POSTING #88

A Long Night in a Fergus Motel

Thanks to the internet, it is easy today for people to find reviews of hotels and motels. Websites like TripAdvisor usually offer helpful advice: ("Good hotel but ask for a room at the front because the garbage trucks arrive at the back at 4 am.").

In the 1980s, by contrast, we only had skimpy information about places to stay when Pat and I were planning a trip to visit my mother in Arthur. After asking friends for recommendations---no one had any suggestions---I decided to use the AAA guide and found a motel in Fergus (12 miles south of Arthur) that sounded all right.

It was not posh but I asked myself, 'it's only one night, what can go wrong'.

As it turned out, a lot could go wrong---so very wrong!

We checked in around 8 PM after driving from Ottawa.

The room, which was on the second floor overlooking the street, was a basic motel room---a double bed with a large, slightly askew print of a flamenco dancer above the bed-head, a bathroom (oddly, the size of a ballroom ,with a shower no tub) and a large colour television.

OK for one night.

Then we discovered that there were no   towels in the bathroom. I called the desk and 20 minutes later the clerk showed up with some thread-bare towels.

We tried to watch the television news but all we got was snow and static. The clerk came up---again after a delay---and discovered that someone had disconnected the cable.

We went to bed and slept soundly---until 11.30 when we were awakened by a fight in the street below our window. The beer parlours were emptying and some fellows were shouting, swearing and throwing punches at each other. This in Fergus!

After half an hour, the police came and sorted things out.

We had trouble getting back to sleep after all the excitement but finally drifted back into the land of nod.

Then at 1 AM we woke up again as a couple arrived in the room next to ours, talking loudly, laughing and banging into things.

Their bathroom was right behind our bed-head and we could hear everything---e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g!

The motel had made no attempt to provide any acoustic insulation. The epitome of 'paper thin walls'!

Things settled down for a bit and then the man rushed into the bathroom and began throwing up in the toilet.  (I apologize for using 'throwing up' instead of something more genteel like 'retching', or 'vomiting'. Believe me, my description is more apt.)

I could try to describe the sounds but you don't need that. I am sure you can imagine them.

Then we heard a sultry voice from the bedroom, "Why don't you come back to bed?"

"I will when I can get my head out of the toilet."

"Hurry, I've got a surprise for you."

"What kind of surprise?"

"Guess."

Showing that he was a fan of the Twenty Questions TV show of the time, he replied with a question that panelists on the show often used, "Is it bigger than a bread box?"

"You just come and I'll show you."

The shouted discussion went on and on. Finally, we turned on the TV to drown out the embarrassing conversation.

We eventually got back to sleep.

Feeling groggy after a terrible night, we went down to the dining room for breakfast.

I ordered the standard breakfast with two poached eggs on toast. The orange juice was watery with a Kool-Aid flavour, and the coffee was cool and weak.

Feeling glum about things, I was cheered up by the breakfast plate when it arrived. The bacon was crisp, and the poached eggs were large with high yokes.

This is more like it, I thought.

I started to cut into one of the eggs.

And it exploded.

In a flash, I had yoke on my tie and suit coat lapel, and a large, hot blob of egg just under my right eye.

I guess I let out a shout and everyone in the room turned to watch us.

A waitress rushed over.

When I told her that an egg had blown up, she shook her head. She said there was a new helper in the kitchen who didn't know that before cooking poached eggs in a microwave you had to puncture them with a pin. Otherwise, steam would build up in the egg and ...

I had never heard of poaching eggs in a microwave, or of the possible lethal consequences.

At checkout, I asked if I could see the manager, intending to give him some constructive feedback about our stay.

He was in his early 60s, tall, with carefully parted gray hair, dressed in a blue blazer and gray flannels. The blazer had a crest from some military unit---he had the air and bearing of a retired officer. Perhaps a major.

I explained that we hadn't had a very good stay and started to list the problems. He had an answer for everything.

No towels----"But you got some."

The TV didn't work---"But our man hooked it up."

There was a fight in the street---"But you can't expect us to be responsible for fights in the street."

There were noisy guests---"But we can't control the behaviour of guests."

I could see that I wasn't getting anywhere. He didn't show any real interest or concern. A note to the AAA was starting to form in my head.

But I carried on.

"And then at breakfast..." I started but he interrupted with a condescending air.

"And what happened at breakfast?"

"An egg blew up in my face", I said, pointing to the red welt under my eye.

What a change in him! It was as though a pin had punctured his pomposity.

We looked at each other for a time.

Then, he said that the motel would offer us a reduced rate for our next stay.

Trying my best to be civil, I told him there was no way we would ever come back.

He nodded, and offered a reduction for our stay, which I accepted.

Next to us in the parking lot, was a car with 'Just Married' messages soaped on all the windows.

Aha, we thought.

Our neighbours from next door. The wedding dinner had gone on too late, he had drunk too much. It all added up.

Strapped to the top of the car was a long, green canoe.

They were going on a camping honeymoon!

As we drove off, we hoped that there weren't any portages until the hangovers had worn off.

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Note: I can't find the motel on the internet and assume---if there is any justice---that it went broke. The next visit we stayed at a Fergus B&B---the excellent Breadalbane.

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See you on October 3rd for Posting #89 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 #87

Niagara's School Bus Shelters

One of the joys of living in the Niagara region is the architecture.

We love ambling along the streets of the Old Town in Niagara-on-the-Lake or dawdling along country roads checking out the design of the buildings, and speculating about when they were erected, who might have built them, and what the buildings tell us about the social and economic conditions of the time.

On a recent back-roads trip we started to pay attention to something we had noticed but never really appreciated---the little buildings that are used by children waiting for a school bus.

I have seen school bus shelters in other parts of the province but they have generally seemed to be slapped-together structures with no particular architectural heritage, unless perhaps that of the outdoor privy. 

We found eight shelters in the space of a couple of hours that showed planning and a concern for form as well as function.

I hope you enjoy the photos (enlarge by left-clicking on them) and descriptions of those shelters.

If there are shelters in your area that you feel are special, please send me a photo and a brief description, I would be pleased to feature them in an upcoming posting.

One point.

I have not shown any addresses for the shelters. One can't be too careful when it comes to the safety of children.

Shelter #1

This shelter echoes pioneer homes with its board and batten siding and cedar shingles. Notice the windows on three sides, each with a window box and flowers, and a window in the door. Notice as well the generous over-hang above the door to keep rain and snow off the little ones as they enter or leave the shelter.

Shelter #2 

This is a simpler structure, but note the pergola attached to the roof and supported by two posts. Our 1840s house in Grimsby had a pergola over the back deck that we loved. There is something very "Niagara" about pergolas. 

Judging from the weeds it would seem that the children have probably grown up, and this is now an empty-nest shelter.

Shelter #3

 This shelter fits in well with its surroundings and has some special touches. Notice the closed pediment held up by two green posts that are resting on a stoop. There is a light fixture above the door and the side windows are louvered with screens.

Shelter #4 

I'm not sure but this shelter may have started off life as a privy but has had windows inserted into the walls and the door. It looks a lot like the privies that hooligans were known to tip over on Halloween in Arthur (although we called the little buildings 'shanties', not privies). There seem to be steel rods going into the ground at the corners, perhaps as protection against some October 31 hi jinks. 

The roof slopes the wrong way to keep rain off the children but someone has thought to add a little eavestrough.

Shelter #5 

Now this is different! 

I call this hexagonal structure the 'Diefenbunker' shelter. (Younger readers may wish to click here to learn more about the Cold War bunker that was built outside Ottawa, near Carp. )

Notice the care that the builder had taken to inset the stuccoed walls. The door is missing but presumably it had a window for watching for the school bus. 

The straggly goldenrod around the doorway suggests that the children have decamped.

It would probably take a direct hit by a bomb to demolish this shelter.

So it sits by the road.

Shelter #6

This shelter has a generous-sized pergola and---a nice touch---- a bench so the children can sit under the pergola in good weather. 

Although the construction of the shelter is simple, even rustic, an attempt has been made to dress it up with flower boxes (with what seem to be artificial plants) as well as a weathered wreath. 

There is an attractive shrub behind the shelter. 

Shelter #7

This substantial and solidly-built shelter seems to be a triple-purpose structure. In addition to being a shelter, it also provides a place to hang the mail box, and is used as well for storage (some boxes are visible through the window).

It has had a recent paint job and is surrounded with beds and pots of flowers.

A young woman saw me taking pictures and came out to chat. She said her father had built the shelter about 12 years ago because school buses didn't want to wait while the children walked from the house. Her father had used materials from around the home, she said---"He's handy that way". 

Shelter #8

 This is the Taj Mahal of the shelters we found on our drive. 

It must have been designed by an architect---its proportions are just so perfect and its details so elegant.

Although it pays tribute to pioneer times with its board and batten siding and cedar shingles, it also has an open pediment, popular in England in the 18th century, supported by two white posts. Notice the full length side windows, with interior mullions. 

As I was taking pictures, a friend of the owner of the house pulled in behind our car and wanted to know, in a heavy accent, what we were doing. After I explained, he apologized and said, "I thought you maybe fake". 

(We look after our neighbours in the Niagara Region.)

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Pat tells me she has spotted some more shelters in her travels---further examples she says of the Niagara region's affection for the school bus shelter.

I may feature them in an upcoming posting, along with any submissions I receive from readers like you.

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See you on September 26th for Posting #88 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 #86

Taking Minutes in Prime Minister Trudeau's Cabinet

I am the secretary to one of the several committees that are organizing Niagara-on-the-Lake's celebrations for the bicentennial of the War of 1812 (block off your calendars for 2012. 2013, 2014 and 2015---there are going to be lots of booms and bangs going off in NOTL and even---perhaps---Pat and yours truly parading around in period costume!).

As I record the discussions and produce the 1812 minutes, I remember the period from 1970-73 when I worked in the Privy Council Office in Ottawa and regularly took minutes in the Trudeau cabinet.

It was a fascinating period in our history with the FLQ crisis, economic and international problems and huge influxes of young people and housewives into a labour market that was struggling.

There are many stories I could tell but the problem is that cabinet is like Vegas: what happens there, stays there.  (A difference is that after 30 years, secret cabinet decisions and minutes are declassified and opened to the public. I am not sure what happens to Vegas secrets---and have no desire to find out.)

So I have a problem. Although the decisions and minutes are now released, I am still bound by precedent not to talk about what went on in cabinet that isn't in the released documents.

This means that although the purpose of this blog is to tell stories I can't tell any stories about my work during that period.

I've decided, therefore, that this posting will be different. No stories, just a description of what it was like to go into cabinet meetings and take minutes.

I don't recall ever seeing an account of the taking of cabinet minutes--- I hope you will find it interesting.

In 1970, I was seconded from Manpower and Immigration to the Privy Council Office (PCO) as part of a career development program.

As a policy officer in the PCO's  Social Policy Secretary, my job was to analyze and offer comments on cabinet documents prepared by Ministers, documents that proposed some kind of action that required approval from Cabinet. 

The first step at that time for cabinet proposals was consideration in a committee of cabinet. In our case, that was the Social Policy Committee, chaired by one of the senior social policy ministers, with 6 or 8 other ministers. The Committee's decision was then passed on to the full cabinet for consideration.

I should point out that at that time, and probably still today, there were no tape recordings or verbatim shorthand accounts of the cabinet discussions. The only records---all classified Secret---were decisions and minutes prepared by PCO officers like myself.

Could I suggest that you join me in taking an imaginary trip into the cabinet room at that time? You can perch on my shoulder.

You and I are told to go into the cabinet room at, say, 10.45 AM when it is expected that the social policy items on which we have worked will be coming up for discussion.  Minute takers are normally in the cabinet room for about three-quarters of an hour, and then spelled off by a PCO colleague.

After climbing the stairs to the second floor of the Centre Block of the Parliament Buildings, we wait beside a heavy sound-proofed door until we hear the clock in the Peace Tower strike the quarter hour.

We open the outer door, then a felt-covered inner door and walk into the cabinet room.

Across the room, sitting at the centre of a large oval table is the Prime Minister, looking natty in a well-cut suit, with a rose in his button hole. The 30 or so ministers sitting around the table are positioned according to some arcane calculus that sums up the age and importance of their departments, their own personal importance and experience within the party, and the PM's preferences.

Behind, and off to the right of the Prime Minister's is the Secretary of the PCO, my ultimate boss, who is available to give advice to the PM if called upon, and to make sure that the minutes and decisions accurately capture the discussion.

On our immediate left is a small table against the wall, which has been set up for the minute takers.

We slide into the free chair, beside a PCO colleague who is scribbling points in a secretary's notebook. The minute taker points to an item on the agenda that belongs to his committee, and we realize that cabinet is running behind. The item under discussion has to do, let's say, with the purchase of some new equipment for the military, an issue about which he is an expert and we are not.

The minute taker whispers that the cabinet is not close to a decision. If cabinet had been close to a decision, her would have stayed to record it but instead he closes his notebook and leaves the room.

We are in trouble.

We will have to produce a decision for the item by the end of the day, on an issue that we haven't studied.

We open our secretary's notebook and try to record every comment of every minister---some of whom support the proposal and some of whom oppose it---and jot down a slew of often meaningless acronyms. We don't know what is germane, important or irrelevant, so we try to record everything.

Finally, the Prime Minister steps in and tells the ministers that he senses that there is a consensus---that proposals x, y and z should be approved.

We scribble that down.

The PM then moves to the next item, a social policy proposal--- let's say that the proposal is to amend the entitlement requirements for unemployment insurance (now called Employment Insurance)---and invites the minister responsible to introduce it.

After the minister's introduction, the proposal is opened for general discussion. The debate is lively---all ministers have to deal with unemployment insurance issues raised by their constituents.

We are writing less frantically than on the previous item because we know this issue well and can use short-hand to capture the main arguments. Minister are asking serious questions and making substantive comments about the proposal.

At one point, a minister suggests that if cabinet approves the proposal, the Opposition will attack the government, and he mentions one or two arguments they will make.

Other ministers immediately join in, suggesting ways in which the government could spike the guns of the Opposition.

This is a tricky time for a minute taker. We are career public servants and professionally a-political.

We put down our pen, study our notes or our finger nails---in general we try to pretend that we are not there.

Political discussions are supposed to take place in what was called at that time (and perhaps still is) the Political Cabinet, with no public servants present----the records were kept by political staff from the Prime Minister's Office.

Although we pretend not to be following the discussion, we enjoy it. First, it lets us relax our writing muscles. And second, although we are a-political, we are interested in politics.  It is fun to be on the inside listening to what ministers have to say. And it is obvious that the ministers are enjoying the discussion as well. As everyone says, politicking is fun but governing is hard.

The PM allows the discussion to go on for a few minutes, almost it seems as a reward for all the serious and substantive work ministers have been doing in the meeting. then, he suggests that the issue be held over for the next Political Cabinet.

Having had what almost seems like a kind of recess, ministers move quickly through the rest of the social policy items.

Our 45 minutes of note taking is up and the door opens as our replacement comes in. We point to the item being discussed, close the notebook and leave the room.

We go back to our small office on the ground floor of the East Block and begin to sketch out the decisions in long hand. When we have a draft, we call colleagues and departmental officials to make sure we have understood the issues, and then give the drafts to a secretary to type (this was long before word processing!).

The decisions have to be ready in final, typed format before we---or the secretary---can leave for the day.

On the other hand, we have a few days to write the minutes, which set out the major points made in the discussions leading to the decisions.

(Click here for the National Archives site that contains a copy of a four page cabinet document that I helped write---this one discusses the student employment program for 1972.) 

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So that's what it was like to be a minute taker in cabinet in the 1970-73 period.

In that assignment and in my other work in Ottawa, I learned to appreciate the enormous burden that our parliamentary system places on ministers. They have to run departments, defend their departments in the daily question period, participate in cabinet discussions, get re-elected, help other members of parliament in their province get re-elected, and on and on.

Working at the PCO was a high pressure job with many late nights. By Friday evening, I would be totally exhausted, but ministers would be travelling home to their constituencies to spend the weekend attending fall fairs, church socials, legion gatherings---you name it.

I was---and still am--- astounded at the sheer stamina it takes to be a successful minister.

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Thinking of the demands placed on our ministers and how hard it often is for them to say 'no' reminds me of two stories.

Years ago, as I did my noon-time laps in the Chateau Laurier swimming pool, a well-known minister was toiling back and forth a few lanes away. On two occasions, one of his aides tapped him on the shoulder as he prepared to make a turn.

Each time they discussed some issue for a couple of minutes, and then the minister went back to his swim. I've often wondered what was important and urgent enough to interrupt a minister's bit of relaxation.

Probably, I guess, some issue that was going to be raised in the 2 PM question period.

Winston Churchill, on the other hand, seems to have been able to say 'no'.

This story was told by a friend, now deceased, who swore that it was true. He was a great fan of Churchill and had read almost everything written by or about the great man. I am therefore inclined to believe that the story actually took place.

According to the story, Churchill was sitting on a toilet at 10 Downing Street during World War II when an aide shouted through the bathroom door that a certain Labour  minister from the Coalition (Conservative-Labour) Government wanted to see him right away.

Although the minister was effective in running his ministry he was an unpleasant, sanctimonious fellow, whom Churchill disliked.

Churchill is reported to have roared through the door, "Tell him I can only deal with one sh-t at a time."

Now that's how you do it!

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See you on September 19th for Posting #87 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 #85

More Problems with Tickets

As I was writing last week's posting (#84) about some missing Phantom of the Opera tickets, I remembered another story about tickets.

Twenty or so years ago, Pat and I were planning a holiday with friends at their summer cottage in Gloucester, Massachusetts, about forty-five kilometres north-east of Boston, on Cape Ann.

We decided that it would be fun to take our friends to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park---if we could get decent tickets.

We knew that Red Sox  fans were fanatical and tickets for home games went quickly. Luckily, one of our sons was doing graduate work in Boston area at the time, so we asked him---well in advance---if he could get tickets and accompany us to the game. He stood in line and managed to get 5 great tickets.

I can't remember who was playing the Red Sox, but the game wasn't that important. What was important was getting inside Fenway Park.

When I was a teen-ager, I played short-stop for the Arthur baseball team (we called it 'hardball' to distinguish it from 'softball'). Our coach, John Walsh, a local pharmacist, loved baseball and although his favourite team was the Cleveland Indians he also liked the Red Sox and their historic and quirky home field, Fenway Park.

As a coach John drilled us in the skills of fielding, hitting and base running but he also stressed the strategy of the game.  We had to keep asking, 'What's the best way of playing this pitcher, this hitter, this field?'

He told us that each of the major league parks had its own personality and the managers had to adapt their game plans to take account of the individualities of the lighting, the  foul lines, the distance to the right, centre and left field fences, and on and on.

No field had more quirks than Fenway Park.

Built in 1912, it soon became too small to house all the fans needed to pay the costs of a major league team. Over time, additional seating was added, which often meant changes to the shape of the playing surface.

I would lie in bed at night listening to American stations broadcasting games. When the game was in Boston, the announcers would talk about Fenway being 'a hitters park' because the right field fence was only 302 feet from home plate. In left field there was not a fence but 'The Wall', now called 'The Green Monster', which was only slightly further from home plate.

Hit 'The Wall" and you had yourself a home run.

As I lay in bed, I tried to visualize Fenway and how the two opposing managers would try to take advantage of its peculiarities.

Now, with good tickets in hand, I was really looking forward to seeing the inside of Fenway.

Unfortunately, at the last minute our friends couldn't come to the game.

So, we had two spare tickets.

Being a country bumpkin from Arthur, I assumed that I could just go to a wicket at Fenway and get a refund. We had heard that the game was sold out so the club wouldn't have any trouble re-selling our tickets.

That was not the way things worked.

The official at the wicket told me that ticket sales were final, no refunds.

"What am I supposed to do?", I asked.

"Well", he said, "it is illegal to re-sell Red Sox tickets but you could give them to a policeman." He explained that the police had a benevolent fund and money from donated tickets was used to help the widows and orphans of police officers.

That sounded like a good cause, so I wandered over to a policeman and offered him the two spare tickets.

He shook his head, saying that the police no longer re-sold tickets. That was done by the Boston Fire Department. I should find a fireman and give him the tickets.

There was about an hour to game time, but I was getting antsy about finding our seats, in a park we had never visited before, and having time to study the park before the game started.

I walked away from the policeman, scanning the crowds around the entrances for a fireman.

No fireman.

Just then a young fellow touched my elbow. Motioning for me to bend down, he said in my ear, "I heard you talking to the cop back there. Do you have spare tickets for to-night's game?"

I explained that I had two but that I was trying to find a fireman to whom I could give them.

"There ain't no firemen around here. Can I see the tickets?'

I showed him the tickets.

"How much do you want for them?"

Whoops!

A scalper!

I guess I had lived a sheltered life. I had never had any dealings with scalpers, either buying or selling.

Looking at the young fellow, I noticed that he had a buddy. They were in their early 20s, with Red Sox caps, light jackets and running shoes. The one talking to me had a street-savvy look as he managed to keep an eye on the policemen at the same time as he was talking. The other one, slightly taller and bigger, didn't look too bright. 

What to do?

I  finally decided that I had tried to do the right thing, that there didn't seem to be much chance of finding a fireman any time soon, and therefore I might just as well try to recover some of my money.

That is, break the law and sell the tickets.

I know.

I am not proud of my slippery rationalization.

"How much do you want for them?, the savvy one repeated.

I looked at the face price of the tickets and decided to round it up a bit.

The scalper responded that game time was getting close and that he mightn't be able to unload them. He suggested a lower price.

We haggled a bit, with the scalper keeping his eye on the policeman. Eventually we agreed on a price.

The scalper told his friend to give me the money. The fellow reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some bills while the scalper used his body to block the policeman's view.

I started to reach for my billfold to put the money away.

"Don't take out your billfold", the scalper hissed at me, pointing with his eyes at the policeman and giving me a look that said, 'How stupid can you get'.

I handed the tickets over to the scalper and stuffed the bills in my pocket.

The fellows melted into the crowd.

Later on, in the stands we found we were sitting beside two young, well-dressed fellows, perhaps from one of the high tech firms along Highway 128 outside of Boston.

I wondered---but didn't ask---how much they had paid for their tickets.

But I knew whom they had paid!

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A final story about tickets.

As soon as tickets went on sale for  the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, a friend bought a  single ticket for the final---the gold medal---hockey game (his wife is not a fan).

For $500.

He joked that although he hoped that the game would be between Canada and Russia or perhaps Canada and the US, he realized that the game could be between two less interesting countries, say, Sweden and Slovakia.

He was prepared to take the risk.

Of course, as things turned out the game was between Canada and the US.

On his way into the arena, his ticket in hand, a scalper offered him $10,000 for it.

He didn't pause, just kept on moving.

Telling us about the game later on, he could hardly describe the waves of emotion that swept over him and the other spectators as the game went back and forth, and then into overtime, with Canada finally winning. He says that it was one of his life's greatest thrills.

His wife says she would have taken the $10,000. (Pat says, "U betcha!)

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See you on September 12th for Posting #86 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.