POSTING #117

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NOTE

Now that the spring rains have finally stopped (fingers crossed!), the next month is going to be busy as we work to complete the landscaping changes we started last fall. 

To give me some time for those gardening chores, the next Posting, number 118, will not appear until July 3rd.

I hope you will enjoy the great weather that June is going to bring us (fingers still crossed!!) and please come back on July 3rd!

A Speech I Couldn't Give

I was asked to speak on May 6th to the 2011 class of Frontier College labourer-teachers as part of their orientation training for summer assignments working with and teaching migrant workers on Ontario farms.  

Officials of the College thought that the new recruits might like to hear about some of my experiences as a labourer-teacher.

Unfortunately, a bout of acute bronchitis prevented me from speaking to the group.

I have written often about my Frontier College experiences in this blog and I thought readers might find the talk interesting.

So, here is the speech I couldn't give.

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Good evening!

It is 55 years, almost to the day, since I and 20 or so university students attended an orientation session at the Frontier College headquarters in what had once been a stately home on Sherbourne Street in Toronto.

When I was considering whether to accept an invitation to speak to you, I tried to think what I would have thought if the organizers of that 1956 orientation session had brought in an old guy from the class of 1901 to speak to us.

I think I would have been dubious about the usefulness of listening to some geezer reminisce about his experiences from the remote past.

My first inclination, therefore, was to refuse the invitation to speak---but I gave it some more thought.

I remember feeling pretty scared back in 1956 about what I was going to face as a labourer-teacher. Would I be able to cope with the work, the teaching and the living conditions in the place where I would be spending the next four months?

Perhaps you are also feeling a little scared about what you have got yourselves into.

I asked myself: What can an alumnus from the distant past say that would be relevant to the 2011 class? Is there something that I could say that would allay somewhat the natural nervousness that one has before going into the field?

In the end, I decided to talk about four things. First, the labouring part of being a labourer-teacher; then the teaching part; thirdly, the importance of stories (I'll explain more about that later on); and finally, the need to look after yourselves.

Starting with 'labouring', I didn't sleep very well the first night in that bush camp bunk house at Dog River, north of Thunder Bay. Part of the problem was that there were 39 other men snoring, snorting, and talking in their sleep, but the big problem was just nerves. I finally fell asleep--- just before, it seemed, someone came to wake us up.

That was the last night I had trouble sleeping.

After that I fell into bed exhausted from the labouring and slept soundly.

The first two weeks were the toughest---until sunburn turned into tan, blisters into calluses, and flabby, essay-writing, muscles into reasonably toned-up sinews.

I found that watching the other workers taught me a great deal about how to perform whatever task we were doing, from ditch digging to hauling logs out of the water. My first attempts were always clumsy but gradually I became more skilled.

The men noticed that I was trying to improve and they seemed to respect that.

In my orientation training I was told that the founder of Frontier College, Alfred Fitzpatrick, had said that labourer-teachers must win the respect of the workers on the point of a shovel.

I found that to be true.

I also found that I enjoyed and felt good about developing manual skills.

I think you will as well.

Let's turn  to teaching.

In some ways, I found the teaching role to be more challenging than the labouring one.

I didn't feel I was very successful with formal, class-room type language training. It was hard to keep the workers challenged when the level of English knowledge varied so greatly. Some were beginners while others in the classes were at an intermediate or advanced level.

I had more success with informal, one-on-one language coaching either during work or after dinner.

Language training techniques have progressed a great deal in the last 55 years and I am sure you will have more success than I had.

Citizenship training went better. People were eager to get Canadian citizenship and my political science background made it easy to coach them on our constitution, levels of government and so on.

As another part of the teaching role, the College had provided a 16 mm projector and I held film shows using National Film Board documentaries. In that pre-television era, the shows were very popular.

During one of the shows, the electricity, produced by the camp's diesel generators, surged and blew out the projection lamp. I had a spare but when I tried to remove the burned-out lamp I found that the surge had expanded the bulb so that it wouldn't drop out of its compartment. As I tried to figure out what to do, the audience got restless and I began to sweat.

One of my worker friends looked at the problem, went out and came back with a large screw driver. He stabbed the lamp several times until it broke. It was then an easy matter to replace the lamp.

The whole experience reminded me of a saying that was popular in the camp at that time: "The bigger the problem, the bigger the hammer."

Every few weeks the College sent in a large wooden box with donated paperback books---this informal library was well used.

Looking back, it seems to me that in addition to those efforts to provide some education and entertainment, I played a role somewhat similar to the letter writer in villages in India. Workers asked for help in understanding and responding to letters from Canadian businesses. I remember having a discussion with Lazlo, a Hungarian Refugee, about how to end a letter to a bank. I suggested ``Yours truly`` but he preferred ``Yours very truly``. He said with a big smile that the `very` made it ``nicer``. We went with the `very`.

I also found myself being the arbiter in settling bunkhouse arguments. For example, two fellows came to me with a question: ``Are the tides controlled by the moon?`` I said they were.

That brought a rejoinder: How come there are tides when there is no moon? I am not sure I convinced the loser that the moon is still there even when we can't see it.

I was pleased to learn that in addition to helping with English you will also be offering training in computer skills---I am sure that will be very popular.

I'd like to shift now to my third theme: the importance of stories.

There is a plaque in the sidewalk outside the New York City Public Library with a quotation from Muriel Rukeyser, " The universe is made of stories, not atoms".

The quotation can have many meanings but for me it means that how we understand and interact with the world is determined by the personal universe of stories that we carry around with us. The larger and more varied our collection of stories is, the richer our experience of life can be.

How do we go about collecting stories?

When I was young there was a columnist, Greg Clarke, who told wonderful stories--- humourous, sad, touching, but always entertaining---about his experiences as a soldier in World War I, and then as a journalist, a parent, and a friend.

A suspicious  reader once said to Clarke, "How come you have so many stories?"

The questioner seemed to be suggesting that Clarke made up the stories, that they had never happened.

Clarke replied that he just put himself in places where stories could happen.

By joining Frontier College, I put myself---and you are putting yourselves--- in a place where stories can happen. You could have worked in an office, a store, a restaurant or some other 'normal' summer job and that would have been fine. There would have been some stories.

But you have chosen something more challenging, and something that is therefore richer in story opportunities.

For example, in my weekly blog, Letter from Virgil, I have recounted the story told by one of the workers, Fred (not his real name), a quiet, reserved man, who had fought with the Canadian Army during World War I in the trenches in France. During artillery attacks he would dream of returning to Canada, getting married and having a family.

But during one of the attacks he was wounded and lost his manhood.

He told me about spending many angry years drinking and fighting all over North America as he tried to come to grips with his situation. In the end he was able to find something approaching a normal life. (The full story can be found here).

By the way, if you are interested in other stories about my Frontier College experiences, I suggest that you log onto my blog, Letter from Virgil, and then in the Google Custom Search box at the top of the postings enter the name of one of the three places I worked: Dog River, Tulsequah, or Kenora.

You will have your own stories and I would encourage you to capture them.  Writing them down will fix them in your memory---perhaps in a journal, or emails to friends and relatives, or as Facebook entries.

Finally, I would like to say a word about the need to look after yourselves.

When I was a labourer-teacher the world was a safer place. The sun didn't pose the hazards it does today to skin and eyes. There weren't so many noisy machines that could damage hearing. There were fewer toxic chemicals.

At our orientation we were warned about the dangers of dehydration, and about the need to keep our electrolytes up---by, for example, adding lemon juice to drinking water.

That was it, and that was perfectly adequate.

But the world has changed.

When we go south in the winter, I am always upset at the sight of migrant workers on golf courses and in residential areas working with leaf blower engines strapped to their backs but without any ear protection, spraying chemicals without face masks, and working in the bright sun without sun glasses.

I am hoping that Ontario labour standards will help protect you and the migrant workers.

Please take care of yourselves.

And have a wonderful, safe summer full of stories!

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See you on July 3rd for Posting #118 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 #116

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Ottawa Art Theft

In March this year, an article appeared in the "Your Ottawa Region" newspaper reporting on the theft of a painting from a Sussex Drive gallery.

" The 23-by-30-centimetre painting, which was selling for $750, was plucked off the wall of Gordon Harrison Gallery on Feb.20 while about 20 people were inside the shop, said Phil Emond, an employee at the gallery.

'We had a busy Sunday afternoon with many clients in gallery and when we were closing when things got little calmer, I looked around and there was a missing spot on the wall,' said Emond."

According to the article, the painting, which was by Bhat Boy, an Ottawa artist,  "...depicts a young couple holding hands at the intersection of Sparks and O’Connor streets with the Parliament Buildings in the background".

Here is an image of the painting, as shown on the www.crimestoppers.ca website.

The article goes on:

 "While the artist said it feels bad to lose your painting, he is also flattered.
 "'I have now joined the club with artists like Leonardo DaVinci, and Edvard Munch now that I have had my art stolen from a gallery,' Bhat Boy said.
"He said he has had his work stolen twice before. In both incidents, the artwork was eventually returned, but one did suffer some damage.
"'My experience is that it is usually because someone covets the work, and not because of any sort of monetary reason.' ”

I liked the article.

The location depicted in the painting is one of my favourites in Ottawa---full of memories of pleasant lunch-time strolls along the Sparks Street Mall. 

I also enjoyed the tongue-in-cheek attitude of the artist that the theft meant he had 'arrived', had joined an exclusive club of artists whose works have been stolen.

And I liked the generous spin that Bhat Boy puts upon the intentions of the thieves. 

It was good to see that he was growing into, not just an accomplished artist, but a well-balanced person with a good sense of fun.

You see, we knew Bhat Boy years ago, when he was just getting started.

"And now", as Paul Harvey, the late  radio columnist with the deep voice, would have said, 'here is the rest of the story".

In the spring of 1997 we lived at 187 Glebe Avenue in Ottawa, in a pleasant Queen Anne revival style house, built around 1911. Once the children started to leave for college Pat opened a very successful bed and breakfast, called Blue Spruces.

Although it was an attractive house, it didn't photograph very well. A large maple tree near the sidewalk blocked much of the view from the front while two enormous blue spruces obstructed the view from the side.

We had been using photos---similar to the one below---of the house on B&B brochures and web sites but never felt that the photos did the house justice.

We decided to try to find someone who could provide a sketch of the house that would de-emphasize the trees and place greater prominence on the house itself.

Our first choice, an artist at a local architect's office, prepared a sketch that while accurate and correct had very little character.

A neighbour said that she had heard of a young artist who was good at capturing the soul of houses and landscapes. She said that although he had a perfectly fine name---Ian Van Lock---he had adopted a new name, Bhat Boy.

I phoned the number she gave me and when a pleasant-voiced woman with a soft British accent answered, I asked if I could speak with Bhat Boy.

The women, whom I took to be his mother, said he was out but she would have 'Ian' call me when he got home. It didn't seem that she had fully bought into the new name.

Bhat Boy (or Ian if you wish) called and we discussed the sketch we were hoping he could do for us.

A few days later, a slim young man showed up at our door with a pen and  sketch pad.

He looked like so many of the young high school students that walked past our house each day on their way to Glebe Collegiate.

Except for a ' court jester' toque!

The toque was made from bright oranges, reds, and blues, with three floppy points. Wikipedia claims that the three points of a jester's hat represent a donkey's ears and tail. In medieval times the points had little bells, but I don't recall that Bhat Boy's toque had bells (I could be wrong).

After saying that he understood what we wanted, he crossed the street, sat on the steps of the house opposite and began to sketch.

Pat and I looked across at him, with his head and toque bent over the pad, and wondered what the sketch would look like.

After several hours of sketching, he told us that he would do some more work on it in his studio. We would have the finished product in a few days.

Shortly after, he came back with the finished product--- see below.

We loved it. The trees now framed the house instead of obscuring it, and we admired the detail that he had lavished on the bricks, shingles, windows and other details of the house.

We felt that his sketch had brought out the personality of the house---a little spooky even (perhaps influenced by this father's occupation---see below).

We used the sketch in our bed and breakfast advertising. Some guests commented that they had been attracted by the interesting image, having passed by the hum-drum photos used by other B&Bs.

The framed sketch is now displayed in our Virgil home, along with the images of some of the other places where we have lived.

In his stunningly attractive website, Bhat Boy gives us a little information about himself, some of it factual, some of it tongue-in-cheek.

"Bhat Boy was born in London, England somewhere in the latter half of the 20th Century. He immigrated to Canada on a steam ship in 1966, and became a naturalized Canadian and grew up in the Nation's Capital with his parents - a cleaning lady and a spy."

"I  have been a self employed painter since 1992. I am represented by Art Fifteen Gallery in Fort Lauderdale Florida, and the Gordon Harrison Gallery in Ottawa and I have been showing with the Art of Imagination Society all over Europe and North America since the 1990's. My unique style is representational but imaginative, often conveying complex ideas and scenarios. I am a Fine Arts graduate of the Ontario College of Art and Design in Toronto, my studies included a year in Florence Italy where I studied traditional renaissance painting. I live in Ottawa, Canada, the city where I grew up. I have developed my own niche in the art market, and to this day most of my livelihood is made from commissioned works for individuals and corporations....

"I am always being asked questions about my paintings. What does it mean? What is the story you are trying to tell? For my part, I enjoy engaging the imagination of spectators. The very fact that my painting inspires questions underscores its value as a work of art. Some of the characters that inhabit my works are deliberately designed to raise questions. I paint Nuns because people have so many preconceived ideas about who they are and what they should be doing, as a result they make an excellent counterpoint in my paintings to contrast with other elements. Dragons usually represent the darker side of the male psyche in my painting, while goldfish represent our relationship to the environment in the scenes that unfold on my canvases."

Here are some images of Bhat Boy's work, which I am including with his kind permission.

This is one of a number of houses built in Ottawa's Glebe area by a contractor, Younghusband, who was noted for his attractive, well-constructed homes

Bhat Boy calls himself an Envisionist and in this painting he imagines the view of Ottawa that Canada Geese would have as they head south in the autumn.

"The cold water of the Ottawa River flows past the National Gallery as the city is blanketed with snow. A crow checks out the enormous spider, wondering if it is too big for lunch. Earns"The cold water of the Ottawa River flows past the National Gallery as the city is blanketed with snow. A crow checks out the enormous spider, wondering if it is too big for lunch. Earnscliffe appears to be on a perch overlooking the Rideau Falls and Green Island with New Edinburgh and the Anglican Church set behind. In the foreground is the Royal Mint and the basilica, with St Bridget’s and the Parliament buildings in the background, all laid out as if Lower Town were a little village of towers."cliffe appears to be on a perch overlooking the Rideau Falls and Green Island with New Edinburgh and the Anglican Church set behind. In the foreground is the Royal Mint and the basilica, with St Bridget’s and the Parliament buildings in the background, all laid out as if Lower Town were a little village of towers."

"Lone Moose looks out over Algonquin park in the last golden days of Autumn."

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Bhat Boy is now taking a sabbatical in London England.

I can't wait to see the fresh interpretation he will bring to iconic images such as Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, and London Bridge.

I have a feeling that Londoners will love his work.

A side story. Some time after the sketch had been completed, Pat was in a gallery near Almonte, Ontario and saw a Bhat Boy painting. Pat told the owner that Bhat Boy had sketched our house.

Impressed, she shouted, "You have a Bhat Boy!"

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We would like to wish Bhat Boy every success in his burgeoning career.

And finally, if you see the stolen painting, please call Crime Stoppers!

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See you on May 29th for Posting #117 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 #115

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Day Trips to the US

With the Canadian dollar above par with the US greenback, lots of Canadians are taking day trips to shopping malls across the border.

Here are a few stories about border crossing experiences.

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Last year we were waiting on the Rainbow Bridge in Niagara Falls  for our turn to be seen by American customs. We were stopped fairly far out on the bridge, over the water.

Suddenly, the processing of cars stopped. The green indicators above the previously 'open' lanes turned to red, and the customs officials left their booths to move among the waiting cars, obviously looking for something.

We asked an official what was going on. He said that a radiation detector had gone off and the bridge was in lock-down until the source had been discovered.

Now, the Rainbow Bridge is an engineering marvel with superb views of the Falls and the Niagara Gorge. It is also high---very high---above the Niagara River.

Pat and I don't have an abnormal fear of heights (let's just call it 'a healthy respect for heights) but we always breathe a little easier when we reach the other side and there is solid rock under us instead of rushing water.

Stuck out in the middle of the bridge, we have sometimes mused about what would happen if an earthquake hit. Then we try to remember what you are supposed to do if your car goes into the water. Are you supposed to roll the windows down, or up? Do you open the doors or keep them shut? 

But being told that a radiation detector had gone off, introduced a whole new level of scariness.

The worry part of the brain went into overdrive.

Just when we had reached the point of blaming each other for not having reminded the other to phone the lawyer to bring our wills up to date, the Customs processing started again.

When we finally got to the Customs booth, the official told us that the problem was that a person in one of the waiting cars had been undergoing medical tests involving the use of radioactive isotopes.

Imagine the sensitivity of the radiation detectors that they could pick up a few isotopes floating around in someone's blood stream!

Amazing!

And reassuring!

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We don't smuggle.

We declare everything---including, as Pat likes to say, replacement tubes of toothpaste we have bought on a trip.

It is not because we are people of superior moral character---we probably fit somewhere in the middle range of 'moralness'.

There are two reasons why we don't smuggle.

First, we are lousy liars.  If we tried to tell a whopper, our ears would go red, we would sweat, and our eyes would shift guiltily from side to side.

Second,  we are scared of what could happen if we are caught in a lie. People we know tried to smuggle some jeans into Canada and were told they couldn't bring anything into Canada for two years. We have heard of people having their cars confiscated.

So, we were shocked when, a few years, ago we went shopping with a couple in the US and the wife told us she wasn't going to declare the coat she had bought.

She had brought the bag with the coat into the restaurant where we were having lunch and started to remove the price tags.

"What are you doing/", we asked.

"I'll wear the coat. They'll never know."

We reminded her of our no-smuggling policy. Reluctantly, she put the coat back in the bag.

We were obviously no fun to go  border shopping with.

When we got to  Canadian Customs we did what we always do. When the officer asked for the value of the purchases, we gave him the total amount for everyone in the car---four, in this case---down to the last penny, with a sheaf of supporting bills in hand. The officer, in his turn, divided the total by four and deciding that the per-passenger cost wasn't material enough to bother with, waved us through.

The lesson here is that women going shopping in the US should always take at least one man with them.

Men don't shop!

The other fellow and I had bought a pair of socks and a belt between us.

The secret is, I believe, what investment experts refer to as 'averaging down'.

But a warning: this won't work if one of the men has his heart set on a leather jacket.

You better leave him at home, or convince him that he can do far better at the Bay!

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When we lived in Grimsby, an Ottawa couple came to visit us.

They set off one day, their plan being to drive along the Niagara Parkway all the way to Fort Erie and then return to Grimsby on the QEW.

They had a delightful trip along the Parkway but got confused with all the construction near the Peace Bridge. They got turned around somehow and found themselves heading for Buffalo and the US.

Desperately trying to figure out what they had done wrong, they missed the last exit before the bridge. They ended up in the Duty Free shop, which is on the Canadian side of the river, but inside the no-man's land.

They thought they could just turn around but an official told them they would have to go though Canadian Customs since they were now legally out of the country.

The conversation at the Canadian booth went something like this:

"When did you leave Canada?'

" We never left Canada!"

They explained what had happened.

" What did you purchase at the duty free shop?"

"We didn't buy anything, we just want to get back to Grimsby."

He grinned and welcomed them back to Canada.

And this wasn't a doddering old couple, they are two of the savviest people we know.

Just a warning. Until the construction is finished and the proper signage is installed, be careful of the Peace Bridge (the same warning should also apply to the constantly-under-construction Queenston-Lewiston Bridge).

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Once, crossing  the Peace Bridge in Buffalo we were behind a car of what seemed to be elderly people,  As we reached the American side, the driver slowed down and appeared to have trouble deciding which inspection lane to join.

He finally joined one line-up and we joined an adjacent one.

We watched as the car of elderly people worked its way to the front of the line. When it became their turn, the driver pulled under the inspection canopy, paused and then drove on, slowly, without waiting for the Customs Officer to ask any questions.

Lights and sirens went off as the car meandered in a confused sort of way, with officials running over trying to flag it down.

Our turn came and we had the absolutely briefest examination ever.

With his eyes following the unfolding drama, the Customs Officer asked, " Canadians?:

When we  said 'yes', he shouted, " Go ahead".

I have often thought that if an author were writing a novel about people trying to smuggle something into the US, he could have the smugglers follow a decoy car of elderly people.

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Some attractive teenage girls we know once decided to do some shopping in the US.

The US official asked them, "What is the purpose of the trip?'

The young and somewhat flighty driver responded,, "Just bored, I guess."

The official looked at her and her friends for a moment and then waved them over for a secondary examination.

The other girls, angry at the driver for her flip remark and anxious to start trying on shoes at the Shoe Factory Outlet, glared at her as they were led into an interview room.

The examining officer, a strict, by-the-book type with no sense of humour, decided that they should be returned to Canada.

They were escorted back to their car, but when they got in, it wouldn't start.

We understand it didn't take long for some young male officers to spot the attractive damsels in distress and to come to their aid.

After some good-natured flirting, the girls were soon on their way.

Back to Canada.

The shoe stores would have to wait for another time.

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See you on May 22nd for Posting #116 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.

Tags: day trips to the US, Queenston-Lewiston Bridge, Rainbow Bridge, Peace Bridge

POSTING #114

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Some Thoughts on Water-Efficient Toilets and Blue Jeans

Someone may ask, 'What in the world is the connection between toilets and blue jeans?'

Good question!

I suppose a Buddhist could argue that there is some connection in 'cosmic unity' and 'beingness' between these two things.

However, I would not make that link.

The fact is that the two subjects are linked in my mind because of a recent trip that Pat and I took during which the two subjects came up.

Let's start with toilets.

Water-Efficient Toilets.

I have long been a strong proponent of water-efficient toilets. It has seemed to me that it is terribly inefficient to use between 3 and 5 gallons (may I use US gallons for ease of calculation?) of purified, polished water to get rid of a few ounces of waste.

As an aside, a wag in Guelph thought there could be social benefits to frequent flushing. He posted this notice above a toilet, "Flush often, Brantford needs the water." (Guelph and Brantford are of course part of the Grand River system, with Guelph being 'up-water' from Brantford.)

Our new home has---as required by code---toilets that use only 1.6 gallons per flush. The toilets also have 2 buttons so that even less than 1.6 gallons can be dispensed for 'liquid waste'.

Frequently, the rush of water will be insufficient to wash away all the waste. A second flush may be needed to complete the job.

But sometimes that is not sufficient. The toilet becomes blocked---the technical term for which is, 'bunged up'.

The cry then goes out, 'Get the plunger!'. In more genteel households than ours the cry might be "Would someone please bring the plumber's helper?'

In the old days, plungers sat in  a dark corner of the basement collecting cobwebs, and were called into service only once or twice a year.

Now, as I say, they are used more often. Cobwebs don't have a chance to form. In fact, the plungers barely have a chance to dry.

Inconvenient? Yes, but it is a small price to pay for using scarce water resources more wisely (and to hell with the good citizens of Brantford).

Now that is my view, but this is an issue that has important gender aspects. Women have told me that they must use more toilet tissue because of the nature and geography of their personal plumbing. Therefore, although I haven't been able to find any data, it is claimed that women experience more blocked toilets than men.

In the view of these women, the water-efficient toilet is yet another way in which society discriminates against them.

The water-efficient toilet was obviously designed by a male engineer to be installed by male plumbers.....

I think we better move on quickly to our recent trip.

For more than 10 years, we have been staying two or three times a year at the same hotel. When we booked our most recent stay, the hotel clerk told us proudly that the hotel had been completely renovated.

It was grand to see the huge, arena-sized flat-screen TVs, the firmer beds, the up-dated sofas and chairs, the CEO-style desk with four (!) electrical outlets, and the discreetly hidden fridge and microwave.

And a new 1.6 gallon flush toilet.

Which acted up the first night.

The assistant manager came up with a plunger in a plastic bag. He unsheathed the plunger and began to puddle away amongst the waste in our toilet.

Reader's Digest used to have articles about life's embarrassing moments. Having a stranger push a plunger up and down in your toilet to free your waste has to be one of the absolutely most embarrassing moments.

When the toilet was clear, I asked if he could leave the plunger with us. I had a feeling that we might have to use it again. He looked at me with some doubt, as though he was not sure that I could be entrusted with such a high-tech gadget, but he finally agreed.

My hunch proved to be right---we had to use the plunger again in the morning.

After breakfast, we reported a problem with the room---unrelated to the toilet---and the hotel found us another room. We moved all our belongings to the new room---but I forgot the plunger.

That evening the toilet in the new room malfunctioned, and again we had to call the desk.

The young man didn't object at all when I offered to fix the toilet myself and easily agreed to leave the plunger with us.

We chatted a bit about our problems with their toilets and he acknowledged, with a little coaxing, that the hotel had been having many complaints about sluggish toilets since the renovation. The hotel had tried various remedies including slimming down the toilet tissue but nothing had fixed the problem.

He then trotted out what I think was the authorized talking point. The toilet flushing problem was caused by the town's low water pressure, something over which the hotel had, of course, no control.

I couldn't figure out how water pressure could be the culprit. It might influence the speed with which the toilet tank refilled after a flush, but once the tank was full, the water dropped by gravity into the bowl.

Later research showed that some toilet companies have experimented with a pressurized tank that stores the water at the same pressure as the water system. The water in this approach doesn't drop by gravity into the bowl but is blown  into the bowl with a force that is supposed to carry away all the waste.

My impression is that the pressurized tanks have not been very successful---they are reported to be costly and unreliable.

In any event, a quick check showed that the hotel's toilets didn't have pressurized tanks---just the usual gravity flow tanks.

The young man said that the problem was very frustrating.

In this he was echoing a comment made by Rand Paul, the junior senator from Kentucky during a committee hearing on the work of the US Environmental Protection Agency. Glaring at an EPA official, he complained about the Agency's regulations on energy efficiency standards.

“Frankly, my toilets don’t work in my house, and I blame you.”

Some people have blamed the toilet manufacturers, who in turn claim that the toilets that leave their factories will function properly. They accuse the plumbers who install the toilets who, they claim, are monkeying around with the toilet tank innards and changing the factory settings.

As all this finger pointing carries on, I am happy to say that entrepreneurs are on the case. They are busy designing bathroom caddies that will make sure the plunger is always handy.

Here is a caddy that carries both a plunger and a brush and sells for only $10!

The manufacturer claims that the "Discreet caddy hides two bathroom essentials". I guess that is 'hides' as in 'hides in plain view'. (Kind of brings Osama Bin Laden's compound to mind, doesn't it?)

I gather there are other caddies on the market, some costing several hundred dollars, that are so elegant they would look quite at home in the bathroom of a 5th Avenue condo.

When I asked the young man at the hotel if they had thought of placing a plunger in each bathroom, he said that management had suggested that to the chain's head office. The reply was that 'it would not be professional to have a plunger in the bathrooms'.

Since it is obviously not 'professional' to force guests to call the desk when a toilet malfunctions, I expect that head office will have to change its policy.

If it doesn't, we will start asking for a plunger when we check in.

Blue Jeans

During the trip I bought a new pair of blue jeans.

Unlike the stiff, deep blue denim jeans of yore, the new ones had been softened, faded, and abraded through repeated washes with rocks and goodness knows what chemicals.

They looked as though they had been worn for years by a busy bricklayer.

You know the look!

Pat laughed when she saw them. "When we were young, jeans like that would have been cut into squares for quilts".

According to the BBC, the old blue denim is making a comeback, only now it is being marketed as 'Virgin Denim'.

Apparently the Virgin Denim jeans are especially popular with young girls. I understand that spandex is added to the denim so that the jeans hug the legs and bottoms of the young things.

And now some older women are buying the jeans, because they lift the butt---they are referred to as bras for the butt.

What would we do without the BBC?

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Talking about butts, reminds me of a story that an American friend tells. She was at a charity event in Connecticut hosted by a well-known actor famous for his dazzling blue eyes and his come-hither smile.

According to our friend she was quite smitten by the eyes and smile.

Until she watched him walk away.

To her horror, he had no butt, just a flat backside.

I pointed out that he probably had had a perfectly fine butt when he was younger but time and gravity had done their dirty.

The response was that if aging women have to fight time and gravity, then so should men.

So men, perhaps our next jeans should have a butt lifter feature.

Just saying.....

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See you on May 15th for Posting #115 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.