wasn’t sure it was appropriate, I felt I had to tell the commandant how much I was enjoying the roll. When Yuri had translated my comments, the commandant nodded and said he was proud of their bakery. Then he launched into an account of how the base was managing to survive, although the nearly bankrupt national government kept cutting back his funds.
The base had always had a small farm with a bakery and a dairy to provide some of the food for the troops. As his funds were cut back, he expanded production and started selling bread, milk and butter to surrounding towns. With the cash he raised in this way and with some bartering he was able to keep the base operating at an almost normal level.
The main course consisted of thick, juicy pork chops, mashed potatoes and vegetables. I was glad I hadn’t overdone the bread and appetizers.
After the meal was over and we were sipping our coffee, I dared to ask him a question that I thought he might refuse to answer. I asked if, on a scale of 1 to 10 he could say how likely he thought it was that the new regime would succeed. (I carefully used the term ‘regime’ not ‘democracy’ because by 1996 ‘democracy’ was being blamed for all the hardship being endured in the nation.)
He paused and then said that Russians always used a scale from 1 to 5, and if it was all right he would use that scale.
After another pause, he said he would put the chances at 3. There were many problems. In addition to the huge unemployment problem and resulting poverty, the levels of crime and corruption were much worse than under the old regime. He hoped the experiment would succeed but it was not a sure thing.
We discussed that subject some more and his answers were always thoughtful, concise and candid. He was an impressively well-educated, well-read person.
The commandant switched the subject to hockey. He said that he loved hockey and there were many teams of teenaged boys in the Chita area. He mused about whether it might be possible to arrange for a Canadian team to play against local teams. They didn’t have artificial ice but with the Siberian winter there would be lots of natural ice rinks. The base and the surrounding towns could house the players.
It would be good for Russian-Canadian relations.
We began a riff on how such a trip might be organized. The Russians would do this, and the Canadians would do that, etc. I said I was sure that many Canadian teams would love to visit Siberia.
The discussion was fun.
But in the end, we had to face the reality of distance---travel costs would be unaffordable.. If only there were flights from British Columbia to Chita (about 5000 miles) it might have been feasible but there were none at the time. A team would have to fly the other way around the globe, to Europe, then to Moscow and then to Chita (about 15,000 miles). It was a brave dream, but would have to stay a dream.
Later on, I wondered who would have ever believed that a Russian Army commandant would propose such a dream. I wouldn’t have believed it.
As we shook hands after the meal, he said that I was the first NATO citizen to have been admitted onto his base and that he had enjoyed our discussions.
His comment needs a bit of amplification.
The term ‘NATO’ had been used for years in the Soviet Union to express all the fear and outrage that the USSR felt toward the West---as in “NATO is evil”, or, “NATO wants to destroy our country and kill us”. It was the counterpart of our ‘evil Communists’.
As I will describe in later postings, my consultants and I sometimes had to confront feelings of fear, suspicion and even anger from the people we were trying to help---just because Canada was part of NATO.
It had taken some courage for the commandant to welcome me onto his base. It was good to know that he had enjoyed our exchanges.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The next day, after a very good sleep and an excellent breakfast, Yuri and I packed and returned to the Employment Centre.
I raised my questions and concerns with the manager of the Centre. It became clear that there were some serious staff conflicts and some accommodation issues that could not be resolved before our project ended, in March 1997. I had to tell him that we would not be accepting Chita as a model office site.
I think the manager understood but he was disappointed.
And understandably.
His office would not have the status of a model office, would not have a team of Canadian consultants to help sort out his problems but perhaps most of all, he and his superior, the Regional Director of Employment, would not have a two week study tour to Canada.
I felt badly about having to reject his office but looking back I realize that Chita was like some other Russian offices we visited. There were often strong female employees---such as the woman we met the first morning in Chita---but the men in charge were not prepared to listen to them.
And the offices suffered as a result.
Male managers not listening to their women workers is, of course, not unique to Russia.
Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
While in Russia, I once used the expression, “We shouldn’t count our chickens until they’re hatched.” A friend told me that in Russian the proverb was, “Don’t count your chickens until the fall”.
When I looked puzzled, he explained that in Russia in the old days, hatched chickens were left outside with the adult chickens until the cold weather. Then, they were put in the chicken house. While they were in the yard, foxes or hawks could get them. So, farmers didn’t count them until they were safely in the chicken house.
I think I prefer the cautious pragmatism of the Russian version.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #34 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Canadians Can Compete---Yes We Can!
Canada is going through a tough period of economic, financial and employment adjustments and it is easy to get depressed about whether we can compete successfully in the international arena. This is true even when one remembers that we have a healthy, well-educated, creative and energetic population, backed up by enormous natural resources.
But, I have had a few experiences over the last couple of weeks that have dispelled some of those blues.
The first has to do the Toronto-based Obus Forme Company that produces Sound Therapy, a gadget that fights sleeplessness by playing relaxing sounds of nature: Ocean, Summer Night, Rain Forest, Waterfall and Heartbeat.
I have had a problem of waking at night and not being able to get back to sleep, I have tried listening to the radio but news programs depress me (it’s all ‘bad’ news) and talk shows make me angry (the hosts often remind me of my grandfather’s comment: “An empty drum makes the most noise”).
In the end, I am more wide-awake than before.
Our daughter suggested the Obus Forme machine, which she had used for several years. I had trouble finding a store that stocked them but looking on-line I found that Well.ca, a Guelph-based on-line drugstore, listed them. I spoke to a consumer service representative, Nicole, who told me that Obus Forme had discontinued my daughter’s model but was coming out with a new model in early August. She said she would email me when the new models came in.
Right!
Website people never call you back.
Then a week later I got a note from Nicole saying that the models hadn’t yet arrived but she wanted me to know that she hadn’t forgotten me.
That was nice.
Another week later she sent an email saying that the new models had arrived. I phoned and ordered one. She said that Canada Post promised the model would be in Virgil in 2 to 4 business days. It arrived in 3 days.
And the machine is fantastic. The soft sound of ocean surf lulls me back to sleep in just a few minutes.
Hats off to Obus Forme, Well.ca---and Canada Post!
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Another example of Canadian competitiveness.
My brother and sister-in-law introduced us to Chez Cora’s restaurant in Milton.
The growing chain, started by a woman, Cora, from the Gaspé in Quebec serves delicious breakfasts all day and other light meals. What makes the chain unique for me is the use of fresh fruit of all kinds, presented in attractive, unexpected and appetizing ways.
I understand the company is considering expansion into the US.
Good luck to them!
I wish we had a Cora’s near us.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Yet another example of Canadians---this time new-Canadians---competing.
Our daughter suggested we visit a new store called Oceans Fresh Food Market at 499 Main St. South, Brampton. (I can’t find a website—perhaps it is too new.)
It carries a full-line of ‘Canadian’ supermarket products (the usual milk, butter, eggs, soap, toilet paper etc) plus fruit, vegetables, fish, nuts, beans and other items that in the past one could only find in Hong Kong, Kuala Lumpur, Seoul or Singapore. The aisles are wide and the design is open and friendly.
What a fun place to explore.
I am sure that the thousands of Canadian students who have journeyed to Asia to teach English as a second language will be delighted to find some of the foods they enjoyed over there.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
So there you have some experiences that have helped bolster my faith in the ability of Canadians to compete.
On the Road to Chita, in Eastern Siberia---Part II
Last week I explained that in 1996 my interpreter, Yuri, and I had arrived by train in Chita, Eastern Siberia. Our host, the manager of the Chita Employment Centre, was not happy with the available hotel rooms and arranged for us to stay at a nearby Russian Army base.
Let’s continue the story.
After a thirty minute drive in the manager’s car we pulled up at the gate to the base. The manager chatted with the armed guard, who upon learning that the manager was a retired colonel, saluted smartly and lifted the barrier.
We parked in front of a two story, frame building where a young soldier was waiting for us. He took us and our bags to the second floor and opened the door to the room that was to be mine. The room was large, fresh-smelling with a double bed and a view of a rolling countryside beyond the fence that surrounded the camp. There was a TV and some soft chairs.
The soldier opened the door to the private bathroom---large, deep tub (with plug) that was spotlessly clean, a large sink (with plug), toilet and a bidet. The bathroom was warm, the towels were soft, and there was soap and toilet paper.
After two nights on a train, I wanted to climb into the tub and soak but we had to go back to the Employment Centre and try to figure out whether it could be converted into a model office.
As we drove to the Centre, Yuri explained that he had learned that the army base was a sort of rehabilitation centre for army officers who were recovering from illness, surgery or, sometimes, too much vodka over too long a period.
Apparently, my room was reserved for generals. That explained a lot.
Rolling his eyes with delight, Yuri said that although his room was not as posh, it was still very comfortable.
When we got to the Chita Employment Centre we began by meeting the senior staff and then touring the office. As we went around the office, I made a mental list of problems that I would want to discuss with the manager and his senior people the following day. By the end of the day, it was a pretty long list---things weren’t looking too good for Chita as a possible model office.
The manager drove us back to the army base where we discovered that the base commandant had invited us to join him for dinner in his private dining room.
The commandant was in his mid-50s, tall, slim with short hair. Dinner opened with vodka toasts and then we turned to a selection of breads, plates of cheese and smoked meats, and bowls of different salads.
As was usual with Russian meals, I would have been happy to make a meal of the appetizers but I had learned that I could only nibble. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do justice to the main course---and an unfinished meal was an insult to the chef.
The commandant passed the bread basket and I took a crusty roll. Now, I should say that although I like all kinds of bread (my ancestors were master bakers, after all) I just love crusty rolls---if they are fresh and well-made. This roll was perfection: the roll broke with a satisfying crunch, flakes of the crust fell on the plate, and the inside was soft, white and smelled of yeast and fine wheat.
Although I wasn’t sure it was appropriate, I felt I had to tell the commandant how much I was enjoying the roll. When Yuri had translated my comments, the commandant nodded and said he was proud of their bakery. Then he launched into an account of how the base was managing to survive, although the nearly bankrupt national government kept cutting back his funds.
The base had always had a small farm with a bakery and a dairy to provide some of the food for the troops. As his funds were cut back, he expanded production and started selling bread, milk and butter to surrounding towns. With the cash he raised in this way and with some bartering he was able to keep the base operating at an almost normal level.
The main course consisted of thick, juicy pork chops, mashed potatoes and vegetables. I was glad I hadn’t overdone the bread and appetizers.
After the meal was over and we were sipping our coffee, I dared to ask him a question that I thought he might refuse to answer. I asked if, on a scale of 1 to 10 he could say how likely he thought it was that the new regime would succeed. (I carefully used the term ‘regime’ not ‘democracy’ because by 1996 ‘democracy’ was being blamed for all the hardship being endured in the nation.)
He paused and then said that Russians always used a scale from 1 to 5, and if it was all right he would use that scale.
After another pause, he said he would put the chances at 3. There were many problems. In addition to the huge unemployment problem and resulting poverty, the levels of crime and corruption were much worse than under the old regime. He hoped the experiment would succeed but it was not a sure thing.
We discussed that subject some more and his answers were always thoughtful, concise and candid. He was an impressively well-educated, well-read person.
The commandant switched the subject to hockey. He said that he loved hockey and there were many teams of teenaged boys in the Chita area. He mused about whether it might be possible to arrange for a Canadian team to play against local teams. They didn’t have artificial ice but with the Siberian winter there would be lots of natural ice rinks. The base and the surrounding towns could house the players.
It would be good for Russian-Canadian relations.
We began a riff on how such a trip might be organized. The Russians would do this, and the Canadians would do that, etc. I said I was sure that many Canadian teams would love to visit Siberia.
The discussion was fun.
But in the end, we had to face the reality of distance---travel costs would be unaffordable.. If only there were flights from British Columbia to Chita (about 5000 miles) it might have been feasible but there were none at the time. A team would have to fly the other way around the globe, to Europe, then to Moscow and then to Chita (about 15,000 miles). It was a brave dream, but would have to stay a dream.
Later on, I wondered who would have ever believed that a Russian Army commandant would propose such a dream. I wouldn’t have believed it.
As we shook hands after the meal, he said that I was the first NATO citizen to have been admitted onto his base and that he had enjoyed our discussions.
His comment needs a bit of amplification.
The term ‘NATO’ had been used for years in the Soviet Union to express all the fear and outrage that the USSR felt toward the West---as in “NATO is evil”, or, “NATO wants to destroy our country and kill us”. It was the counterpart of our ‘evil Communists’.
As I will describe in later postings, my consultants and I sometimes had to confront feelings of fear, suspicion and even anger from the people we were trying to help---just because Canada was part of NATO.
It had taken some courage for the commandant to welcome me onto his base. It was good to know that he had enjoyed our exchanges.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The next day, after a very good sleep and an excellent breakfast, Yuri and I packed and returned to the Employment Centre.
I raised my questions and concerns with the manager of the Centre. It became clear that there were some serious staff conflicts and some accommodation issues that could not be resolved before our project ended, in March 1997. I had to tell him that we would not be accepting Chita as a model office site.
I think the manager understood but he was disappointed.
And understandably.
His office would not have the status of a model office, would not have a team of Canadian consultants to help sort out his problems but perhaps most of all, he and his superior, the Regional Director of Employment, would not have a two week study tour to Canada.
I felt badly about having to reject his office but looking back I realize that Chita was like some other Russian offices we visited. There were often strong female employees---such as the woman we met the first morning in Chita---but the men in charge were not prepared to listen to them.
And the offices suffered as a result.
Male managers not listening to their women workers is, of course, not unique to Russia.
Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
While in Russia, I once used the expression, “We shouldn’t count our chickens until they’re hatched.” A friend told me that in Russian the proverb was, “Don’t count your chickens until the fall”.
When I looked puzzled, he explained that in Russia in the old days, hatched chickens were left outside with the adult chickens until the cold weather. Then, they were put in the chicken house. While they were in the yard, foxes or hawks could get them. So, farmers didn’t count them until they were safely in the chicken house.
I think I prefer the cautious pragmatism of the Russian version.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #34 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
POSTING # 32
The Swallows of Virgil; On the Road to Chita, in Eastern Siberia---Part I; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
The Swallows of Virgil
Readers will recall the problems we had with robins after we moved to Virgil last year (see Posting 10, March 8, 2009). The robins wanted to build a nest above our front door but we finally persuaded them to go elsewhere by installing a piece of plywood with projecting, sharp nails.
This week we had a problem with swallows.
Our custom after dinner is to sit on the front porch, have a cup of coffee and watch the world go by.
And watch the graceful swallows swoop down and catch mosquitoes and other flying critters. (Despite all the wet weather this year we have had few problems with mosquitoes, thanks I am sure to the swallows.)
This week the swallows started behaving differently. They weren’t just swooping over the lawn; they were landing on our porch roof.
What was the attraction on the roof? Was there a big colony of bugs up there?
I was prepared to leave those questions unanswered, but then a couple of swallows---on their way to the roof---cut through the porch, flying a couple of feet above our heads.
Now, I should point out that Pat has a deep and lively fear of birds, a carry-over, she thinks, of being frightened by a chicken when she was a toddler.
Anyway, having birds flying just above her head is scary stuff.
I went out on the lawn to find out what was going on.
Three plump and fluffy young swallows were perched on the edge of the roof, their beaks opening and shutting as parents and, I assume, extended family members shuttled in to feed them.
I decided that the young ones were able to fly well enough to get up to our roof but weren’t capable yet of catching insects in the air. The parents had decided that our porch roof would make a safe and convenient feeding station
As I watched, one young fellow, seeing an adult coming toward the roof, took off and intercepted the older bird. There was a clumsy but successful ‘mid-air refueling’ as the adult transferred an insect to the young bird. The little one then flew back to the roof.
The feedings lasted three evenings and then the swallows moved their feeding station to the roof of the garage next door.
And now they are gone.
Perhaps the little ones have learned to forage on their own.
And Pat feels safe again, sitting on our porch.
On the Road to Chita, in Eastern Siberia---Part I
In 1996, my interpreter, Yuri (not his name) and I had flown from Moscow to Blagoveshchensk (let’s refer to it as ‘Blag’) in eastern Siberia to see whether the Blag Employment Office could be converted by Canadian consultants into a model employment office.
After three days in Blag, I decided that it would make a good model office and Yuri and I went to the railway station---accompanied by folks from the Blag office---to catch a train to Chita, a city that was about 800 miles further east.
As the Blag staff said goodbye, they told us that there was no dining car on our train and they very kindly provided us with essentials for our trip---bags of smoked sausages, cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, bread, beer and, of course, vodka.
Although the train travelled on the same rails as the Trans-Siberian Railway, ours was not a posh train, just a local one with frequent stops. The trip was going to take about 36 hours including two nights.
We got on the train around 9 PM, and got into our berths soon afterwards. We were tired, partly from the time difference (there is a 6 hour time difference between Moscow and Blag---by comparison, the time difference between Toronto and the UK is only 5 hours---and partly from a lot of meetings in Blag.
The next mooring we had breakfast from our bags of goodies and then watched the countryside go by---mainly forests of poplars and evergreens. At stops, we would get off the train and stretch our legs. At one of the stops Yuri found a small shop and bought some containers of dried noodles, which we resuscitated with hot water from the coal-fired samovar at the end of our car.
While exploring the train, Yuri found that there was a car toward the back of the train that had both a baggage section and a small snack area. We went down to check it out.
On one side of the car, there was a large baggage area fenced off with heavy metal screening with a locked door. On the other side there were a few wooden tables. At the table across from the door to the baggage area, I noticed an older man in what looked like an expensive leather coat. He was bent over and appeared to be counting something. A couple of young men with brush cuts sat across from him.
We took a table and a disinterested woman brought us some tea. I could hear a young couple at the table behind me flirting with each other. The young man would say something and the woman would giggle---even if I couldn’t understand the rapid Russian, there were all the signs of human courtship.
Yuri and I chatted about the visit to Blag and the upcoming visit to Chita.
After some time, the young woman behind me left to go back to her compartment, while the young man joined the older man and the two men at the table by the door to the baggage area.
The Yuri leaned over and whispered, “Did you see what the young man behind you was doing?”
“Flirting, so far as I could tell.”
“Not just that---he was cleaning a revolver,” Yuri said in a low voice.
“Why, what…”, I sputtered, as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“Let’s go back to the compartment. Have a good look at the old man and the three young fellows”, he hissed.
As we passed the old man’s table I realized he was counting money---there were large stacks of bills, both rubles and US dollars. The young men were husky and wore coats bulky enough to conceal a holster and gun.
Back in the compartment, Yuri told me what he thought was happening. The old man was a Russian mafia figure who was responsible for transporting something very valuable---money, gold or drugs, perhaps---to his mafia bosses. He had stored it in the baggage area but didn’t dare let it out of his sight. The young men, probably ex-soldiers, were armed and their job was to protect him and the cargo.
Yuri said there had been stories in the press about rival gangs stopping trains and looting them.
I said, “It sounds like the wild west”.
“In Russia, it’s the wild east! Wait until our next trip when we go to Vladivostok. It’s full of mafia.”
During that night on the train, I listened for gun fire every time the train stopped.
But there was no trouble. Perhaps the tough looking guards and their nicely cleaned revolvers discouraged rival gangs from trying anything.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
As we got off the train at 7 AM in Chita, I looked around for the greeting party that always met us when we arrived in a new city. Usually there would be five or six men, accompanied by a young woman. The young woman would present a large bouquet of flowers tied with a fancy ribbon and one of the men would then hand over a bag with some beer and vodka to make our stay a little more comfortable.
I was told that this was the kind of reception accorded to Communist Party bosses from Moscow in Soviet times.
But not for us in Chita.
There was no one to meet us.
Yuri got out the itinerary for our trip, an itinerary that had been prepared by the Moscow officials of the Russian Federal Employment Service.
“The Chita manager was supposed to meet us at 1AM Moscow time which is 7 AM Chita time,” he said.
I said, “So here we are in Chita at 7 AM but there is no one to meet us”.
We looked at each other. There had been some confusion on another trip, caused by the fact that at that time (and perhaps still today) train arrival and departure times all across Russia were stated in Moscow time. Locals were expected to make the necessary adjustments.
Yuri had the address of the Employment Office and we agreed to take a taxi to the office although we didn’t think anyone would be there at that hour. We would just sit and wait until someone showed up
As it turned out, a woman clerk had come in early to clean up a paper backlog.
As we told her our story, she shook her head. “We told the men to let us organize the visit but you know what men are like!”
We suggested she tell us which hotel we were booked into and we could go and check in.
She wasn’t sure where reservations had been made but gave us the address of the one that Communist Party officials from Moscow had always used. It was the best hotel in Chita.
The hotel didn’t have reservations for us but they had lots of rooms.
Yuri told the desk clerk that since I was an important visitor I should have a very good room, while he would make do with a lesser one.
The clerk led us up some stairs and opened the door to what would be my room. The room smelled damp and musty as though it hadn’t been used for some time, the bed was small, the furniture battered and the carpet old and dirty.
The clerk opened the door to the private bathroom. There was a tub with rust stains and a leaking tap. The toilet had no seat There were no towels or soap, and no plugs for the sink or tub.
It wasn’t the Ritz but after two days on the train I thought it would do. I had mastered the art of squatting over seatless toilets, and I had learned to carry soap, toilet paper and plugs of different sizes. I could cope but I was worried about Yuri. If this was the best room, what would his be like?
But I knew that we would just have to make the best of it. If Yuri’s room was awful we could share my room. After all, although the whole of Russia was in a deep recession at that time Siberia was suffering much more than what is sometimes called European Russia, the area close to Moscow. There simply wasn’t any money in Siberia for fixing hotels, especially when people were literally starving in the towns and villages.
As we were surveying the bathroom, a short man, about 50, with a military bearing rushed into the room. It was the manager of the Employment Office looking troubled, and deeply mortified.
He apologized and said that there had been a mix up about the arrival time. Yuri and I glanced at each other.
The manager looked around the bathroom and the bedroom and shook his head. He and Yuri had a long discussion in Russian and then he left the room.
“He says this won’t do. Apparently, he is a retired colonel in the army and he is going to phone someone and try to get us into an army base that is nearby.”
The manager came back with a big smile, picked up my bags and told us that he would drive us to the base in his car.
Well, this would be a new experience---saying at a Russian army base!
(To be completed next week.)
Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
This week, a friend I had worked with in the Kingdom of Jordan sent an email saying he was coming to Canada later this month and suggesting we get together.
That reminded me of a story he likes to tell about another trip he had made to North America. He was flying from Amman to the US with his six year old son. It was the son’s first plane trip and his first time outside the Middle East.
The plane had to land in Shannon, Ireland to refuel, and as it broke through the clouds, the son, who had a window seat, saw the Irish countryside.
With a puzzled look on his face, he shouted, “Look Dad, green desert!”
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #33 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
The Swallows of Virgil
Readers will recall the problems we had with robins after we moved to Virgil last year (see Posting 10, March 8, 2009). The robins wanted to build a nest above our front door but we finally persuaded them to go elsewhere by installing a piece of plywood with projecting, sharp nails.
This week we had a problem with swallows.
Our custom after dinner is to sit on the front porch, have a cup of coffee and watch the world go by.
And watch the graceful swallows swoop down and catch mosquitoes and other flying critters. (Despite all the wet weather this year we have had few problems with mosquitoes, thanks I am sure to the swallows.)
This week the swallows started behaving differently. They weren’t just swooping over the lawn; they were landing on our porch roof.
What was the attraction on the roof? Was there a big colony of bugs up there?
I was prepared to leave those questions unanswered, but then a couple of swallows---on their way to the roof---cut through the porch, flying a couple of feet above our heads.
Now, I should point out that Pat has a deep and lively fear of birds, a carry-over, she thinks, of being frightened by a chicken when she was a toddler.
Anyway, having birds flying just above her head is scary stuff.
I went out on the lawn to find out what was going on.
Three plump and fluffy young swallows were perched on the edge of the roof, their beaks opening and shutting as parents and, I assume, extended family members shuttled in to feed them.
I decided that the young ones were able to fly well enough to get up to our roof but weren’t capable yet of catching insects in the air. The parents had decided that our porch roof would make a safe and convenient feeding station
As I watched, one young fellow, seeing an adult coming toward the roof, took off and intercepted the older bird. There was a clumsy but successful ‘mid-air refueling’ as the adult transferred an insect to the young bird. The little one then flew back to the roof.
The feedings lasted three evenings and then the swallows moved their feeding station to the roof of the garage next door.
And now they are gone.
Perhaps the little ones have learned to forage on their own.
And Pat feels safe again, sitting on our porch.
On the Road to Chita, in Eastern Siberia---Part I
In 1996, my interpreter, Yuri (not his name) and I had flown from Moscow to Blagoveshchensk (let’s refer to it as ‘Blag’) in eastern Siberia to see whether the Blag Employment Office could be converted by Canadian consultants into a model employment office.
After three days in Blag, I decided that it would make a good model office and Yuri and I went to the railway station---accompanied by folks from the Blag office---to catch a train to Chita, a city that was about 800 miles further east.
As the Blag staff said goodbye, they told us that there was no dining car on our train and they very kindly provided us with essentials for our trip---bags of smoked sausages, cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, bread, beer and, of course, vodka.
Although the train travelled on the same rails as the Trans-Siberian Railway, ours was not a posh train, just a local one with frequent stops. The trip was going to take about 36 hours including two nights.
We got on the train around 9 PM, and got into our berths soon afterwards. We were tired, partly from the time difference (there is a 6 hour time difference between Moscow and Blag---by comparison, the time difference between Toronto and the UK is only 5 hours---and partly from a lot of meetings in Blag.
The next mooring we had breakfast from our bags of goodies and then watched the countryside go by---mainly forests of poplars and evergreens. At stops, we would get off the train and stretch our legs. At one of the stops Yuri found a small shop and bought some containers of dried noodles, which we resuscitated with hot water from the coal-fired samovar at the end of our car.
While exploring the train, Yuri found that there was a car toward the back of the train that had both a baggage section and a small snack area. We went down to check it out.
On one side of the car, there was a large baggage area fenced off with heavy metal screening with a locked door. On the other side there were a few wooden tables. At the table across from the door to the baggage area, I noticed an older man in what looked like an expensive leather coat. He was bent over and appeared to be counting something. A couple of young men with brush cuts sat across from him.
We took a table and a disinterested woman brought us some tea. I could hear a young couple at the table behind me flirting with each other. The young man would say something and the woman would giggle---even if I couldn’t understand the rapid Russian, there were all the signs of human courtship.
Yuri and I chatted about the visit to Blag and the upcoming visit to Chita.
After some time, the young woman behind me left to go back to her compartment, while the young man joined the older man and the two men at the table by the door to the baggage area.
The Yuri leaned over and whispered, “Did you see what the young man behind you was doing?”
“Flirting, so far as I could tell.”
“Not just that---he was cleaning a revolver,” Yuri said in a low voice.
“Why, what…”, I sputtered, as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“Let’s go back to the compartment. Have a good look at the old man and the three young fellows”, he hissed.
As we passed the old man’s table I realized he was counting money---there were large stacks of bills, both rubles and US dollars. The young men were husky and wore coats bulky enough to conceal a holster and gun.
Back in the compartment, Yuri told me what he thought was happening. The old man was a Russian mafia figure who was responsible for transporting something very valuable---money, gold or drugs, perhaps---to his mafia bosses. He had stored it in the baggage area but didn’t dare let it out of his sight. The young men, probably ex-soldiers, were armed and their job was to protect him and the cargo.
Yuri said there had been stories in the press about rival gangs stopping trains and looting them.
I said, “It sounds like the wild west”.
“In Russia, it’s the wild east! Wait until our next trip when we go to Vladivostok. It’s full of mafia.”
During that night on the train, I listened for gun fire every time the train stopped.
But there was no trouble. Perhaps the tough looking guards and their nicely cleaned revolvers discouraged rival gangs from trying anything.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
As we got off the train at 7 AM in Chita, I looked around for the greeting party that always met us when we arrived in a new city. Usually there would be five or six men, accompanied by a young woman. The young woman would present a large bouquet of flowers tied with a fancy ribbon and one of the men would then hand over a bag with some beer and vodka to make our stay a little more comfortable.
I was told that this was the kind of reception accorded to Communist Party bosses from Moscow in Soviet times.
But not for us in Chita.
There was no one to meet us.
Yuri got out the itinerary for our trip, an itinerary that had been prepared by the Moscow officials of the Russian Federal Employment Service.
“The Chita manager was supposed to meet us at 1AM Moscow time which is 7 AM Chita time,” he said.
I said, “So here we are in Chita at 7 AM but there is no one to meet us”.
We looked at each other. There had been some confusion on another trip, caused by the fact that at that time (and perhaps still today) train arrival and departure times all across Russia were stated in Moscow time. Locals were expected to make the necessary adjustments.
Yuri had the address of the Employment Office and we agreed to take a taxi to the office although we didn’t think anyone would be there at that hour. We would just sit and wait until someone showed up
As it turned out, a woman clerk had come in early to clean up a paper backlog.
As we told her our story, she shook her head. “We told the men to let us organize the visit but you know what men are like!”
We suggested she tell us which hotel we were booked into and we could go and check in.
She wasn’t sure where reservations had been made but gave us the address of the one that Communist Party officials from Moscow had always used. It was the best hotel in Chita.
The hotel didn’t have reservations for us but they had lots of rooms.
Yuri told the desk clerk that since I was an important visitor I should have a very good room, while he would make do with a lesser one.
The clerk led us up some stairs and opened the door to what would be my room. The room smelled damp and musty as though it hadn’t been used for some time, the bed was small, the furniture battered and the carpet old and dirty.
The clerk opened the door to the private bathroom. There was a tub with rust stains and a leaking tap. The toilet had no seat There were no towels or soap, and no plugs for the sink or tub.
It wasn’t the Ritz but after two days on the train I thought it would do. I had mastered the art of squatting over seatless toilets, and I had learned to carry soap, toilet paper and plugs of different sizes. I could cope but I was worried about Yuri. If this was the best room, what would his be like?
But I knew that we would just have to make the best of it. If Yuri’s room was awful we could share my room. After all, although the whole of Russia was in a deep recession at that time Siberia was suffering much more than what is sometimes called European Russia, the area close to Moscow. There simply wasn’t any money in Siberia for fixing hotels, especially when people were literally starving in the towns and villages.
As we were surveying the bathroom, a short man, about 50, with a military bearing rushed into the room. It was the manager of the Employment Office looking troubled, and deeply mortified.
He apologized and said that there had been a mix up about the arrival time. Yuri and I glanced at each other.
The manager looked around the bathroom and the bedroom and shook his head. He and Yuri had a long discussion in Russian and then he left the room.
“He says this won’t do. Apparently, he is a retired colonel in the army and he is going to phone someone and try to get us into an army base that is nearby.”
The manager came back with a big smile, picked up my bags and told us that he would drive us to the base in his car.
Well, this would be a new experience---saying at a Russian army base!
(To be completed next week.)
Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
This week, a friend I had worked with in the Kingdom of Jordan sent an email saying he was coming to Canada later this month and suggesting we get together.
That reminded me of a story he likes to tell about another trip he had made to North America. He was flying from Amman to the US with his six year old son. It was the son’s first plane trip and his first time outside the Middle East.
The plane had to land in Shannon, Ireland to refuel, and as it broke through the clouds, the son, who had a window seat, saw the Irish countryside.
With a puzzled look on his face, he shouted, “Look Dad, green desert!”
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #33 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
POSTING # 31
Go Train Comes to Niagara Falls Finally (But Only on the Weekends); I Spy with My Little Eye…..a Spy: Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
GO Train Comes to Niagara Falls Finally (But Only on the Weekends)
Friends from Ottawa came to Niagara-on-the-Lake last week by Via Rail to see a number of Shaw Festival plays. On Tuesday, we introduced them to a new restaurant in town (Grill on King---they went back four times on their own!) and then joined them at their B&B for a pleasant catch-up chat.
When we heard on Friday that Via Rail was going on strike on Saturday---the day they were to return to Ottawa---we called to see whether we could help with alternative arrangements. We knew they had to travel on Saturday in order to be home to welcome relatives coming from England on Sunday.
They were a bit stumped and we suggested they consider taking the GO Train from Niagara Falls to Toronto, which we had been reading about, and then fly to Ottawa.
On June 27th, the GO Train began an experimental excursion service to Niagara Falls with trains running on the weekends and public holidays. This service will end on Thanksgiving Day.
The friends got seats on Porter Airlines and found a GO Train that would get them to Toronto in time for their flight.
When we took them to the Niagara Falls train station, we saw the familiar green and white, double-decker GO Train cars, as well as the mayor of Niagara Falls, wearing his chain of office, flanked by a bevy of green and red-shirted volunteers welcoming incoming visitors and thanking departing guests for coming to the Falls.
The train and the town have worked hard to put together a great deal.
The normal fare is $15.90 one way, with fares for seniors and children priced at $7.95.
Arriving visitors can buy a $6.00 daily pass that allows them to ride Niagara Falls buses to all the major attractions, and then back to the station.
There is even a special car that provides secure locked storage for bikes.
Thinking that our friends might need help hoisting their bags onto the train, I spoke in advance to a friendly and helpful GO employee. He said he would provide help if necessary, but he pointed out that a ramp had been installed on the platform so that wheelchairs, strollers, and bags with wheels could roll right onto the cars. Our friends had no trouble at all.
I also like this gentle warning on the GO website: “While every effort will be made to get you there on time, customers may experience delays because of the single track shared by GO, freight, and VIA trains through this corridor, as well as the ships passing through the Welland Canal.”
Our friends arrived back in Ottawa in good time to rest up before their relatives arrived from England.
We are sure that the GO Train excursions will be repeated next year and we are hoping that it will be the camel’s nose in the tent---that soon we will have weekday GO service to Toronto.
I Spy with My Little Eye…..a Spy
I was browsing recently in a used book store and bought a book, The Making of a Spy. I was curious to see whether it dealt with Richard Sorge, a Soviet spy born in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan (it did have an article on Sorge). We had heard of him when we lived in Baku in 2002-2003 (see posting # 5, December 21, 2008, for background on our stay in Baku.)
When we asked a friend in Baku to recommend a guide for a tour of the city, he suggested a senior police official with the Azerbaijan government, who had an outstanding knowledge of Baku, and excellent English (he had studied some criminology courses at Harvard under a US Aid program). Apparently he supplemented his quite small police salary by moonlighting as a guide on the weekends.
The guide---in his forties, tall, dark and with the authoritative air of a police officer--- picked us up in his car one Saturday morning. After giving us an excellent tour of the main historical attractions in the centre of Baku, he told us he was going to show us something that most tourists didn’t see because it was in a park a little way out of the old town. In the park was a famous sculpture in honour of Richard Sorge, the Soviet Union’s greatest spy.
As we drove to the park, he asked if we had heard of Sorge.
We had not.
He asked if we had heard of Tom Clancy, the writer.
We had, of course.
He said that Clancy had called Sorge the best spy of all time.
That was impressive.
The guide said that Sorge was born in Baku in 1895, the son of a German mining engineer and a Russian mother. The family returned to Germany soon after Sorge’s birth. In 1914 Sorge enlisted in the German army, was seriously wounded, discharged and entered university, where he received a PhD in Political Science.
He became a member of the German Communist Party and when his outspoken political views got him into trouble he fled to Moscow where he became a low-level intelligence agent with the Soviet Government.
Later he became part of the Red Army’s intelligence service and conducted spying missions around the world. He developed an incredible ability to win the confidence of important people and then steal their secrets.
In 1933, he was asked by Red Army officials to set up a spy network in Japan. Working in Japan supposedly as a German journalist, he had close relations with both the German Embassy and the Japanese government.
There is agreement that he managed to winkle out of the Germans and Japanese some critically important secrets that he passed on to Moscow. For example, he told Moscow about the plans for Pearl Harbour (Stalin didn’t pass that on to the US!). And he told Stalin that Japan did not plan to invade Russia. That information allowed Stalin to transfer troops from the far east of the Soviet Union to the west to fight and eventually defeat the German army.
The Japanese eventually caught Sorge (1944) and when their offer to exchange him for some Japanese spies that Moscow held was rejected---Stalin did not want to admit that the Soviet Union had been spying on Japan---he was hung.
After the war, the Soviet Union declared Sorge a national hero and streets and schools were named after him and many sculptures were commissioned.
Since Sorge was born in Baku, there had to be a sculpture in that city.
As we were nearing the park, the guide turned to us and asked us to imagine what kind of sculpture we would design to commemorate this heroic spy.
Pat and I thought and thought but couldn’t come up with anything but some kind of statue of the man.
“Just wait”, the guide said as we drove up to the park.
“There it is”, he said.
At the end of a 'grande allée' was a massive monument. We just gasped, “Oh my god!”
Now, I would like to ask the reader the same question the guide asked us? What kind of sculpture would you design?
Take a minute or two.
And then click on this link to see the Baku sculpture.
After you have seen the photo, please come back and I’ll tell you how the guide explained the symbolism of the sculpture.
In the meantime---just so your eyes don’t cheat and go to the explanation without checking out the link---I’ll tell another story about spies and Baku.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
When I was in Baku (and I’m sure it is even truer today) the city was awash in spies, all attracted by the international competition for the oil and gas reserves in the Caspian Sea.
Early in my stay in Baku, I shared a hotel elevator with two young Americans, a man and a woman who looked as though they were just out of university. When I asked what they were doing in Baku, they replied evasively, “Oh, just some liaison”.
New CIA recruits on their first assignment, I decided.
Later on, I was invited to a party with English, French, and German guests. Most of them had a plausible cover story explaining what they were doing in Baku, but one French fellow had such an improbable story that I leaned over to him and said, “You’re a spook, aren’t you?’
He looked at me with disdain as though I had just committed what text-messaging people call a BGO (a Blinding Glimpse of the Obvious).
He shrugged his Gallic shoulders. Of course, he was a spy. Why else would he be in a backwater town like Baku when he could be in glorious Paree?
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Now, back to the Sorge monument.
The guide explained that the designer, Yuri Dubov, decided that the essence of spying was watching. How better to commemorate the work of Sorge than by having a monument that was solely composed of eyes---alert, silent, sinister, haunting eyes.
I would like to have seen it at night, with the eyes illuminated from beneath. That must be a truly awesome sight.
By the way, there are some who believe that the hanging of Sorge was a mock-execution, and that he was smuggled back to the Soviet Union where he finished his days working as a spymaster for the KGB.
I think that’s unlikely.
But who knows, we are talking here about the world of espionage.
Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
Last summer, a contractor started building a house beside us.
During much of the construction, the site was not fenced off. In the evenings, neighbourhood children, aged 6 to 10, would swarm over the site. They explored and moved things around but didn’t do any damage until one evening when a couple of them started throwing nails, boards and tools into the cellar.
The contractor called the police.
It didn’t take a police officer long to identify the kids who had been playing in the house. He lined them up in front of the contractor and lectured them about the crimes they had been committing and spoke about ‘jail’ if they didn’t behave. Then, he asked them each to apologize to the contractor and promise never to go on the property again.
With tears running down their cheeks, they made their apologies.
And, that was the end of problems at the house.
On Halloween, one of the culprits, a sunny-faced lad, called at our house for candy.
What was his costume?
Why, that of a police officer. Of course!
We are not sure what the moral of the story is, but there has to be one.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #32 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
GO Train Comes to Niagara Falls Finally (But Only on the Weekends)
Friends from Ottawa came to Niagara-on-the-Lake last week by Via Rail to see a number of Shaw Festival plays. On Tuesday, we introduced them to a new restaurant in town (Grill on King---they went back four times on their own!) and then joined them at their B&B for a pleasant catch-up chat.
When we heard on Friday that Via Rail was going on strike on Saturday---the day they were to return to Ottawa---we called to see whether we could help with alternative arrangements. We knew they had to travel on Saturday in order to be home to welcome relatives coming from England on Sunday.
They were a bit stumped and we suggested they consider taking the GO Train from Niagara Falls to Toronto, which we had been reading about, and then fly to Ottawa.
On June 27th, the GO Train began an experimental excursion service to Niagara Falls with trains running on the weekends and public holidays. This service will end on Thanksgiving Day.
The friends got seats on Porter Airlines and found a GO Train that would get them to Toronto in time for their flight.
When we took them to the Niagara Falls train station, we saw the familiar green and white, double-decker GO Train cars, as well as the mayor of Niagara Falls, wearing his chain of office, flanked by a bevy of green and red-shirted volunteers welcoming incoming visitors and thanking departing guests for coming to the Falls.
The train and the town have worked hard to put together a great deal.
The normal fare is $15.90 one way, with fares for seniors and children priced at $7.95.
Arriving visitors can buy a $6.00 daily pass that allows them to ride Niagara Falls buses to all the major attractions, and then back to the station.
There is even a special car that provides secure locked storage for bikes.
Thinking that our friends might need help hoisting their bags onto the train, I spoke in advance to a friendly and helpful GO employee. He said he would provide help if necessary, but he pointed out that a ramp had been installed on the platform so that wheelchairs, strollers, and bags with wheels could roll right onto the cars. Our friends had no trouble at all.
I also like this gentle warning on the GO website: “While every effort will be made to get you there on time, customers may experience delays because of the single track shared by GO, freight, and VIA trains through this corridor, as well as the ships passing through the Welland Canal.”
Our friends arrived back in Ottawa in good time to rest up before their relatives arrived from England.
We are sure that the GO Train excursions will be repeated next year and we are hoping that it will be the camel’s nose in the tent---that soon we will have weekday GO service to Toronto.
I Spy with My Little Eye…..a Spy
I was browsing recently in a used book store and bought a book, The Making of a Spy. I was curious to see whether it dealt with Richard Sorge, a Soviet spy born in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan (it did have an article on Sorge). We had heard of him when we lived in Baku in 2002-2003 (see posting # 5, December 21, 2008, for background on our stay in Baku.)
When we asked a friend in Baku to recommend a guide for a tour of the city, he suggested a senior police official with the Azerbaijan government, who had an outstanding knowledge of Baku, and excellent English (he had studied some criminology courses at Harvard under a US Aid program). Apparently he supplemented his quite small police salary by moonlighting as a guide on the weekends.
The guide---in his forties, tall, dark and with the authoritative air of a police officer--- picked us up in his car one Saturday morning. After giving us an excellent tour of the main historical attractions in the centre of Baku, he told us he was going to show us something that most tourists didn’t see because it was in a park a little way out of the old town. In the park was a famous sculpture in honour of Richard Sorge, the Soviet Union’s greatest spy.
As we drove to the park, he asked if we had heard of Sorge.
We had not.
He asked if we had heard of Tom Clancy, the writer.
We had, of course.
He said that Clancy had called Sorge the best spy of all time.
That was impressive.
The guide said that Sorge was born in Baku in 1895, the son of a German mining engineer and a Russian mother. The family returned to Germany soon after Sorge’s birth. In 1914 Sorge enlisted in the German army, was seriously wounded, discharged and entered university, where he received a PhD in Political Science.
He became a member of the German Communist Party and when his outspoken political views got him into trouble he fled to Moscow where he became a low-level intelligence agent with the Soviet Government.
Later he became part of the Red Army’s intelligence service and conducted spying missions around the world. He developed an incredible ability to win the confidence of important people and then steal their secrets.
In 1933, he was asked by Red Army officials to set up a spy network in Japan. Working in Japan supposedly as a German journalist, he had close relations with both the German Embassy and the Japanese government.
There is agreement that he managed to winkle out of the Germans and Japanese some critically important secrets that he passed on to Moscow. For example, he told Moscow about the plans for Pearl Harbour (Stalin didn’t pass that on to the US!). And he told Stalin that Japan did not plan to invade Russia. That information allowed Stalin to transfer troops from the far east of the Soviet Union to the west to fight and eventually defeat the German army.
The Japanese eventually caught Sorge (1944) and when their offer to exchange him for some Japanese spies that Moscow held was rejected---Stalin did not want to admit that the Soviet Union had been spying on Japan---he was hung.
After the war, the Soviet Union declared Sorge a national hero and streets and schools were named after him and many sculptures were commissioned.
Since Sorge was born in Baku, there had to be a sculpture in that city.
As we were nearing the park, the guide turned to us and asked us to imagine what kind of sculpture we would design to commemorate this heroic spy.
Pat and I thought and thought but couldn’t come up with anything but some kind of statue of the man.
“Just wait”, the guide said as we drove up to the park.
“There it is”, he said.
At the end of a 'grande allée' was a massive monument. We just gasped, “Oh my god!”
Now, I would like to ask the reader the same question the guide asked us? What kind of sculpture would you design?
Take a minute or two.
And then click on this link to see the Baku sculpture.
After you have seen the photo, please come back and I’ll tell you how the guide explained the symbolism of the sculpture.
In the meantime---just so your eyes don’t cheat and go to the explanation without checking out the link---I’ll tell another story about spies and Baku.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
When I was in Baku (and I’m sure it is even truer today) the city was awash in spies, all attracted by the international competition for the oil and gas reserves in the Caspian Sea.
Early in my stay in Baku, I shared a hotel elevator with two young Americans, a man and a woman who looked as though they were just out of university. When I asked what they were doing in Baku, they replied evasively, “Oh, just some liaison”.
New CIA recruits on their first assignment, I decided.
Later on, I was invited to a party with English, French, and German guests. Most of them had a plausible cover story explaining what they were doing in Baku, but one French fellow had such an improbable story that I leaned over to him and said, “You’re a spook, aren’t you?’
He looked at me with disdain as though I had just committed what text-messaging people call a BGO (a Blinding Glimpse of the Obvious).
He shrugged his Gallic shoulders. Of course, he was a spy. Why else would he be in a backwater town like Baku when he could be in glorious Paree?
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Now, back to the Sorge monument.
The guide explained that the designer, Yuri Dubov, decided that the essence of spying was watching. How better to commemorate the work of Sorge than by having a monument that was solely composed of eyes---alert, silent, sinister, haunting eyes.
I would like to have seen it at night, with the eyes illuminated from beneath. That must be a truly awesome sight.
By the way, there are some who believe that the hanging of Sorge was a mock-execution, and that he was smuggled back to the Soviet Union where he finished his days working as a spymaster for the KGB.
I think that’s unlikely.
But who knows, we are talking here about the world of espionage.
Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)
Last summer, a contractor started building a house beside us.
During much of the construction, the site was not fenced off. In the evenings, neighbourhood children, aged 6 to 10, would swarm over the site. They explored and moved things around but didn’t do any damage until one evening when a couple of them started throwing nails, boards and tools into the cellar.
The contractor called the police.
It didn’t take a police officer long to identify the kids who had been playing in the house. He lined them up in front of the contractor and lectured them about the crimes they had been committing and spoke about ‘jail’ if they didn’t behave. Then, he asked them each to apologize to the contractor and promise never to go on the property again.
With tears running down their cheeks, they made their apologies.
And, that was the end of problems at the house.
On Halloween, one of the culprits, a sunny-faced lad, called at our house for candy.
What was his costume?
Why, that of a police officer. Of course!
We are not sure what the moral of the story is, but there has to be one.
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See you next Sunday for Posting #32 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
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