POSTING #134

Note: Although the weather this fall has been unseasonably mild, the calendar insists that winter is fast approaching. I am feeling strong ancestral urgings to put the tools away in the barn, and push my feet into the oven for at least part of the winter---as I did last year.

This, therefore, will be the last Letter from Virgil Posting until February 12, 2012.

Pat and I wish readers a wonderful holiday season!

See you in February.

Niagara-on-the-Lake and the Bicentennial of the War of 1812-15

This is the official logo for the 1812 Bicentennial that is now appearing on souvenirs of all kinds, everything from hats to key chains.

For the last year or so, I have been working as a volunteer secretary to one of the committees organizing events for Niagara-on-the-Lake's 1812 Bicentennial. We have an excellent website that describes in colourful detail what will happen over the next three years. 

But I thought it might be helpful to provide a secretary's distillation of what, in my view, are likely to be the key events, events that you might like to consider attending.

On January 1, 2012,  the Ontario Lieutenant Governor, the Honourable David Onley, will hold his New Year's Levee, not in Toronto, but in Fort George, here in NOTL

United States President Madison declared war on Great Britain on June 18, 1812  and instructions were sent to the US military to invade Upper Canada. On the weekend of June 15, 16, and 17, 2012, the Bicentennial gets its official kickoff with grand opening celebrations we are calling the DECLARATION OF WAR! 

There will be a Military Ball in honour of General Brock put on by our Museum on the evening of June 16th. There will be a rich assortment of military and other events during Saturday and Sunday.

On July 13, 14, 15, 2012, in the Niagara River below Fort George there will be an event called The Navy of 1812: Sailors on the Lakes with at least 7 tall ships and 20 large bateaux.

Then the fighting starts!

In July, August, and September of 1812, there were some interesting and significant battles in other parts of the Great Lakes (for example, on August 16, 1812, General Brock persuaded the commandant of  Fort Detroit, General Hull, to surrender by pretending that he had far more troops than he in fact had)  but it was the Battle of Queenston Heights on October 13, 1812 that convinced the residents of Upper Canada that the Americans were not invincible. A recent book makes this point in its title, "12 Hours That Saved a Country" 

There will be a re-staging of this battle during the weekend of October 12 and 13, 2012 with over a thousand re-enactors coming from Canada and the US. It may be hard to get a position near the battle because of the tens of thousands of visitors expected but there will be lots to see in NOTL, especially in and around Fort George----and of course there will also be the Shaw!!

There will be a re-enactment of Brock's funeral on October 14th with his 'body' being carried on a horse-drawn wagon from the site of the battle in Queenston to a ceremonial 'burial' in Fort George.

In May 1813, the war turned against Upper Canada. The Americans, returning with stronger forces and better generals, captured Fort George, and occupied what is now Niagara-on-the-Lake.

In June 1813 in Queenston, Laura Secord overheard American officers, who had commandeered her house, planning an attack on the British/Canadian forces near the site of today's Brock University. Her famous walk through the bush and up the escarpment to warn the British/Canadian troops will be celebrated on June 22, 2013 with the Laura Secord Bicentennial Event and Walk.

To mark the Occupation of NOTL, Canadian flags will be taken down in May 2013, and only US flags of the period will be flown. Students dressed as US soldiers will patrol the streets of NOTL giving out leaflets telling the 'occupied' citizens how they must behave (e.g. no union jacks, no subversive toasts to the king etc.). Canadian and American tourists should enjoy this.

In December 1813 the tide of battle turned,  as British and Canadian forces fought their way back to NOTL. On December 10th, the US forces, frightened by the advancing troops, abandoned Fort George and fled across the Niagara River to Fort Niagara. Before fleeing, they burned almost all the homes and businesses in NOTL and Queenston, leaving the residents without shelter at the start of a hard winter.

On December 7, 2013, we will be staging a Son et Lumière, "Niagara on Fire", at the NOTL Courthouse with videos depicting the burning of the towns and the hardship caused to the residents.

Both Canadian and American historians agree that the burning of NOTL was a colossal military blunder. It can be argued that if the Battle of Queenston Heights convinced the residents of Upper Canada that the forces of the US were not invincible, then the burning of NOTL and Queenston convinced them that they had no choice but to expel the invaders, and build a separate nation.

The War of 1812 was ended by the signing of the Treaty of Ghent by Britain and the US on December 24th. The treaty was ratified by the US Congress on February 16, 1815.

Although the treaty wasn't ratified until February 1815, peace was effectively restored in the Niagara Peninsula in the summer of 1814. We have decided therefore to commemorate the signing at some point in September 2014 (dates not yet decided) when the weather will be more pleasant. This will be an enormous Bi-National event to celebrate 200 years of peace, with, we hope, the President of the US and the Prime Minister of Canada.

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Niagara-on-the-Lake is not a big town---only 15,000 souls---but it loves its history and it thinks big.

The next three years are going to be exciting!

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If you would like to learn more about the War of 1812, I would suggest checking PBS program listings to see when they will be re-broadcasting their superb video, The War of 1812, first shown in October this year. We decided to buy a copy, to keep (available through PBS or Amazon for about $20).

I would also recommend Cameron Porteous', "12 Hours That Saved a Country", mentioned above---a slim book, illustrated with paintings by Porteous. The author, who has a home in Queenston, has worked hard to get his facts right and to give us a vivid, visual understanding of what happened during those critical 12 hours.

For a definitive (in my opinion) account of the war, I would recommend Professor Alan Taylor's book "The Civil War of 1812". You may wish to check my Posting #96 in which I discussed attending a lecture by Prof. Taylor on his book.

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See you on February 12, 2012 for Posting #135 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.

Note:

I have just uploaded Posting # 6 on my The Icewine Guru blog. You can read the Guru's year-end thoughts at http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

POSTING #133

Tours for Foreign Officials---Lighter Moments

As a consultant, I always enjoyed organizing and then leading tours of foreign officials to Canada. Perhaps because I am naturally a little nosey, it was fun to tour schools, colleges, universities, factories, hi-tech firms, government departments and on and on.

It could be challenging, trying to make sure the visitors gathered the information and knowledge they wanted.

But there were lighter moments as well.

Here are a couple.

Slave For a Day

A group  of employment experts from Jordan came to Canada in 2005 for a two week tour designed to illustrate how Canada prepares its young people for the world of work.

The Jordanian group on the deck at our Grimsby home with Pat and me in the middle. The photo was taken by the husband of the woman (Samaya) who is seated next to Pat. Thanks,Waleed!

One of the issues the group wanted to study was the career guidance approach used by our secondary schools.

In consultation with some local experts, I chose a medium-sized high school in the Niagara Peninsula that was supposed to do a particularly fine job of preparing students for post-secondary studies or for entry into the labour market. The principal and the head of guidance were both enthusiastic about receiving a group of Jordanians.

When we arrived at the school. the principal welcomed us and made it plain that every thing was open to the visitors. They could go anywhere they wanted, and talk to anyone they wished.

The visit then began with a tour of the school. The visitors knew from their pre-visit briefings that there wouldn't be the strict separation of male and female students that one finds in Jordan. But I could see that they were taken aback by the reality of seeing boys and girls strolling along the halls together chatting, sometimes holding hands, or by the sight of a fellow and a girl having a quiet chat, their heads together, in front of a locker.

We visited a lab where a mixed gender team was building a rocket as part of a project on space exploration. Then on to the media department where another mixed gender team was making a movie in a studio with cameras and sound equipment. And then to a computer lab where girls and fellows were rattling away on keyboards, probably dreaming about developing the next big software program.

I could see that the visitors were impressed by the sophistication of the work being done by the Canadian students.

As the tour went on, the visitors seemed to relax, and to accept the mixing of genders.

At lunch time, the head of the culinary department told us that the students would be preparing and serving our lunch. He made a point of saying that everything we would be eating had been selected and prepared in accordance with Islamic dietary rules. He led us to the dining room, where we enjoyed a delicious lunch of salad, poached salmon and dessert. The student-servers, both male and female, didn't have the aplomb of restaurant staff but they were earnest, charming and friendly---and they got the job done.

After lunch we met with the head of career guidance. She discussed the methods she used to try to help students define their career goals, and how she kept track of them during their years at the school. In the question and answer session, there was a lively discussion about the effectiveness of different tests used in Canada and Jordan to measure things like career preferences and aptitudes.

The visit had gone well.

The visitors were clearly impressed with what they had seen. I was impressed as well, as I thought of the facilities and services offered back in the 1950s in the Arthur District High School. We had some fine, dedicated teachers but teaching aids pretty much started and ended with a blackboard and chalk.

Toward the end of our visit, the head of guidance accompanied us as we made our way down the main hall to our bus. I was feeling good, the event had been even more successful than I had hoped.

Then we saw a girl and a bizarre companion coming towards us.

When we got closer we could see that the companion was a tall, husky young fellow wearing a blouse, short skirt and nylons (with hairy legs showing through) and lots of lipstick. He was carrying a pile of books.

The visitors stopped and stared, their mouths open. The pre-visit studying they had done about gender equality in Canada hadn't prepared them for this.

I leaned over and whispered to the head of guidance, "What's going on?"

She stopped the young couple, explained that these were education officials from the Kingdom of Jordan and she was sure they would like to know why the young fellow was dressed as he was.

The girl explained that as part of the United Way charity fund raising campaign, the students in her class had decided to have a 'buy-a-slave-for-a-day-auction'. She had successfully bid for the young fellow and she had 'ordered' him to wear women's clothes, makeup etc. He was now carrying her books to the school bus.

The head of guidance asked the young fellow whether he had submitted his university applications, and whether, despite his football (I gather he was one of the star players), he was keeping his grades up.

He calmly assured her that everything was under control.

We said goodbye and moved on to our bus, with the visitors chatting amongst themselves in Arabic trying to make sense of what they had just seen.

I imagine that when they think back to that high school visit, the first image that will pop into their minds won't be the labs.

It will be the young fellow with the lipstick and the hairy legs.

Hopefully, their next thoughts will be about the labs and the school's effective program of career guidance.

Hopefully!

A Sleeping Bag for East of Siberia

One of the members of a group of Russian employment officials, for whom I organized a visit in 1996, was a burly fellow from the Russian Far East---beyond Siberia---who wanted to buy a sleeping bag while he was in Canada.

He explained that he was a hunter, and that he liked to camp overnight in the woods in winter waiting for deer or some other game. He needed a sleeping bag that would protect him against the extreme cold of the region. There were sleeping bags in Russia but they were of poor quality and not warm enough for night-time camping. He asked me where he could get a really good bag.

I thought of Canadian Tire but decided that he probably needed a store that specialized in fitting out people for rugged outdoor adventures, a place like Mountain Equipment Co-Op. One of our sons, who lived in Toronto, said he knew the location of one of their stores---on Front Street at the time.

The group was going to be in Toronto after a spell in Ottawa, and, since I had to do something with the rest of the group,  I asked our son if he would mind taking the Russian visitor to the store, accompanied by an interpreter.

At the store, the Russian fellow sorted through the selection of sleeping bags and settled on a down-filled mummy-type bag that was wide at the shoulders, narrow at the feet with a zip up hood. As the interpreter translated data about the maximum temperatures for which it was recommended, the man went over the stitching and padding from top to bottom. He nodded that he was happy with the bag. The price, which was substantial, didn't seem to bother him.

Our son thought that his mission was just about over. Just get the man and the bag to the cashier and that would be that. He pointed to the nearest cashier, but the Russian shook his head.

He gestured that he wanted to try the bag.

Then in one of the store's main aisles he placed the bag on the floor. With people walking around him, he proceeded to clamber into the bag. When he was completely inside the bag, he zipped up the hood and lay back. Then he rolled on his side, and then on his stomach.

After a few minutes, he unzipped the hood and emerged, hot and red-faced from the bag. "Is good", he said.

At the cashier's desk he pulled out a wad of Canadian cash and carefully counted out the correct amount. As the cashier was counting the money, the man was engaged in a happy and loud discussion---in Russian---with the interpreter. This distracted the cashier a little and she had to start re-counting the money. Finally, the money was deposited in the cash register and the cashier folded the purchase into a large plastic bag.

Our son pointed to the nearest exit. The Russian fellow grabbed the bag, and continuing his discussion with the interpreter started to leave the store.

As he passed through the security sensors at the door, an alarm went off.

According to our son, a very loud alarm!

The man and the interpreter paid no attention to the alarm. At that time in Russia, store security was handled by tough-looking guards with revolvers on their hips.

But our son paid attention to the alarm.

As did various store employees who started running to the door.

Our son grabbed the man and explained that there was a problem and they would have to return to the cashier. The interpreter explained but the man protested, "I pay!"

Back at the cash register, the cashier searched the sleeping bag and found a plastic sensor that she should have removed. Embarrassed, she detached the sensor, and apologized to the Russian man.

For his part, he took the whole thing stoically, shrugging as much as to say, "These Canadians have crazy customs."

Later on, after the Russian and the interpreter were safely back in their hotel, our son phoned and gave me a blow-by-blow account of the adventure.

I apologized for getting him involved in all that excitement, explaining that I thought it would be a simple purchase.

He laughed and said he had enjoyed every minute of it.

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See you on December 18th for Posting #134 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.

Note:

Hot off the press!! See the latest Posting (#6) on The Icewine Guru blog: "Year-End Thoughts from The Guru" at http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

POSTING #132

Arthur's Blind Newspaper Editor

Years ago when we lived in the Glebe in Ottawa, our boys used to shovel snow for homes on our street and on Clemow, the street behind us. One day, when Pat was driving along Clemow with one of the boys, Pat pointed to a house and said, "Celia Franca lives there".  (Ms Franca was a famous ballerina and founder of the National Ballet of Canada---and one of Pat's idols when she was studying ballet.)

Our son contradicted her, '"That's not Celia Franca's house, that's Mrs Morton's house. I shovel her driveway."

Of course, Celia Franca and Mrs Morton were one and the same. Our son just didn't know that the woman who paid him for shoveling snow was a celebrity.

I feel a little like our son when I think back to Rixon Rafter, the editor of Arthur's weekly newspaper, "The Enterprise News'. When I was young, I knew that Mr. Rafter was blind. He wore frosted glasses and carried a white cane as he walked along our main street.

I remember marveling at how he seemed to know---to have memorized---the location of curbs, and steps. And how he knew when it was safe to cross intersections. 

Rixon Rafter in his office, talking to his clerk. Photo is from "Memories of Arthur and Area" by John Walsh.

But to a young fellow, he was just another interesting person in a village full of fascinating people---a grocer nicknamed 'Jigger' because he was always on the move, a butcher who also played goal for the Arthur Tigers hockey team, Letty who drove his Model T Ford to the cemetery whenever a grave had to be dug, and on and on.

It was when 'outsiders' started making a fuss about this blind editor of a newspaper that I started to realize that Mr. Rafter was someone special. The Toronto radio station, CFRB, featured Rixon Rafter on one of its regional programs with the interviewer (Gordon Sinclair, I believe) marvelling at how a sightless person was able to edit and publish a newspaper. Newspaper articles appeared saying that Arthur had the only blind newspaper editor in all of Canada.

It dawned on me that he was special.

Someone to be proud of.

And he was one of ours.

Rixon Rafter was born on a farm outside of Arthur in 1885, one of 9 children. (For this background information I am indebted to John Walsh, an Arthur pharmacist, who has written two wonderful volumes entitled "Memories of Arthur and Area". Incidentally, John coached hockey and baseball teams that I played on.)

At age 5, Rixon lost the sight of both eyes because of a farm accident. He was enrolled in the Brantford School for the Blind (now the W. Ross MacDonald School for the Blind), "where he excelled in his studies, especially Braille and typing and developed the memory skills that were to be a great assistance in his later career." He was apparently greatly influenced by the story of Helen Keller, who although blind, deaf and unable to speak had graduated from an American university the year Rixon finished his course at Brantford. 

He entered Queen's University in 1903 and graduated with a BA in English and History in 1907. The following year he bought the Arthur Enterprise News and operated it until he sold it in 1953.

For most of those years the office consisting of Rixon, a skilled typesetter, and a clerk (one of his sisters was his first clerk). The typesetter and clerk were his 'eyes', reading him articles from newspapers and magazines.

Rixon was the paper's reporter. He would go to council meetings, and in an era before tape recorders, memorize the discussions and decisions. Then he would go to the office and type a report on the meeting (his typewriter is preserved in a local museum).

He was also active in the community, serving for a number of years on the board of the Arthur High School, on the Arthur Board of Trade, and on the Public Utilities Commission.

Beyond Arthur, he was President of the North Wellington Conservative Association, served on the Board of the Canadian National Institute for the Blind, and at one time was president of the regional organization for the Boy Scouts.

Rixon Rafter was also a keen, skilled and competitive bridge player, with the players using a Braille deck of cards. His phenomenal memory allowed him to keep track of which cards had been played, and which had not.

And through two world wars and a depression he kept the newspaper afloat, fueled by a very modest annual subscription and advertisements for local businesses, house and auction sales, government announcements and so on.

In 1954, Mr. Rafter was chosen Newspaper Editor of the Year by a group of writers meeting in London Ontario.

One wit has said that in a small town no one reads the weekly paper to find out what is going on---they already know that, thanks to the intricate and highly effective gossip networks that always exist. Instead, they read the paper to find out how (and sometimes, whether) the editor will deal with 'delicate' news. Mr. Rafter was particularly skilled at dealing with accidents, arrests, fights, illness, suicides etc. in ways that protected the affected families from additional stress and pain.

In the fall of 1958, I was working on a BA thesis on the United Farmers of Ontario (UFO), a movement that governed Ontario from 1919 to 1923. One of the founders of the movement was a farmer from south of Arthur, J.J. Morrison. Unfortunately, when I started doing my research I found that little had been written about the movement---several books have been published since---and I had to spend a lot of time doing original research, reading dusty copies of the Globe and Mail, perusing family archives, and talking to people who were involved in the movement.

I thought that Rixon Rafter might be able to offer me some insights so I phoned him during a visit to my parents and asked if we could meet. He agreed to meet the following evening. He was 70 at that time and  as I have mentioned above, was retired, having sold the newspaper in 1953. I hadn't really had any conversations with Mr. Rafter up to that point---just brief contacts as I handed over my parents' annual subscription fee, or submitted advertisements from a store where I worked after school.

It was in December and the sun had long since set when I walked over to his substantial brick home. The house was in total darkness and I wondered if he had forgotten about our appointment. I rang the door bell and a few moments later the porch light came on and then a light in the hall.

I can still remember being struck by the realization that he didn't need lights---that he lived in the dark.

Mr. Rafter opened the door, wearing the usual frosted glasses and looking courtly in a suit and tie. He held out his hand and I grasped it.

He invited me in, and led the way to the parlour, turning on lights as he went. He pointed to an upholstered chair and settled himself in a chair beside a table piled high with papers and magazines in Braille.

I took out my notebook and scribbled away as he gave me a fund of invaluable information and interpretation about the factors that led to the election of a UFO government and about how it had performed in office---its successes and failures. His memory of names and dates was flawless. He smiled sometimes as he inserted into his account amusing anecdotes about some of the main participants in the UFO.

I tested some theories I was toying with for my thesis about what can happen when social movements decide to get actively involved in politics. He seemed to enjoy discussing those theories.

After an hour or so, I thanked him. He showed me out.

When I got to the sidewalk, I looked back at the house, and found that it was once again in total darkness.

Mr. Rafter, who never married, died in 1963, after a short illness, aged 75.

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What to make of this man who I---and perhaps other people in Arthur---took for granted?

When I tell people about Arthur's blind newspaper editor, they look at me in disbelief. How could someone do that?

And then I say that he did it for over 40 years.

He had a remarkable intelligence and great personal determination, qualities that were obviously recognized by the School for the Blind and by Queen's University.

And he had the example of Helen Keller. She would certainly have been proud of him, and thrilled that she had inspired him to become the first blind newspaper editor in Canada.

But in the end, his success, I think, comes down to one factor.

An unbelievable amount of raw courage.

And that courage meant that although he lived in the dark, he spread light for all those around him.

Postscript

A scholarship has been established in his memory. Here is an extract from a website about the scholarship. Please note the last three words, which I have highlighted. Mr. Rafter would certainly have agreed with that requirement.

"Rixon Rafter Scholarship Fund

Named in honor of a graduate from the Ontario School for the Blind (now the W. Ross School for the Blind), this scholarship is available for Canadian students who are legally blind and who are pursuing post-secondary studies.  Candidates should demonstrate strong career aspirations."

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See you on December 11th for Posting #133 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.

Note:

Have you read the latest Posting on The Icewine Guru blog? You can read "Are Canadian Politics Dull?" at http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

POSTING #131

Moscow's Izmailovsky Market, and a Mysterious Artist

Addition to Posting #131

Images of two more paintings by the Russian artist Piganov have been added to the end of this posting, through the kindness of the owner of the paintings, Jürgen Brauweiler (nickname, Jules), of Berlin. A description of how this came about is included with the new pictures.

March 13, 2012

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Tourists love flea markets.

Just watch the crowds in London's Petticoat Lane or Portobello Road, or in Paris' Marché aux Puces, or in the Middle East's souks and bazaars.

When we were working in Moscow in 1995-1997, the city was in the midst of creating its own flea market, Izmailovsky Market.

Now, some 16 years later, the Market is on the agenda of every tourist visiting Moscow. The New York Times describes it this way:

"Izmailovsky Market, near the estate where Peter the Great played war games as a boy, is a sprawling open-air market that evolved out of the first Soviet experiments in capitalism: the flea market. One area has been refashioned into a souvenir paradise, with stalls offering nesting dolls, lacquer boxes, art, antiques, carpets and things you cannot imagine. The market, open weekends from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., is at 73 Izmaylovskoye Shosse, but don't expect to see any sign. Follow the crowds from the Partizanskaya metro station."

One weekend in the autumn of 1995, I decided to visit the Market. I got off the Metro at Partizanskaya station and did what the Times suggested: followed the crowds, which while not as large as they are today, were still substantial.

Inside the Market, everything was a jumble with goods displayed in sheds, or on tables in the open. There was a large section devoted to oriental carpets from the Caucuses, which were lying in piles 10 or 12 deep on the ground or suspended from rough frames.

After wandering through the maze of stalls, I ended up in a section devoted to art: paintings, water colours, collages, carvings, and so on.

Most of the art was clearly designed for quick sale to tourists looking for a Russian souvenir--pretty scenes of onion-domed churches, peasant cottages in Siberia, renderings of Red Square and so on.

In the midst of all this 'commercial' art, was a stand with four or five paintings that were different. They seemed to me to be attempts by the artist to say something that he felt strongly about. They appeared to be painted for him, not for a buyer.

One of them attracted me---of a young woman looking straight ahead with a haunting, questioning look. I stopped and studied it. Then I moved down the row of stalls looking at the other works of art.

Coming back, I stopped again at the painting and tried to understand why I liked it, and what it was saying to me.

A man sitting nearby on a chair watched me.

Although I liked it, I decided that I hadn't come to buy a painting, so I started to wind my way back to the entrance.

Part way there, something told me that I was making a mistake. I turned around and went back to have a third look at the painting.

I asked the man sitting on the chair if he were the artist.

He shook his head and, trying to find English expressions, said, "I sell for my friend. He....funny man." He tapped his forehead, and I thought he meant that the artist was a bit loco, perhaps another Van Gogh.

He seemed to realize that I was getting the wrong impression and he dug into his English vocabulary for some other adjectives.

"Deep, deep, thinks all time...religious."

I asked how much the painting was---rubbing my thumb and forefinger together in that internationally understood gesture.

He took out a scrap of paper and wrote an amount that was more than the 'pretty' paintings were selling for but was not unreasonable.

I had been told that at Izmailovsky Market one was expected to haggle, so I wrote out a lower amount  on the man's paper. As I did this, I realized that I had destroyed any bargaining position I might have had by stopping three times to study the painting.

He shook his head and pointed to the price he had quoted.

I nodded that I would buy the painting at that price and started to pull out my billfold. He shook his head and, taking my arm, pulled me behind a nearby bush. There, out of sight of passersby, we completed the transaction. Moscow was a pretty lawless place at the time, and he wasn't taking any chances on being mugged on his way home.

Back at our apartment, I hung the painting. 

Notice the three apples on the table in the forefront of the painting. We think the artist included apples because of  the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and he showed three because of the trinity---but who knows.

For me it came to symbolize the turmoil in Russia. On the right of the painting, the woman's hair is covered with barbed wire, while on the left, her hair is threaded with ribbons and pearls. The woman seems to be trying to discern whether the future of Russia would be repression and fear, or prosperity and love.

I liked it very much. When Pat came over for her regular visits, I found that she liked it as well.

In the summer of 1996, our daughter and two sons came over with their spouses for a two-week visit. They also liked the painting.

Talking about our family's visit, may I be permitted a short digression?

Thanks!

As a family, we 'did' all the main tourist attractions in Moscow and St. Petersburg and between the two cities, but looking back on the trip one of the high-points was our trip to Izmailovsky Market. When we got to the Market, each couple went off in a different direction, the agreement being that we would meet in two hours at the carpet section.

Pat and I were waiting at the carpets in two hours but no kids had appeared. Then one couple showed up. Since the others weren't there yet, they said they would just nip off for a few minutes---but be right back. "This is a great market!"

Then another couple arrived. They too would just nip off for a  minute or two---while the others assembled. They would be right back. "Wow, this is really a great market!"

Finally, we had to insist that whoever arrived had to stay put until we were all there.

Loaded down with purchases, we trudged back to the Metro, with many backward glances and some muttering about not having had enough time.

End of digression---thanks for your tolerance!

As my contract with the Russian authorities neared its end---in March 1997---Pat came over to help me shut down the project and pack up our belongings in the apartment.

Looking at the painting one night, we agreed it would be good to meet the artist and see if he had any other works that we might take back to Canada.

Yuri, my office manager (not his real name), located the artist, who said he would be interested in meeting us and showing us his studio.

The artist suggested we meet on a street corner---not an unusual suggestion because house numbering in Moscow can be confusing. Yuri's daughter would act as our guide and interpreter.

When we arrived at the street corner, there were a number of people standing around, some waiting for a bus, others just standing. We tried to identify the artist, someone who looked liked the friend's description of him at Izmailovsky Market: 'funny...deep...religious'.

No one matched that description.

Then a middle-aged man in a traditional Russian fur hat with ear flaps, but wearing a western-looking, bright red jacket, came over and introduced himself.

Our artist.

He didn't look 'artistic'. His dark hair was worn short and neatly trimmed. He had gold-rimmed glasses and a small mustache. He looked like dozens of managers I had met during my time in Russia---it later turned out that his day-job was that of a manager in a hospital.

In his studio, there were a few paintings on easels with others leaning against the walls.

Two of the paintings on easels interested us.

One, obviously in its very early stages, showed a woman in a long white robe, leaning forward with a rope over her shoulder, straining to drag a boat across a desert. The artist explained his symbolism: the woman represented Russian women; the boat represented Russian families; and, the desert stood for the tough economic times the nation was experiencing. The woman represented all the Russian women who were bravely struggling to keep their families together.

The other painting, nearly complete, was more complex than the first picture, containing a rich assortment of religious and other images and symbols. It was intended to convey the artist's view that, in the end, Russia's future depended upon a return to religion.

The artist said he could finish the second picture in a few days, allowing us to take it back with us to Canada. The other would take some weeks to complete.

We agreed quickly on a price and he said he would bring it to my office in a few days.

The picture below shows the artist, Mr. Piganov, with the painting in my Moscow office at the Russian Federal Employment Bureau.

On the coat-tree in the background, one can see Mr. Piganov's Russian hat, and his red, western-style jacket---items he was wearing when we met him on a street corner near his studio.

In preparation for our trip home, we removed the two paintings from their stretchers, rolled the canvases and placed them in cardboard tubes. Back in Ottawa, we found a restorer who worked regularly for the National Gallery repairing their paintings. She commented that the paint in both pictures had been applied very thinly. We wonder whether the artist preferred this approach or whether he was concerned about the high cost of imported oil paints in Russian at that time.

She attached the canvases to stretchers, touched them up a little and placed them under a special kind of Plexiglas to protect the thin paint from damage by ultraviolet rays. 

Here is the second painting, over the fireplace, in our Virgil home.

There is so much symbolism here it would take a separate Posting to begin to do justice to it, but notice the young woman rising out of a gilded cage. This symbolizes the artist's admiration for women and his support for their emancipation. (Because the paintings are under Plexiglas, the photos show some room reflections---sorry about that.)

When the paintings had been framed and hung, we began to think of the other painting that we had liked---the one of a woman dragging a boat through the desert. Yuri  contacted Mr. Piganov only to learn that the painting had been sold---to an American couple.

We kicked ourselves that we hadn't put a deposit on the painting.

While we were still operating a bed and breakfast, we loved sharing the two paintings with guests. People would stand in front of them, discussing---and sometimes arguing---about what Mr. Piganov meant by this or that symbol.

I have used the Izmailovsky Market painting of the woman at several talks about Russia, and it is amazing how effective it is in conveying the turmoil and uncertainty of the 1990s, as Russia was starting to make its transition from a communist to a market economy.

Now, we simply enjoy them as works of art and for the memories they bring back of our time in Russia and, especially, of our visits to Izmailovsky Market.

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Addition to Posting #131

On March 9, 2012 this comment was left at the end of Posting #131.

"Hello, I am Jules from Germany. To search for information about J. Piganov in the Internet. I found your blog. I worked in Moscow between 91 and 93. Izmailovsky Park was a weekend "must" for me. I saw Piganov sitting with 3 pictures near the Metro station. I ...bought one of his works. Arriving at my Hotel I was so happy about it, that I went back to the market and bought the other two. Now 20 years later it's a beautiful and amusing memory of the time in Moscow. If you like, I would send you a photo."

I told Jules that I would love to see photos of his paintings.

Jules sent photos of his three paintings, and has kindly agreed to let me add two of the them to Posting #131. The paintings were done in 1991 and reflect the emotions---fear, anger, love and more---the artist felt as the changes brought about by Glasnost, Perestroika and the demise of the USSR swept across Russia.

Jules and I have agreed that the third painting is a bit too horrific for a family blog. It is a powerful painting reminiscent of Picasso's brutal Guernica, which portrayed the death and destruction caused in the 1930s by the bombing of Spain by the axis forces. I love the picture but feel it would be a mistake to include it here, in a blog with readers of all ages.

Here are the two paintings.

The artist called this painting 'The Icon'

This painting is called 'The Revolution'.

I told Jules that perhaps this will be the start of a fan club for Mr. Piganov, with other purchasers of his pictures stumbling (Googling?) onto my blog.

He liked that idea!

If other readers have paintings by Mr. Piganov, I would be delighted to add them to this Posting.

Once again my deep gratitude to Jules for letting all of us see these paintings. 

March 13, 2012

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See you on December 4th for Posting #132 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.

Note:

Have you read the latest Posting on The Icewine Guru blog? You can read "Are Canadian Politics Dull?" at http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

POSTING #130

A Community Divided by a Surveyor's Boo-Boo

In my first few months at Queen's University---while I was trying to get my head around political science concepts such as 'the state', 'the government', 'the administration'---my yellow-jacketed friends in engineering were out surveying the campus. Taking turns squinting through a level or holding the range pole, they recorded the results in sturdy notebooks.

The tools used by the student surveyors were not too dissimilar from those used by the men who marked out property lines and boundaries during the settlement of Canada and the US.

Pushing through forests, swamps and over and around mountains, fighting off mosquitoes, deer flies and malaria, the unsung heroes---like bush pilots from a later era---did their jobs without fanfare. And made it possible for  our ancestors to buy and sell land, confident that their ownership meant something.

Heroes, yes, but sometimes they goofed.

As in trying to follow the 45th parallel in drawing the boundary between Quebec and Vermont.

It was the summer of 1964 and  I was having lunch in a restaurant in Rock Island, Quebec, part of a community that would have been totally in Canada except for an error by some 18th century surveyor.  I can see him in my mind's eye, swatting at mosquitoes, sweating because of a recurrence of malaria, trying to figure out just where the 45th parallel should lie. He took a stab at it, but his line went a little too far north.

A simple mistake, but a mistake that meant that a single community would be split by an international border and the community would be divided into two towns, Rock Island, Quebec ---known now, thanks to amalgamations, as Stanstead---and Derby Line, Vermont.  (The current size of the community is about 3,800 with about 3,000 in Stanstead and 800 in Derby Line.)

In 1964, I had just returned from a posting in the United Kingdom, and was on a cross-Canada re-familiarization tour with three other Foreign Service Officers.  The tour was to give us up-to-date information on jobs for potential immigrants and opportunities for entrepreneurs interested in starting businesses in Canada. After the tour we would be returning overseas.

Led by our guide, the Officer-in-Charge of the Rock Island Immigration Office, we had spent the morning talking to the Chamber of Commerce and touring local plants and businesses. As we drove along placid, tree-lined streets to our meetings, our guide would explain that we had just left Canada and were now in the US, then a moment or so later that we were now back in Canada, and on and on as we crossed back and forth over the invisible border.

Note how the US/Canada Border runs into the Haskell Library and Opera Hall in the background

During our morning drive we saw an imposing brick and stone building that seemed to be sitting right on the border. Our guide told us it was a library and opera house, and he promised to tell us its story at lunchtime. 

We were satisfied with the economic and business information we had collected, but we were full of questions about how a single, small community functions when it is split by the US-Canada border into two towns.

As we ate lunch, the Officer-in-Charge explained that the Webster-Ashburton Treaty of 1842, instead of correcting the 18th century surveyor's mistake, had simply confirmed it. The locals had been living with that decision ever since.

As promised, he told us about the Haskell Free Library and Opera House. Built in 1904, the structure was a gift from a bi-national couple, an American, Carlos Haskell, and his Canadian wife, Martha Stewart Haskell. They insisted that the library and opera house should be built right on the border so that people from both sides could use it freely. Our guide said there was a line on the floor in the library marking the border that patrons went back and forth across as they sought out books. In the Opera House, actors on the stage were in Canada, while most of the audience sat in the US.

Our guide introduced us to some men at the next table who lived on the US side of the border, a few streets from his home. We told the men how much we were enjoying our visit to their community.

Back at our table, we started discussing the latest news from Ottawa. The House of Commons was debating the adoption of a new flag, and the Leader of the Opposition, John Diefenbaker, was threatening to filibuster if necessary to prevent the passage of legislation for the new flag. (The Government of Lester Pearson eventually had to invoke closure, in December 1964, to bring the flag legislation to a vote. The legislation was approved and the Maple Leaf flag was flown for the first time on Parliament Hill on February 15, 1965---and raised on Canada House in London at the same time, one of my proudest moments, but that's another story.)

I eavesdropped on the Americans at the next table, and found they were discussing the Vietnam War and what was happening in Congress. A friend of theirs had received a draft notice and they were soberly discussing what it meant.

I recalled a story a Canadian friend in London had told me just before I had come back to Canada. His son was attending an American high school in London and one of his pals, a young American, received a draft notice when he turned 18. He flew home to the US, joined the army, went to Vietnam and was back at the London school within a year---minus one of his hands that had been left in a Vietnam jungle following a grenade attack.

I thought about how bizarre all this was.

People living a few feet north of an invisible line were looking to Ottawa and a debate going on in Parliament about a new flag, while people living a few feet to the south were looking to Washington and the possibility and danger of being shipped off to a deadly war.

After lunch the Officer-in-Charge took us on a sightseeing tour of the two towns. He explained that there was a volunteer fire department that protected both towns with fire fighters from each side. People from both towns shared churches, sports teams and service clubs. In most senses, it was one community but the line was always there. Living north of the line, you were Canadian, south of the line you were American.

He told us that there was a factory that straddled the line, with goods being manufactured moving back and forth across the border. The local customs and immigration officials had found a modus vivendi that allowed the business to function.

We stopped for a quick tour of the library and the exquisite opera house. (If you have time, I would suggest you come back after reading the Posting and check out these websites, especially the one for the opera house, with its murals and gilded decoration.)

Getting back in the car, our guide said there were a number of homes that were located right on top of the border, with the food being cooked in the US kitchen and served in the Canadian dining room.

As we drove along, he pointed to a modest bungalow on a well-maintained lot that had just been built by a friend, an officer with the US Immigration Service. His friend  had looked for a long time to find a lot where he could built the dream house that he and his wife had been designing in their minds.

Being a US Immigration Officer, he wanted to make sure the lot was totally in the US.

He found a lot that he and his wife liked, and then hired a highly recommended surveyor. After careful calculations, the surveyor assured him that the lot was completely in the US.

The house was built and the Immigration Officer and his wife moved in and were delighted with it.

Then a problem emerged to threaten their happiness. A neighbour, who wanted to sell his house, was required by the buyer's bank to have a survey completed of his property. 

The survey done for the neighbour showed that although his property was fine, the US Immigration officer's house was right on top of the border, with the living room in Canada and the kitchen in the US.

Repeat surveys confirmed that the Immigration Officer's house was indeed on the border.

I suppose there could be a lot of explanations for the surveyor's error, but I like to think that the ghost of that 18th century surveyor was behind it. He gave a little tilt to the surveyor's level, or pushed the surveyor's fingers into writing down the wrong coordinates. Then the ghost giggled, "That will teach you to make fun of the mistake I made 'way back in the 18th century!"

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I have a long list of things on my 'bucket list'---things I want to do before I kick the bucket---and high on that list is a return visit to Rock Island/Stanstead/Derby Line.

I love libraries and would enjoy spending some time browsing in the Haskell Free Library, while Pat went, perhaps, antiquing.

Then in the evening, Pat and I could go to the Opera House and see a play (I note that all the proceeds for this September 15th performance of a comedy, "Nunsense', were donated to the victims of Hurricane Irene), or listen to the Vermont Symphony Orchestra.

And, I would love to wander around and see how 9/11 has changed life in the two towns.

A news item from around 2007 said that Homeland Security wanted to block off all the streets that crossed the border to prevent terrorists from entering the US. According to the item, officials of the two towns were meeting with Homeland Security to try to come up with ways of accomplishing that goal without destroying the closeness of their community. I haven't heard what happened.

Here is a notice from Haskell Library and Opera website that gives some hints on the modus vivendi that the community and Homeland Security may have arrived at:

"Attention!
First time visitors and old friends of the Haskell Free Library and Opera House must be aware that the border between Canada and the United States that runs through our building is real and it is enforced.

Visitors from Canada must park their cars on the Church Street side of the building or report to US Customs via Cordeau St. and Dufferin/Main St. Visitors from the United States must park in our parking lot, on Caswell Ave. or another Derby Line street.

It is expected that all visitors will return to their country of origin. Law enforcement authorities have recently increased their presence in the vicinity of the Haskell and visitors found to be in violation of border crossing rules are subject to detention and potential fines."

I think I can hear the ghost of that 18th century surveyor chuckling, "I fouled things up real good, didn't I?"

But rules like that won't stop me from going back to Rock Island/Stanstead/Derby Line.

I'm just waiting for that wish to come to the top of my 'bucket list'.

P.S.

On reading the above, Pat was full of questions about how everyday life unfolds in a divided community like Rock Island/Stanstead/Derby Line. For example, she said, what if we lived in a Canadian house, and I was baking something that called for milk but we were out. Could I go across the lawn to our neighbour whose house happened to be in the US and get the milk? If I went into her house, would I be guilty of illegally entering the US? If she gave me the milk (remember, Vermonters are very kind people!), and I brought it into our house, would I be guilty of importing a dairy product into Canada?

The questions are many but we couldn't come up with any answers.

More reason to make an early visit to Rock Island/Stanstead/Derby Line and hopefully find some answers!

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See you on November 27th for Posting #131 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.

Note:

Have you read the latest Posting on The Icewine Guru blog? You can read "Are Canadian Politics Dull?" at http://theicewineguru.blogspot

POSTING #129

Fighting City Hall

Converting a house to a bed and breakfast usually involves multiple contacts with the folks at city hall---about things like zoning changes, building permits, signs and parking.

We have found that the secret to getting what you want is to be patient, persistent and creative, and not to protest too much about decisions that seem illogical.

For example, at one bed and breakfast we wanted to put up a sign by the road. We were told that we would have to pay for a permit that would entitle us to pay for another permit that would allow our proposal to be considered. I won't try to explain why two permits were required.

You may be reading this Posting over breakfast and I don't want to upset your digestion.

We knuckled under, kept our muttering to ourselves, bought two permits, and eventually got permission for a sign.

But there was one fight with city hall that ended in a most remarkable---almost 'biblical'---fashion, that I would like to tell you about today. I won't be naming the municipality in order to protect a good Samaritan who came to our aid.

The issue was the installation of a new pipe from the water main at the road to our house.

Our plumber told us that the existing pipe was too small and too corroded to give the volume and pressure of water needed for the extra bathrooms and the 'souped-up' laundry room that we wanted.

Digging a trench, five feet deep, from the house to the road would require a backhoe machine and would cost about $1500 (five feet deep, so the pipe wouldn't freeze in the winter).

So far, so good.

Then, the plumber added that we better talk to City Hall about connecting the new line to the water main. There might be a charge, and there might not be---it would be better if we got the details from the horse's mouth.

The officials told us that there was a charge of $2000 to connect a new line to the water main.

Wow! We said---under our breath.

But---the official continued---if the city workers found that the existing connection was not copper but was instead galvanized steel, there would be no charge. The City had a policy of replacing, without charge, galvanized connections throughout the water system. Our connection would then be considered just a replacement of a galvanized connection, and there would be no charge for it.

Are you still with me?

I told Pat to keep her fingers crossed that the workers would find a galvanized connection.

The big day came, the backhoe arrived and we soon had a five feet deep trench to the road. The plumber and his crew connected the larger copper pipe to the meter in the basement and ran the pipe through the basement wall and out to the water main.

One of the city workers clambered out of the trench, with a big smile. Good news, he told us, the connection is not copper but it's not galvanized either.

It's lead!

Now we know today that lead anywhere in a water system is a really bad thing. The house was old and at the time the water line was installed, people weren't aware of the dangers of lead.

So, the worker, told us, there will obviously be no charge for the connection.

Pat and I did a little dance.

The worker asked if he could use our phone to call his boss, tell him the news, and get a crew out to turn off the water main so the connection could be made.

He wasn't smiling when he came back from the phone call. His boss had agreed that there would be no charge for the connection, given the lead. However, he had decided that a crew could not be dispatched to turn off the water main until sometime the following week. Everyone was busy at the moment.

The worker said he had explained that the backhoe was waiting to back-fill the trench, and if the connection could not be made right away, the machine would have to come back---an additional expense for us.

His boss had been adamant.

We asked the worker if there was anything we could do. Something was obviously going through his mind, and he replied that we should let him think about it.

He went back into the trench and we thought that he might be trying to figure out how to make a temporary connection. 

A few minutes later, an explosion of water erupted from the trench---a veritable Yellowstone Old Faithful Geyser that shot through the branches of an overhanging maple and flew into the sky.

The worker, soaked, scrambled out of the ditch.

He said, with a grin, that there had been an accident. A heavy wrench must have fallen on the lead connection and the soft metal had given way.

This is an emergency, he said, and asked if he could use the phone again to call his boss.

He came back to say that a crew was on its way!

It didn't take long for the crew to arrive but it is amazing how much water can flow from a broken water main connection in a very short time. The street, our driveway, our neighbour's driveway and of course the trench were all flooded. Traffic was blocked on the street for nearly half an hour. (You can see why I used the term 'biblical' earlier on.)

The water was finally turned off and the worker went back into the trench. Toiling in the muddy water he attached our new pipe to the water main, using a copper connection. We tried to keep a straight face as we thanked him for the 'accident'. He shrugged off our thanks.

I got the impression that he might have just won a battle in a continuing war with a difficult superior.

The backhoe operator filled in the trench and the plumber was ecstatic with the new water flow and pressure.

I said earlier that creativity is sometimes necessary in fighting city hall.

We found that sometimes that creativity can come from an unexpected source.

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See you on November 20th for Posting #130th 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.

Note:

Have you read the latest Posting on The Icewine Guru blog? You can read "Are Canadian Politics Dull?" at http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/