POSTING #84

Tickets to the Phantom of the Opera

For a number of years at our Ottawa bed and breakfast, Blue Spruces, we had three guests each December from the Maritimes who came to sell their goods at the annual Ottawa Christmas Craft Sale, held at nearby Lansdowne Park.

Sadie and Alice worked together to design and produce silk-screen items and Scott crafted hand-turned hardwood bowls (I have changed their names). In their 50s, the three had had a variety of life experiences before ending up in the crafters' world, a world that could be satisfying artistically but not always very rewarding financially.

We enjoyed having them with us. They were kind, thoughtful, hardworking people who enjoyed a bit of fun. We rejoiced with them when sales were good and commiserated with them when they weren't

At the end of one show, they would always book rooms for the next December.

In August of one year, Scott phoned to say that he would be bringing his wife---whom we had never met although we felt we knew because Scott spoke about her often---in December. An important anniversary was coming up, and he was trying to plan a very special evening. He said that he would like them to have a fine dinner and then go to the Phantom of the Opera at the National Arts Centre---his wife loved the Phantom.

Scott knew that in my travelling as a consultant, I used an American Express card. He said he had heard that holders of that card could use something called, the 'Front of the Line' to reserve choice seats that were not available to the general public.

Could I buy two really good tickets?

Of course.

I bought two tickets in the Orchestra section, in the middle of a row, near the stage.

Excellent seats.

When I brought the tickets home, Pat and I had a brief discussion about where to store them for the 4 months until December. We talked about what would be a 'good safe place'. We agreed on a place and Pat stored them.

It was a busy autumn with many guests, plus some consulting work, so we didn't spend any time thinking about the tickets.

Then, a week before the Craft Show was to start, we decided that we should dig out the tickets and have them ready to give to Scott.

When we began the search for the tickets, we realized that we had forgotten which 'good safe place' we had chosen.

But no problem. They were probably in the silver teapot---a favourite place for storing things.

Not there.

We then looked in the 58 other tea pots.

Why would we have a total of 59 tea pots, you may ask? C'mon, how many shoes did that Imelda Marcos have---3000?

Tea pots are warm and cosy, and speak of home, hearth and hospitality.

Besides they can be irresistibly attractive, sitting on an antique store shelf with an expression that says, 'Come, buy me, and I will make your life complete'.

We once had a young woman from Australia who stayed with us for a month while she was on some kind of exchange with Agriculture Canada. She loved tea, and Pat served it in a different pot every morning, including one that played 'An English Country Garden', when it was lifted off the table---I must say that that brought forth a few choice Australian oaths from the startled woman.

But the tickets weren't in the tea pots.

This was getting serious.

Systematically, we emptied the sideboards, bureaus and cupboards in the living room, the dining room and the kitchen.

Still, no tickets.

Finally, I called the National Arts Centre and explained our problem. The clerk said she could offer a good-news-bad-news solution. The good news was that since we had our Amex receipt, she could issue new tickets for the two seats. The bad news was that they would be stamped 'Duplicate'. If persons showed up with the original tickets, they would have to be given the seats.

So, Scott wouldn't have a problem if we had simply misplaced, or accidentally destroyed the original tickets.

On the other hand, if someone had taken the tickets---a theft that we hadn't detected--- and sold or gave them away, then Scott and his wife could find their special, anniversary evening ruined.

I got the duplicate tickets and we put them on a desk in plain view---no more 'good safe places'.

Pat and I talked about how we would break the news to Scott. We couldn't come up with a strategy that seemed sure-fire, and decided that we would just wing it.

Sadie and Alice checked in the day before Scott and his wife were due. After some warm hugs, and some catch-up stories, Sadie said they had met Scott at a craft show in the Maritimes and he had told them about how we were helping him organize a wonderful evening for his wife. She said it was good of us to have bought the tickets.

Pat and I looked at each other and silently agreed to come clean.

After swearing them to secrecy, we told them the story, and ended by saying: "Please, please don't tell Scott. We want to break the news to him ourselves."

The next day Scott and his wife arrived in Ottawa, went directly to Lansdowne Park to unload their van, and then came to the B&B.

While his wife went to the bedroom to unpack, Scott told us that he had met Sadie and Alice at Lansdowne Park and they had told him something quite mysterious. They said that he should ask us about the tickets. They wouldn't tell him any more, just that he should ask us about the tickets.

Damn those women!

We sat him down in the living room, gave him a cup of tea, and told him the story.

He took it better than we had hoped--- I guess craftspeople have to be resilient.

On the night of the dinner and show, they came downstairs looking elegant, but with some tiny worry lines around their eyes. Would they have seats for the Phantom?

We went to bed with our fingers crossed,

The next morning, we just had to look at their faces to know that the evening had been a great success. Apparently, the dinner was superb, and no one had shown up at the National Arts Centre to claim their seats. Scott's wife said that the Phantom was spectacular, breathtaking.

Pat and I were so relieved that we couldn't stay angry at Sadie and Alice, who to give them credit did manage to look a little bit guilty.

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We have moved three times since Blue Spruces and in all that packing and unpacking the tickets have never shown up.

We no longer put tickets in a 'good safe place'. We pin them to a bulletin board, and haven't lost a single one.




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See you on September 5th for Posting #85 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@gmail.com

POSTING #83

"A Hectic End-of-Week Schedule"

In a note at the beginning of last's week's posting, I mentioned that the posting would be uploaded earlier than usual because I was expecting "a hectic end-of-week schedule".

Me and my big mouth!

If he had heard me, my Russian friend Yuri, would have told me to touch wood and spit seven times over my left shoulder.

He would have said that I was tempting the fates to make the weekend a whole lot worse than 'hectic'.

And Yuri would have been right.

It was to be a pleasant, if busy, weekend in London, Ontario at an exhibition of quilts created by the women of Gee's Bend, Alabama. 

For decades, the dirt-poor, but proud, African-American women have been making quilts out of old clothes, sheets and other fabrics, sometimes for beds but often to be nailed to the inside of the walls of their wooden shacks to block the winter winds.

The quilts were practical but that wasn't enough.

They had to be pretty as well.

(Click here for a  sample of their quilts. I know it t is a pain to have to follow a link and then come back to the blog. I tried to find some public domain images that I could include in the blog, but couldn't. Trust me, these quilts are something very special and worth the trouble of following the link and then returning.)  

In the 1930s, the outside world 'discovered' the artistry and feeling of Gee's Bend quilts and they have been exhibited in New York, and many other American cities.

Now was a chance for Canadians to see a hundred or so of these quilts, talk to some of the women, and watch them work.

We drove to London on Thursday and checked in at the London Hilton, the convention hotel.

We then set off on an hour and a half drive to see a play at the Blyth Festival. After dinner at a restaurant near Wingham I started to feel unwell.

I had been nursing a self-diagnosed low-grade infection for a week---symptoms: feeling cruddy, with a cough and some over-activity in the downstairs plumbing.

We decided, reluctantly, to skip the play and to return to London for  a good night's sleep---that would surely finish off the bug, whatever it was.

At 3 A.M., the bug seemed to be winning and we took off for the Victoria Hospital Emergency Department (part of the London Health Sciences Centre), the first of three trips there during the weekend---one of them by ambulance.

If you don't mind I will pull one of those hospital privacy curtains around the details of what happened, all that prodding, those tests, the waiting, and so on.

The upshot was that I had a severe urinary tract infection, similar to the one that plagued me seven years ago in Baku, Azerbaijan.

By Sunday, the infection and the temperature were in retreat and I was declared well enough to travel back to Virgil---with packets of pills, of course.

I'm feeling much better (touch wood and spit), and our GP is now scheduling tests to see why the bug has recurred.

So what is the learning in all of this.

Firstly, and most importantly, a husband should listen to his wife when he is not feeling well, and for god's sake, GO AND SEE  THE DOCTOR.

Secondly, if one gets ill in London, go to the Victoria Emergency Department. Wow, they are good! Caring, thoughtful, and professional, they are able to somehow juggle a range of patients from bored prisoners at the local jail who fake heart pains, to street people, to run-of-the-mill people like yours truly who are sick and scared.

Thirdly, try to be staying at the London Hilton. Everyone from the Manager, to the dining room staff, to the doorman in his Tower of London Beefeater costume offered AND provided help, and kept asking how I was.

Fourthly, there is a special place up above for the friends who came to the hospital to sit with Pat.

Fifthly, I have a couple of technical points. Drugstore digital thermometers don't 'beep' loudly enough to be heard by persons with sluggish hearing. I am going to invent a thermometer that vibrates when it is 'cooked'.

Another point. Young interns, residents and nurses have been taken captive by the Celsius system and can't be counted upon to have an immediate appreciation of the significance of a temperature of, say, 101.5 F. The options are to seek out a person with a little silver in the hair, wait while conversion tables are consulted, or learn to use the Celsius system (I know, you can't teach an old dog...).

So that was last weekend.

Poor Pat was able to spend only a few minutes at the exhibition. I didn't see any of it, and we both missed the Gala Dinner and Concert.

But if life is partly about collecting experiences, we did pretty well.

As Pat said on the way home, "I think there is a blog in all of this."

And you know, she was right---again.



P.S.

(I should note that this posting is also being uploaded a little earlier than usual---in this case because of a soccer tournament involving one of our granddaughters.)

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See you on August 29th for Posting #84 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@gmail.com.

POSTING #82

Note: Given a hectic end-of-week schedule, I will upload this posting on Wednesday, August 11, instead of Sunday, August 15. Fates willing, I will get back on schedule for the following posting, which will appear on Sunday, August 22. (And life in retirement was supposed to be calm and predictable!)

My Love Affair with the Rolls-Royce

As far as I can recall, my love affair with Rolls-Royces began in 1961 when Gordon Sinclair bought a Rolls-Royce.

For younger readers, Sinclair (1900-1984) was a boisterous, bigger-than-life, opinionated, irreverent and usually entertaining fellow who had a news program on Toronto's CFRB and was a panelist on the popular CBC TV program Front Page Challenge. Click here for more about him.


He often talked on air about his new car, about how he enjoyed cruising up Highway 11 (Yonge Street) in the luxurious car to his Muskoka cottage.

My love was further stoked by the brilliant David Ogilvie advertisement for the Rolls-Royce that included the statement, "At 60 miles an hour the loudest noise comes from the electric clock...".

In 1963, we lived for a short time in a mews house in the Mayfair area of London. Parked in a lane near our house was a splendid Rolls-Royce with the licence number 'VAT 69' (no prize for guessing which company the owner controlled). I drooled over it each morning on my way to work.

I imagined what it would be like to slide onto the glove-soft leather seat, caress the burled walnut dashboard, and then start the engine.

Dreams!

Let's come forward to the summer of 1992. A man, in his early 70s dressed in stylish summer clothes, came to the door of our Bed and Breakfast, Denwycke House at Grimsby, said his battery was dead and asked if we could give him a jump start.

One of our sons was visiting at the time and he offered to use his venerable but reliable K car for the jump start. As our son drove his car onto the road, the man and I walked up our long driveway. He said that he and his wife had just had an excellent lunch at an expensive (and very good) winery restaurant---and then this happened, the car stopped.

When we got to the end of the driveway, there was his car.

I didn't believe it.

A Rolls-Royce!

It was a recent model, sleeker than the high, somewhat boxy models of the period after WWII. But it had the famous grill and the RR logo.

And it probably cost around $350,000.

Our son started to pull his car in front of the Rolls-Royce so the two engine compartments would be together but the man gestured for him to pull in behind his car. Turns out the Rolls-Royce had its battery located below the floor of the trunk (boot).

The owner pulled back a corner of the thick carpet that covered the floor of the trunk, lifted a lid and there was the battery.

He then hooked up the starter cables to our son's car and, looking at the Rolls-Royce's battery, asked, "I wonder which is the positive terminal?'

Neither our son or I could see any symbols on the terminals and said so.

"Oh well", the man said, "let's try this."

He touched one of the cable clips to a terminal.

Bam!----there was a bright yellow and blue flash.

"Not that one, I guess", he said as he jumped back.

When he had the cables correctly connected, our son started his car and the man went into his car and turned the key. The Rolls-Royce responded with a rich purr.

The owner thanked us for our help, and disconnected the cables.

The Rolls-Royce died.

We tried jump starting once more, and again the car stalled as soon as the cables were removed.

"I think the battery must be dead", the man said, "Could you drive me to the Canadian Tire and I'll get a new one?"

No problem.

It was a hot summer day, so we arranged for his wife---about the same age as her husband and also very well dressed---to wait in our air-conditioned B and B with Pat, as we drove to the Canadian Tire store. (Pat and the wife had a nice cup of tea.)

The auto parts section was busy so we had to wait our turn.

When a clerk was free, the conversation between him and the Rolls-Royce owner went something like this:

"What can I do for you?'

"My battery is dead. I need a new one."

"What size is it?"

"Well, it is about this by this" (gesturing with his hands to show the length and width).

The clerk looked at him like a kindergarten teacher might look at a particularly slow pupil.

Then, "OK... what kind of car is it?"

"A Rolls-Royce."

"A Rolls-Royce!"

All the conversations around the parts desk stopped, and heads swivelled to look at the Rolls-Royce owner.

The clerk scratched his head.

"Where is the car?'

I gave him our address.

"How be we do this. We let you have a loaner battery. You hook it up to your battery with cables and then drive the car in here. We'll have a look at your battery and see what we can do."

Back at the B and B, the man hooked up the loaner battery and the Rolls-Royce purred.

I went back to the house to get his wife. She thanked us for our help---as had her husband---and, leaning over, confided, "Thank god we own a company that has a flat bed truck. We are always loading up that car and taking it back to the dealer."

And that was that.

I guess one could say that my enthusiasm for Rolls-Royces had been diminished a bit.

But not totally.

Not too long ago, I was looking at a website that listed luxury cars. There was a Rolls-Royce, in Florida, that had been seized by the police from a drug dealer. The description was lush, and I found myself salivating as I read about the interior fittings. I could smell that rich leather.

The price was not unreasonable, about the same as a good-sized, new SUV.

I started to think about how I could start a post-retirement business offering a quality, Rolls-Royce limousine service for weddings, proms, anniversary dinners and other big events.

I could get a chauffeur's uniform and one of those hats with a shiny peak.

That sort of thing.

And then I got to the last line of the description: "To be sold 'As is'".

Now as you know, Pat and I have down-sized, and we are fresh out of flat bed trucks.

My fantasy fizzled out.

I still love to look at Rolls-Royces but have decided to let other people have the joy of owning one.

A post-script.

As you probably know, Rolls-Royce has been taken over by BMW. I feel sure that the reliability of the cars will improve.

If BMW would like, I would be prepared to test drive one of their new models for, say, a year or two, and then give the world my impressions.

Just a thought.

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See you on August 22nd for Posting #83 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@gmail.com.

POSTING #81

The Toronto Parkdale Public Library

Watching TV coverage of last weekend's flamboyant Caribana party in Toronto made me think of the 1967 changes in Canada's Immigration Policy, and of the Toronto Parkdale Public Library.

Have I totally lost you?

Could you let me have a few minutes (paragraphs) to explain the thought processes that caused me to link  Caribana, Immigration Policy and the Parkdale library?

A TV station interviewed a Caribana onlooker, a woman from Miami, who said that her city had an annual Caribbean festival that she always enjoyed. But friends had told her she had to go to Toronto for Caribana. The friends were right---Caribana was in a different class altogether.

Recently, an American blogger called Toronto the coolest city in North America.

Back in the 1960s, I don't think anyone would have called Toronto 'cool' (or whatever the 1960s equivalent was for 'cool'---'neat?', 'laidback'?).

Toronto was sensible, polite, law-abiding.

Toronto the good.

Not 'cool'.

The 1967 Immigration Policy legislation changed all that.

Pat and I and the family returned to Canada in 1966 after our postings in Leeds and London, and I was given educational leave so I could study for a  Master's degree.

From time-to-time I would take time off from classes and visit my Immigration friends in Manpower and Immigration to catch up on what was happening.

A lot was going on.

The Minister, Jean Marchand, and his Deputy Minister, Tom Kent, were proposing to Cabinet that Canada's immigration policy---which had been anchored to citizenship and place of birth and favoured persons of European extraction---should ignore nationality and instead be based on a points system (education, occupation, language skills, personal suitability etc).

There was no doubt in the minds of my colleagues that these policy initiatives would dramatically change the mix of immigration to Canada and therefore of the ethnic composition of Canada.  

Some of them were worried about the impact on Canadian society, about how  Canada, and especially the large cities, would cope with the influx of non-traditional immigrants.

One person wondered whether there might be riots in Toronto in 10 years time, with 'old' Canadians battling 'new' Canadians.

No one would claim that the integration of persons from non-traditional countries has been free of stresses and strains. There have been, and remain, many challenges.

But there have been no riots of old against new.

There are many reasons for this. Government and private sector programs, including multi-cultural and language training programs, have helped as have laws against discrimination.

Laws promoting employment equity have also been important. As a digression, I was in Toronto a few months ago at the same time as a  major Sikh celebration and parade. I was struck by how many of the Toronto Police officers directing traffic had obvious origins in the Indian sub-continent---men and women, constables and senior officers.

But another important---although often ignored---contributor to the integration of newcomers has been the Canadian public library system.

Which brings me to the Parkdale Library at. 1303 Queen St. West, in Toronto.

See, everything links up!

I started visiting the Parkdale Library several years ago to pass the time while Pat was shopping across the street at the Designer Fabric Outlet, one of the world's largest and greatest fabric stores. (I am told that an indication of its pre-eminence in the fabric world is that knowledgeable Canadian and American clothing designers and interior designers refer to it simply as 'The DFO'.)

During my first few visits to the library, I read a book, or drafted a report but I gradually found myself getting absorbed by things going on around me.

The patrons were the young, the old, the unemployed, the affluent, the homeless, and everything in between.

Although the main ethnic groups served by the library seem to be Chinese and Tamil---judging by the collections of books, newspapers, periodicals and digital material devoted to these groups---there are patrons from every ethnic origin imaginable.

It cannot be easy providing service to such a diverse clientele. Yet, during every visit I watched as the library staff treated the library users with courtesy and respect, and resolved issues with civility and a smile---issues that could easily have become ugly.

As I observed events unfolding in the library I came to realize that public libraries, and the Parkdale Library in particular, play two roles. One of the roles---the ostensible one---is to make available all kinds of information to the public, while the other---the unarticulated one---is to inculcate, by example, Canadian values.

Let me explain.

In terms of information and assistance, Parkdale offers all the usual kinds of information services---from books, periodicals, digital material to internet access. It also offers movies (this is a low-income area) for adults and teens, Homework Help for Teens, a quiet study hall (for students living in crowded apartments). And, in partnership with the Parkdale Community Information Centre, it offers  English language training and Peer Tutoring.

The inculcation of values by example, is a little harder to describe, but it is real.

A few examples may help make my point.

The staff members gently but firmly enforce the notion of waiting one's turn, there is no jumping the queue. A basic Canadian value.

Another example.

A mother, probably from an African country, came into the library with two children, a toddler and a baby. Sitting at a table, she pulled a video out of her bag and asked the toddler to take it to the person at the desk.

The young fellow started off on this important mission with the video clutched tightly to his chest. Unfortunately, the video box was upside down and the video slid out onto the floor. The boy's face clouded over, as he looked first at his mother and then at the person at the desk. Moving quickly, the clerk picked up the video and slipped it into the box. Then he leaned down, said 'thank you'  and gave the little boy a big smile.

The mother beamed. And the little boy smiled.

A small thing, but important.

Yet another example.

A young woman at a computer is getting frustrated. A staff member walking past spots the problem, and leans over to give advice and encouragement. The young woman relaxes, her problem solved.

And one more example.

The library has two public washrooms, just inside the front entrance. They are always busy, with street people and library users.

Working in many countries, I've seen and used almost every kind of public washroom imaginable,. Too often, they were untidy and unhealthy. left that way by people who didn't feel any sense of personal responsibility for the condition of the facilities. 

By comparison, the Parkdale Library's washrooms are remarkably clean and hygienic.

I am sure that the condition of the washrooms is largely due to the good work of the Library's cleaners but it seems to me, based on my experience of entering freshly vacated washrooms, that users also show greater respect for the facilities than one would find in many countries.

By keeping washrooms clean, the library encourages newcomers to understand that that is how we do things in Canada.

A final example.

The library offers a free Wi-Fi service and encourages people to bring their computer and a cup of coffee, and to work at one of the tables.

And it promises not to turf them out when the coffee cup is empty!

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So, that's it.

As you can see, I really like the Parkdale Library.

It can't be an easy branch to manage or to work in. There must be times when the staff dream about working in  a branch located in a less diverse setting.

But the Parkdale Library is 'where the action is' when it comes to helping newcomers learn to live with the rest of us.

To the librarian and staff: Thank you for your wonderful work!!

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See you on August 15th for Posting #82 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@gmail.com.