POSTING #118

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NOTE

In my last Posting---#117 at the end of May---I said I hoped that June would bring better weather after a damp and dismal spring.

It did.

June was a fine month with a good mix of sun, heat and showers. The shrubs and flowers we had planted last fall grew like crazy, and I was able to lick the front and back gardens into shape.

I was also able to start tackling some others issues around the house, especially organizing my study, the garage, the work room and the 'storeroom' (a basement room full of unopened moving boxes and furniture, dishes, pots and pans etc., 'things that we might want in the future---you never know').

They say that a rolling stone gathers no moss, but rolling Hunters have sure gathered a lot of stuff.

I would like to complete this work---in effect, to finish moving in---and I am going to ask if you would let me continue my 'blog-holiday' through July.

I will be back with a new blog, #119, on August 7, and will then have regular weekly Postings.

I promise.

In the meantime, here is a story that came to mind as I was going through a box of files from our Russian project.

I hope you enjoy it.

See you on August 7th!

Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary

Pat and I were married on June 24th, 1961 so this was our 50th anniversary. Our children hosted a party at the Arts and Letters Club in Toronto last Sunday, June 26th.

Here is a slideshow that they put together for the party, with photos of the immediate and extended families, and some witty multiple choice quizzes.

(One can view it as a slideshow or just browse through the pictures and quizzes.)

I have attached at the end of the Posting some pictures taken at the party by Pat's cousin, Catherine George (thanks Catherine for permission to use the photos!)

Preparing Canadian Consultants for the Cultural Challenges of Russian Dinners

In May 1995, we were getting ready to launch our project to help create model employment offices from Moscow to the Pacific Ocean. As part of that effort, we brought together for a week-long orientation session the 30 or so Canada Employment officials from across Canada who had volunteered to work in Russia.

Rather than rent hotel space in Ottawa, we took over a summer resort located between Ottawa and Kingston on the Rideau River. It had agreed to open a weekly earlier than the usual May 24th weekend opening, and to let us have the whole facility for our training.

The resort was ideal for an orientation session. We lived in comfortable cottages surrounding the main building that housed the dining room, and recreation rooms that we turned into meeting rooms. There were no city distractions, just pine trees, birds and the meandering river.

During the week we covered the tasks to be performed in Russia and provided training on matters such as how to travel to and in Russia, how to hire and work with interpreters, how to stay safe and healthy, and so on.

Consultants who had worked in Russia on other projects shared their experiences with our recruits.

In planning the orientation training we wanted to give the recruits a taste of a formal Russian dinner and especially the toasts---and the vodka. We decided to turn the last dinner, on Thursday evening, into a Russian dinner, and the resort agreed to get a liquor licence so we could have vodka with our meal.

Toasts in Russia are a highly developed art form and foreigners can appear to be boorish if they don't understand the tradition. The toasts have to include lavish praise for the hosts, patriotic comments about the motherland and commitments to work together for the mutual benefit of everyone, etc etc.

And, of course, vodka can be deadly for foreigners if they don't know how to handle it.

I have very positive memories of the week's orientation sessions in general but the dinner is another matter.

I made two mistakes that led to an embarrassing incident that can still jolt me awake at three A.M.

The first mistake came from performing a good deed (a New York friend likes to say that no good deed goes unpunished).

During the week, the owner of the resort came to me and said that some locals had seen activity at the resort and wondered if they could have dinner on Thursday evening. Would it be possible, he asked, to have three or four tables of outsiders at our special dinner, if the tables were set apart from our own, although in the same room?

As I mentioned, the agreement with the resort had been that we would have exclusive use of all the facilities for the week.

I should have said 'no' but the resort had been wonderfully helpful and obliging, and I knew that after being closed all winter the resort could use the extra revenue.

I agreed.

Big mistake!

The dinner started well. Between the salad and the soup courses, I made a toast in which I tried to capture the style and content of a typical Russian toast. We drained our vodka glasses and I sat down.

I noticed the outsiders, who seemed to be mainly retired folks, were watching us in that particularly Canadian way of trying not to appear to be watching.

Our recruits took turns at standing up and delivering toasts and they did well.

One of our people had done graduate work in Russia and he followed his toast with an invitation for us to join him in singing the Volga Boatmen song. He had a fine voice and was able to sing the words in Russian. He taught us some of the words of the refrain, and feeling a pleasant glow from the vodka, everyone joined in enthusiastically. (Click here for the Red Army Choir's rousing version of the song via YouTube.)

The outsiders continued their 'I'm watching-but-I'm-pretending-not-to-watch' observation of what was going on.

I was feeling quite happy at this point. The recruits were getting a pretty authentic experience of a convivial Russian dinner.

Then the recruit who had led us in the Volga Boatmen song, demonstrated that he was more than just a song man, he could dance as well. Squatting low on his haunches, he started a Cossack dance. Kicking one leg out after another while shouting Cossack cries, he wound his way among our tables. He was remarkably good (we later learned that he was a dance instructor in his spare time).

At this point, the outsiders gave up any pretence of not watching. They stopped eating and stared as our fellow whooped and hollered around the tables.

This was when I made my second mistake.

I began to worry that the outsiders might take away the impression that these were public servants---which they were (except for me, I was retired).

And horrors of horrors, that these public servants were drinking vodka.

And that the vodka was probably being paid for by Canadian taxpayers.

I knew that the dinner with its toasts was a perfectly legitimate training exercise. I also knew that the vodka was coming from money provided, not by Canadian taxpayers, but through our project contract with the Russian government.

But it could look bad and I began to see headlines in the Globe and Mail.

I kicked myself that I had agreed to let outsiders into our dinner.

I don't know whether the devil made me do it, or whether it was the vodka consumed to that point but I made a decision that has troubled me ever since.

I decided to use a little dose of what I believe is called 'disinformation' in the intelligence business. Leaning over to a person who was about to propose a toast, I suggested that he begin by saying, "We would like to thank out employer, XYZ, for making this dinner possible". (I am using XYZ instead of the name we actually used---that of a well-known high tech firm.)

Other persons in their toasts repeated that line and some embellished it with comments about what an intelligent, forward-thinking employer XYZ was.

The dinner wrapped up with more praise for XYZ, and then we left for our cottages.

As I was going down the steps from the dining room, one of the outsiders, an elderly woman with a cane, was having trouble with the steps. I gave her my arm and helped her to the bottom of the steps.

When we reached the bottom, she asked, "Are you really with XYZ?"

I replied that we weren't, but before I could explain who we were and the purpose behind the dinner, she cut in angrily, "I didn't think you were".

She gave me a fiercely disapproving look, and then headed for her car.

At that point I began to realize just how silly my little attempt at 'disinformation' had been.

From a training point of view the dinner had been a great success. The participants learned some valuable lessons about toasting---and about vodka---that helped them in their subsequent missions to Russia. And we identified a couple of persons who needed some special coaching on how to handle vodka.

But the disapproval of the elderly woman with the cane still makes me cringe when I recall her angry comment, "I didn't think you were".


Pictures of the 50th Anniversary

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See you on August 7th for Posting #119 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 #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.

POSTING #113

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The Arab Spring

Recently, a friend who knew I had done some consulting work in the Middle East asked what I thought of the demonstrations taking place across the region.

"They're wonderful!", I replied.

I told him it had been very frustrating watching bright, well-educated young people coming out of universities and colleges with little hope of decent jobs.

As a result of the generosity of the US, Europe, Britain, Australia, Canada and other countries, most Arab nations were able to train professors and teachers and build colleges and universities.

But the creation of modern educational systems had not been matched by comparable changes in the political and business institutions.

Young graduates were not free to express themselves, to be creative, or to apply what they had learned.

And corruption and favouritism meant that whatever jobs existed were filled by the children of the rich and powerful.

I was upset that western aid was being wasted, and frightened that the frustrated young would feel that the only recourse was to join a terrorist group like Al Qaeda.

And the danger was real.

Early in my experience in the Middle East a man asked me if I could keep an eye on a relative who was studying in Canada. I thought at first that the man was worried about whether the young man  could cope with life (and the climate!) in Canada and keep his grades up. Pat and I had dinner with the student and it soon became clear that he was coping very well at his college.

When I reported this to the man in Jordan,  it turned out that his real concern was that the young man might fall under the sway of terrorist recruiters working among Arab youths in North America.

(I don't think the relative had to worry about that particular young man. He is probably working on his second or third million.)

Now that the political structures in many Middle Eastern countries are being reformed there will be a new openness in business.

I concluded by telling the friend who had asked what I thought of the Arab Spring that I was sure that the results would be messy as hell, in the short and medium term.

But democracy with all its bickering is a pretty hardy plant, well adapted to today's social, economic, cultural and technological changes---changes that will only accelerate in the years to come.

I remember feeling depressed thirty or so years ago when reading studies about South Africa. It seemed as though the whites would  never surrender their control and would even use their nuclear arms (remember they did have nuclear weapons!).

And the Africans would never give up their fight for freedom.

I could only see a calamitous blood bath.

I certainly never thought I would live to see the day when South Africa, controlled by Africans, would host one of the most successful World Cups ever.

Let's all welcome the Arab Spring!

We can continue to offer help and assistance but let's back off a little and let the Arabs find their own way to their own kind of democracy.

The Kingdom of Jordan and the Arab Spring

Jordan has had its own Arab Spring demonstrations but nothing comparable to those in other Middle Eastern nations.

I saw an article by one pundit who argued that this was because Jordan was a monarchy, and was therefore inherently more stable than the Middle Eastern nations that were controlled by family dynasties.

That seemed to me to be a pretty superficial analysis.

I think that a good part of the explanation is found in how the Jordanian monarchs have conducted themselves.

To illustrate that point, here are four stories I picked up while working in Jordan.

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A Palestinian friend in Jordan told me about how he and his young family were suddenly expelled along with several hundred thousand other Palestinians from Kuwait in 1991 after the Gulf War.

Angered at Yasser Arafat's support for the invasion of Kuwait by Saddam Hussein, the newly restored Kuwaiti government gave all Palestinians one week to leave Kuwait.

My friend had been living in Kuwait for years, and had a good job with an oil company.

Having no choice, he loaded up his car with his wife and children and whatever belongings they could fit into the vehicle and headed to Jordan.

Despite being a poor country, Jordan accepted a huge influx of Palestinians. My friend was grateful that Jordan had taken them in but he and his uprooted family faced great hardships as their new country struggled to absorb them.

He said he would never forget King Hussein's response to the education of the displaced children. The King told his Prime Minister that places had to be found in schools for all the children.

School authorities protested they didn't have enough teachers, desks or space for the newcomers.

The King told them to fit the children in.

My friend said that children sat on the floor, stood against the walls, studied in the school yards but they all got an education.

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Another friend told me about King Hussein's respect for others. The King was to attend a school  ceremony at which one of his children would graduate. The King arrived early and sat in the audience, chatting with other parents. Some members of the Royal Family, intent on making a grand entrance, waited until the program was about to begin and then swept down the aisle.

That was not King Hussein's style.

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I heard this story from several people about King Abdullah when he took over after the death of his father, Hussein.

He used to dress in humble costumes and go out at night with a scarf covering part of his face. Apparently, he would stand in line in places where the poor sought to get service---for example in hospitals and bus stations---and he watched what happened.

The next morning he would tell his ministers what he had witnessed.

And about the changes they were going to make!

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This story happened while I was in Jordan in early 2001.

Leaving his palace one morning, King Abdullah stopped to chat with some men who were laying tiles. He found that the workmen were all from either Egypt or Syria, there were no Jordanians.

He called in his Minister of Labour and asked him to find out why, despite high unemployment, the contractor was not using any Jordanian workers.

When he was told that Jordanian workers didn't have the required skills, he asked that a training program be set up immediately. When the Minister said that his budget wouldn't allow for that, the King provided $5 million of his own money to fund the program.

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As the demonstrations in Jordan show, there are problems that the country must address. Accommodation and food are expensive. Jobs are scarce. There are allegations of governmental corruption. The political system has to be more transparent and responsible.

But I sense that there is an underlying feeling that the King is sincere in his efforts to correct the problems.

Ending on a Lighter Note

I enjoy bumper stickers and signs.

Here are two examples that were new to me.

A car hitched to a large Recreational Vehicle had a sign in its back window: "I go where I'm towed".

A sign appeared overnight on a neighbour's lawn: "House for Sale by Owner---Wife Included". When I stopped by to chat, it turned out that friends of the owner had put up the sign to 'celebrate' his 60th birthday. His wife was not amused

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See you on May 8th for Posting #114 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 #112

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Pat's Bingo Moment

I was working in my basement study when I heard my wife, Pat, shouting and shouting.

Racing upstairs (now that's a lie---at my age I don't race anywhere---let's just say I 'hurried'!) I found Pat sitting in an easy chair with her iPad on her lap shouting "Bingo, bingo, bingo!"

No, she hadn't found a new iPad app that lets one play bingo. (I have since discovered that there actually is a bingo app!)

She had been using Google to research a drop leaf table she had found in the attic of our  local museum, the Niagara Historical Museum. The table was off in a corner, with a rope around the middle holding its leaves together.

Pat, a volunteer at the museum, had been asked by the new curator to use the experience she had gained in years of buying and selling antiques to review the collection of tables, chairs and other pieces of furniture to see whether the description in the museum's database of artifacts was accurate and complete.

A couple of weeks after starting her task, Pat came across the drop leaf table with the rope around its middle. It had elegant proportions, with long, slender legs and neat brass feet. It was obviously very old and very beautifully made.

With the help of other volunteers, Pat was able to get a quick look at the underside and found two markings stamped into the wood. Markings on antiques are, of course, like pure gold as one tries to identify their maker and age.

The following Monday I went with Pat to help decipher the two stamped impressions using a strong light and a good magnifying glass (see Sherlock work!). We untied the rope and found that only minor repairs would be needed. The impressions were quite distinct, but unfortunately the "JME" and "J.Canabar" didn't mean anything to us.

We took photographs of the markings, tied the table back up and went home.

Pat then used Google to try to find the meanings of the markings.

After a number of unsuccessful tries she had her 'bingo moment', which brought me hurrying from my basement lair.

The table was made by Joseph Gengenbach between 1766 and 1797. He was a member of the JMF, the most highly acclaimed guild of cabinet makers in France at that time.

The curator is delighted as the copy of the article from a local weekly paper shows (you may have to click on the image to be able to read the article).

The table is in the big leagues of antique furniture. A slightly smaller Gengenbach table was sold at a Christie's auction in London on December 9, 2010 for $19,763.

Since the article appeared, a local woman has provided some clues about how the table may have ended up in Niagara-on-the-Lake and in our museum. The curator is exploring these tips.

Meanwhile steps are being taken to have the table restored---it is not a big job but it will require an expert with special training. The table will then be moved from its corner in the attic to a place of prominence in the public display area.

The Breakfast Club

The municipality of Niagara-on-the-Lake---of which Virgil is a component---is overrun with volunteers.

You try to have lunch with someone only to find that they are busy that day doing some volunteer work with the Shaw Festival Guild,  the Friends of  Fort George, the Friends of Laura Secord or with one of the dozens of other voluntary organizations in the area.

The supply of retired persons willing to work for nothing is so great that one has to pay an annual fee to work for certain organizations!

As an aside, I should say that younger members of the community sometimes joke about the growing number of retired people, and talk about the town becoming 'God's Waiting Room'. (I want to assure you that there's a lot of activity in this waiting room!)

In contrast to all this volunteering, and to all these good works, there is the Breakfast Club.

I first heard about the Breakfast Club after giving a talk on my Russian experiences as part of a lecture series put on by our library. A woman who had been in the audience asked if I would be prepared to talk about Russia to the Breakfast Club.

When I asked for more details on the Club, she said it was hard to describe. It would be better if Pat and I went to a meeting of the Club as its guests.

At 8 AM on the second Tuesday of the following month, Pat and I entered a bright, cheerful room at the Riverbend Inn. There were about 40 people, mostly men and mostly retired, but with a significant sprinkling of younger people and women.

Our host, the woman at the library talk, introduced us to the members and we chatted until the call came that the buffet breakfast was ready. It was a hearty breakfast with pancakes and syrup, ham and eggs, sausages, toast, fruit and excellent coffee.

After people had finished their breakfasts, Bob Waugh---one of the founders of the Club, a retired executive from GM, and 91 or 92 years young---welcomed the guests and explained a little about the Club.

With the wit and timing of a stand-up comic, he explained that the Club is best described by what it isn't.

It has no constitution, no board of directors, no Annual General Meetings, no secretary, no minutes, no membership applications, no dues, no bank account, and no fund-raising projects.

Bob looked down at his Blackberry to see if he had forgotten anything.

Oh, he added, breakfast is free for guests but $13 for members. Guests are welcome to attend future meetings but they will have to pay for their own breakfast. There is an honour system and members put their money in baskets on each table.

Bob added that if guests wished, they could give their email address to one of the members who had volunteered to send out meeting notices each month.

A member then introduced the speaker, who talked for about 20 minutes. There was a question and answer session with pointed, intelligent questions.

The meeting was over by 9 AM.

A few months later, I gave my talk on Russia, and we now go regularly to the monthly meetings. Some of the speakers are members while others are from outside the Club.

Recent topics have included a member's talk on a trip to Kenya, the ultra-modern cancer clinic that will be part of the new St. Catharines General Hospital, the future of the public library in the digital age, the upcoming program for the Shaw Festival presented by a member of its repertory company, the future of local independently-owned pharmacies, and hints on coin collecting.

We like the Club very much.

In chatting with a friend I mentioned a talk I had listened to at the Club. He hadn't heard of the Club and asked me to explain about it. I tried to remember all the points that Bob Waugh had made about what it isn't.

"But", my friend butted in, "what does the Club DO?'

I explained that the Club doesn't 'do' anything, that the members are very active in the community but the Club's monthly meetings are just fun.

He looked at me as though I was talking nonsense.

I would recommend the model to anyone who is feeling a bit over-organized.

But don't contact the club for any plans or documents on how to set up a Breakfast Club.

There aren't any!

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See you on May 1st for Posting #113 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.