Knock Offs
You will remember that I got sucked into a knock off scheme that was selling counterfeit Red Green DVDs (see Posting # 58, February 7, 2010).
Since then I have seen many articles on knock offs. One told about two 18 year olds in Florida who were holding Tupperware-type parties at which they were selling knock off designer handbags. Unfortunately for them, two of their customers at a recent party were undercover detectives. The enterprising youngsters were arrested.
Apparently, there is an upsurge in the under-the-table sale of knock offs in the US, and probably in Canada as well.
The International Chamber of Commerce estimates that the knock off trade is worth around $500 billion annually, which is, of course, money that firms like Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Christian Dior and Burberry will never see.
I thought I would share a few stories about my international experiences with knock offs.
000
First in Russia in the mid-1990s.
When I was setting up our Project's office in Moscow, we needed English-language software for our computers---they came with only Russian-language software.
I asked one of the Russian staff to buy word processing, spreadsheet and database programs, and gave him my credit card.
I saw him start when I said the word, 'buy'.
"You don't need to buy the software", he said, "I have a friend who has all that software. He won't charge us anything---maybe just a bottle of vodka."
Now, when I had retired from the Canadian Public Service in 1991, I had been well trained. One didn't, didn't, didn't ever use bootleg software. If the RCMP didn't get you in one of their periodic sweeps of computer systems, the departmental Information Technology people would. The IT people were afraid---quite rightly---of the introduction of viruses via illegal software.
With this background and with ample money in our Moscow budget for software, I explained why we should buy licensed software.
My Russian colleague looked at me, "But everyone does it here. No one would ever complain."
'No, let's buy the software."
"Please, please don't make me do this. All of my friends in the other offices will think we are crazy. Please don't embarrass me like that."
We did buy the software, but I noticed that the boxes the software came in were quickly hidden away so it would look as though we were 'normal' and had installed bootlegged programs.
000
Ten years later, in Azerbaijan, the computers and software for our project were all legal. The European Union that was funding the project had even tougher rules than Canada about using only properly licensed products.
But outside the office---in the streets---it was another matter.
One of the local computer stores was selling disks for $2 that a clerk told me had computer software worth over a thousand dollars, programs that had been stripped of the codes installed by the software companies to prevent piracy.
DVDs of first run movies were available for two or three dollars. The quality wasn't great---I was told that they were copied by someone sitting in a cinema with a video recorder---but the price was certainly right.
Foreign visitors to Baku regularly stocked up on both the software and the movies.
000
Rolex watches have always been a favourite of counterfeiters. I remember years ago seeing people on street corners in the US and Canada selling Rolex knock offs quite openly. Then the authorities cracked down and the Rolexes disappeared.
During a trip to Malaysia in 1991, we discovered where the Rolexes had gone----there were tables of them in the markets of Kuala Lumpur.
We bought a man's and a woman's, for $10 each. They were to be just conversation pieces because Pat and I had discovered earlier on that we couldn't wear knock off watches because they either turned our wrists green or brought on a rash.
Sticking the watches in a suitcase, we forgot about them. When we arrived back in Canada, it was obvious that the suitcase had been tampered with. I worried about a valuable camera and a fancy shortwave radio, but they were safe.
You guessed it. The only items missing were the knock off Rolexes.
000
A final story about knock offs.
I am only going to say that the story happened somewhere in Asia.
Pat and I were riding the hotel shuttle into the downtown area one day. The bus was full of well-dressed women from many countries in North America, Europe, Australia and New Zealand. Although they were from different countries, they obviously knew each other.
One of them told us that their husbands were working on an international treaty and had regular meetings around the world, in places like Rome, London, and Tokyo. The wives usually tagged along on these trips and they liked to get together to do some sightseeing and shopping.
(As you can infer, this happened some years ago when treaty negotiations were conducted almost exclusively by men. The situation today would be quite different.)
The woman told us that she and her friends were off that day to a particular part of the city that sold knock offs. The local authorities, she explained, had clamped down on the public display of knock offs but there were still stores that sold them---but you had to go into the back of the store or into a basement and ask to see them.
Her eyes glistened when she talked about the quality and low price of the counterfeit handbags, belts, watches, and jewellery you could get at these shops.
When we asked what kind of treaty the husbands were working on, she looked more than a bit sheepish.
It was a treaty on intellectual property that would require all countries to ban knock offs.
Now, there must be a moral in there somewhere.
Pat and I put our heads together and came up with these morals (you are invited to try your hand at one as well):
"Strike while the iron is hot."
"While the cat's away the mice will play."
"Do as I say, not as I do."
000
POSTSCRIPT
After finishing the above part of the posting, I came across an article in the St. Catharines Standard (Friday, April 23, 2010) about the Canadian classical and jazz guitarist and composer, Jesse Cook.
In an interview, Cook told about one of his songs being bootlegged by an Indian, 'Bollywood', movie. Here is an excerpt from the article that serves, I think, as a perfect ending to this posting:
"A song of mine was ripped off by one of the highest-grossing Bollywood movies of the last few years," he says.
"Their big hit single was a song called Dhoom Dhoom (recorded by Tata Young), which was in fact my song Mario Takes a Walk."
He found out about the alleged copycat song, used in the movie Dhoom, from an Indian fan who wrote him on MySpace.
"It was the weirdest thing. Here was this blatant act of plagiarism and in fact, I loved it. I loved the version that this artist did, I thought it was better than my own," he says with a laugh.
"I just wished they'd called me and said, 'You know, we'd like to use your song.' Because there's no reason to steal when I would be happy to share."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #70 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
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
POSTING #68
Gestures---Some Rude, Some Not---from Around the World
Watching a recent video clip of Rahm Emanuel---President Obama's Chief of Staff---playfully thumbing his nose at someone reminded me of recess when I was attending the Arthur Public School.
Thumbing one's nose---what the Urban Dictionary defines as, " A sign of derision made by putting your thumb on your nose and wiggling your fingers."---was very common on the playground.
At least when the teachers weren't looking.
Thumbing one's nose wasn't an angry gesture, like putting up your dukes, or saying "I'll get you after four."
Yes, it was naughty and a 'put down' but it wasn't at all vicious.
000
Another gesture that was used a lot in Arthur was to point an index finger at a boy and girl who happened to be talking and then rub it with the other index finger, the point being to embarrass them by suggesting that there was something romantic going on.
I wonder about the origin of that gesture and how widespread it was, and whether it is still being used on playgrounds today.
Perhaps one of our younger readers can help me.
000
In Russia there were many gestures, two of which made a major impact on me.
One was the shoulder shrug that signified, "Who knows".
The mid-1990s was a time of considerable chaos in Russia and a shrug was the appropriate answer to questions such as: when will the fax machine be fixed?, when will the computers arrive?, when will the train leave?, when will the cable installer come?, and on and on.
When I came home for leave after a several-month stint in Russia, Pat claims that I responded to her questions with the Russian shrug. She found this very annoying, especially from one who had been a bit of a 'know-it-all.
It would take Pat a week or so to re-Canadianize me.
The other Russian gesture came from the woman who was my liaison with the Russian employment service. She was a remarkable woman, an engineer, intelligent, hard-working, and dedicated. Much of whatever success we had with our project in Russia was due to her.
She was also strong-willed.
From time to time, we would have lively discussions about how the project should be run. The usual point of contention was about how much a team of Canadian consultants could reasonably be expected to accomplish during their 6 week stay in Russia.
After one particularly acrimonious debate, the woman threw up her hands as though I were the most uncooperative person on earth and marched to the door. She paused in the doorway, and turning her head so she could watch my reaction, she scuffed her shoes as though she were scraping something unpleasant off the soles---perhaps dog dirt.
Slamming the door, she took off.
In a day or two, after tempers had cooled, we reached an accommodation.
I thought of her when I read a study a few years ago about the conditions that lead to successful foreign aid projects. One of the key factors identified in the study was the presence of a dedicated, hard working liaison person from the host country.
I was lucky in my consulting career to almost always have a strong liaison person.
My Russian shoe-scuffing friend was one of the best!
000
We are all familiar with another gesture---the middle-finger salute, which indicates, let's say, a strong sense of outrage.
I ran into a similar but even more potent gesture in Amman, Jordan.
Coming back to my hotel from a day at the Jordanian office, in the heavy evening traffic, my driver was cut off by someone. The usually mild-minded driver became upset and as we pulled alongside the other car, he leaned out the window and made a gesture that I hadn't seen before.
The other driver shouted and waved his arms in anger. My driver settled back in his seat, pleased at the reaction he had obtained from the other driver.
I asked him what the gesture meant.
He shook his head, said he couldn't tell me.
I persisted and he finally said, "I am sorry Mr. John, I shouldn't have done that. It was bad."
He turned back to the road, as though the issue were closed.
Ever eager to learn more about the local culture, I insisted he tell me.
At last, he showed me the gesture, a rather intricate arrangement of the fingers of one hand.
After considerable prompting, he finally told me that the gesture meant that the other person had an unusually small manhood (sorry for the circumlocution, but this IS a family blog).
And worse, the gesture suggested that the manhood was limp.
I could see why the other driver was upset.
Now, you may have noticed that I haven't described the gesture.
There is a reason.
A few years later, we were having a discussion with a guest in our Windows-on-the-Lake bed and breakfast in Grimsby when the issue of road rage came up. The guest, a woman from Toronto, was telling about her encounters with rude, aggressive drivers.
I told the story about the Amman gesture. She was very interested, and insisted that I demonstrate the gesture several times. She practised it, asking whether she had got it just right.
She had.
After breakfast, she told us she was going to St. Catharines to do some shopping.
The next morning at breakfast, she had hardly sat down before she started to tell us about an adventure she had had in St. Catharines.
A taxi driver cut her off. Seeing that his complexion suggested that he could be from the Middle East, she gave him THE gesture.
I was horrified. It is one thing to have another man make that gesture, but a woman!
"What did he do?", I asked.
"Oh, it was most satisfactory,", she purred.
Apparently, the taxi driver, stared at her with disbelief, and then started to shout and bang the steering wheel.
She said that it made her feel much better and she intended to use the gesture in Toronto.
I pleaded with her not to use the gesture any more---that a driver might be so outraged he would ram her car.
She just smiled.
I keep waiting to hear that a woman driver in Toronto has been arrested for causing a public disturbance by making an obscene gesture at a taxi driver.
So, you can see why I am not going to describe the gesture.
At a time when President Obama is trying to restrict the distribution of nuclear products, I think I have an obligation to limit the spread of nuclear gestures.
I hope you understand.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #69 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@cs.com.
Watching a recent video clip of Rahm Emanuel---President Obama's Chief of Staff---playfully thumbing his nose at someone reminded me of recess when I was attending the Arthur Public School.
Thumbing one's nose---what the Urban Dictionary defines as, " A sign of derision made by putting your thumb on your nose and wiggling your fingers."---was very common on the playground.
At least when the teachers weren't looking.
Thumbing one's nose wasn't an angry gesture, like putting up your dukes, or saying "I'll get you after four."
Yes, it was naughty and a 'put down' but it wasn't at all vicious.
000
Another gesture that was used a lot in Arthur was to point an index finger at a boy and girl who happened to be talking and then rub it with the other index finger, the point being to embarrass them by suggesting that there was something romantic going on.
I wonder about the origin of that gesture and how widespread it was, and whether it is still being used on playgrounds today.
Perhaps one of our younger readers can help me.
000
In Russia there were many gestures, two of which made a major impact on me.
One was the shoulder shrug that signified, "Who knows".
The mid-1990s was a time of considerable chaos in Russia and a shrug was the appropriate answer to questions such as: when will the fax machine be fixed?, when will the computers arrive?, when will the train leave?, when will the cable installer come?, and on and on.
When I came home for leave after a several-month stint in Russia, Pat claims that I responded to her questions with the Russian shrug. She found this very annoying, especially from one who had been a bit of a 'know-it-all.
It would take Pat a week or so to re-Canadianize me.
The other Russian gesture came from the woman who was my liaison with the Russian employment service. She was a remarkable woman, an engineer, intelligent, hard-working, and dedicated. Much of whatever success we had with our project in Russia was due to her.
She was also strong-willed.
From time to time, we would have lively discussions about how the project should be run. The usual point of contention was about how much a team of Canadian consultants could reasonably be expected to accomplish during their 6 week stay in Russia.
After one particularly acrimonious debate, the woman threw up her hands as though I were the most uncooperative person on earth and marched to the door. She paused in the doorway, and turning her head so she could watch my reaction, she scuffed her shoes as though she were scraping something unpleasant off the soles---perhaps dog dirt.
Slamming the door, she took off.
In a day or two, after tempers had cooled, we reached an accommodation.
I thought of her when I read a study a few years ago about the conditions that lead to successful foreign aid projects. One of the key factors identified in the study was the presence of a dedicated, hard working liaison person from the host country.
I was lucky in my consulting career to almost always have a strong liaison person.
My Russian shoe-scuffing friend was one of the best!
000
We are all familiar with another gesture---the middle-finger salute, which indicates, let's say, a strong sense of outrage.
I ran into a similar but even more potent gesture in Amman, Jordan.
Coming back to my hotel from a day at the Jordanian office, in the heavy evening traffic, my driver was cut off by someone. The usually mild-minded driver became upset and as we pulled alongside the other car, he leaned out the window and made a gesture that I hadn't seen before.
The other driver shouted and waved his arms in anger. My driver settled back in his seat, pleased at the reaction he had obtained from the other driver.
I asked him what the gesture meant.
He shook his head, said he couldn't tell me.
I persisted and he finally said, "I am sorry Mr. John, I shouldn't have done that. It was bad."
He turned back to the road, as though the issue were closed.
Ever eager to learn more about the local culture, I insisted he tell me.
At last, he showed me the gesture, a rather intricate arrangement of the fingers of one hand.
After considerable prompting, he finally told me that the gesture meant that the other person had an unusually small manhood (sorry for the circumlocution, but this IS a family blog).
And worse, the gesture suggested that the manhood was limp.
I could see why the other driver was upset.
Now, you may have noticed that I haven't described the gesture.
There is a reason.
A few years later, we were having a discussion with a guest in our Windows-on-the-Lake bed and breakfast in Grimsby when the issue of road rage came up. The guest, a woman from Toronto, was telling about her encounters with rude, aggressive drivers.
I told the story about the Amman gesture. She was very interested, and insisted that I demonstrate the gesture several times. She practised it, asking whether she had got it just right.
She had.
After breakfast, she told us she was going to St. Catharines to do some shopping.
The next morning at breakfast, she had hardly sat down before she started to tell us about an adventure she had had in St. Catharines.
A taxi driver cut her off. Seeing that his complexion suggested that he could be from the Middle East, she gave him THE gesture.
I was horrified. It is one thing to have another man make that gesture, but a woman!
"What did he do?", I asked.
"Oh, it was most satisfactory,", she purred.
Apparently, the taxi driver, stared at her with disbelief, and then started to shout and bang the steering wheel.
She said that it made her feel much better and she intended to use the gesture in Toronto.
I pleaded with her not to use the gesture any more---that a driver might be so outraged he would ram her car.
She just smiled.
I keep waiting to hear that a woman driver in Toronto has been arrested for causing a public disturbance by making an obscene gesture at a taxi driver.
So, you can see why I am not going to describe the gesture.
At a time when President Obama is trying to restrict the distribution of nuclear products, I think I have an obligation to limit the spread of nuclear gestures.
I hope you understand.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #69 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@cs.com.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
POSTING #67
Passage to India (and the Taj Mahal)
A few weeks ago, the UK Antiques Road Show featured a person who had brought in a collection of autographed novels written by E. M. Forster, including "Passage to India".
The program brought back my attempts to understand 'Passage' in my first-year English course at Queen's. Growing up in a homogeneous community in rural Western Ontario hadn't really equipped me to understand this complex and subtle novel about the lives of British ex-patriates in India in the 1920s.
Some of the British characters tried to ignore---as much as that was possible---the cultural differences between their homeland and India, treating the Indians much like serfs in medieval England. A few others dipped bravely into the mysteries of the ancient culture. There was often a heavy emotional price to pay for that bravery.
Even though I didn't feel that I fully understood the novel---the professor seemed to agree with that assessment, given his grade on my essay about 'Passage'---it made me want to experience India for myself.
I was happy, therefore, to be asked, in 1969, to be part of a three-person team---Dave, the leader, Phyllis, a Human Resources official, and me---that would go to India to interview Canadian Immigration staff working in New Delhi.
Getting ready for the trip, I told myself that I must be prepared for experiences that were strange and probably unpleasant.
000
A member of the Canadian High Commission met us when we got off the plane, and seeing that we were tired from the flight tried to hustle us through Indian Customs. As the Customs officer searched through our bags, the official said,
"These people are guests of the Canadian High Commissioner and I am sure that he would appreciate anything you can do to expedite their clearance."
The Customs officer straightened up, "I am sure that the High Commissioner would appreciate that. I am also certain that he would expect me to do my duty."
And he went back to searching through our belongings.
The message was clear: 'India is a proud and independent nation. Don't mess with us.'
000
The next morning, after a good sleep in a fine hotel, we were driven to the Immigration Office. Outside the office were perhaps a hundred people sitting or lying on the ground, people who, we were told, were being sponsored for immigration and had been called in for an interview and medical examination.
Travelling from all over India, they often arrived days early so they wouldn't miss their interviews. Not having money for a hotel, they 'camped' outside the office until their turn came for an interview.
I thought of those immigrants last fall when our latest grandchild was born in the extraordinarily attractive and well-equipped Credit Valley Hospital in Mississauga. The generosity of the Indo-Canadian community was evident everywhere. A wing bore the name of an Indian family and many of the rooms in the maternity section had plaques referring to the contributions made by different Indian families.
I wondered whether some of those immigrants waiting for an interview in New Delhi---or possibly their descendents---were among those who had helped finance the hospital.
000
Having a free day after the interviews were finished, the Officer-in-Charge asked whether we would like to visit the Taj Mahal.
Dave had some paper work to do and declined but Phyllis and I agreed. We were told that the distance to Agra, the town in which the Taj is located, was about 250 kilometres but we were warned that it could be a slow journey, depending on the traffic.
We set off after breakfast the next morning in one of the High Commission's cars, a North American mini-van with welcome air conditioning---although it was spring the temperature was like a hot August day in Ottawa.
The driver was a locally-engaged Indian in a dark cotton outfit that was a cross between a suit and a uniform. His bearing and presence suggested a military past---perhaps as a sergeant major.
Until we got well out of New Delhi, the roads were clogged with every kind of motorized vehicle---from two wheels to eighteen---and ox-drawn carts. Every vehicle that had a horn used it almost constantly.
Once out in the country, I was astonished to see large green fields. We had been hearing a great deal about India's dreams for a 'green revolution' that would allow the country to feed its people without importing food. Using plant breeding, irrigation and chemical fertilizers---the dreams went---India would turn its dry dusty lands into green productive fields.
From what I had read---much of it from British media while we lived in England, which were often biased against anything Indian, perhaps because of the bitter fight for independence---it sounded like this was a pipe dream. The climate and land were too harsh and 'the Indian people simply weren't up to it'.
And yet, here were fields of very healthy looking wheat.
The green revolution was, of course, a great success.
I suppose I should add that there are now reports of some environmental problems because of the over-use of irrigation and fertilization.
Some more challenges for the Indian nation, but when you have more than a billion people with over 200 languages, challenges aren't something new.
000
Around noon, the driver said that the wife of the Officer-in-charge had packed a lunch in a cooler. He asked if we would like to pull over and have lunch in a shady spot.
We agreed and he turned off the main road into a village, looking for a suitable spot for a picnic lunch.
He suddenly put on the brakes and jumped out of the car. He marched toward a large tree with an enormous, umbrella-shaped crown that provided a wide circle of shade.
The only problem was that there were about 50 men sitting under the tree, some leaning back against the broad trunk.
Phyllis and I looked at each other. Were we to have our picnic in the midst of all these men?
Just then the driver started shouting and waving his arms at the men. We couldn't understand the words but the gestures were obvious---they were to clear off.
The men resisted, arguing with the driver, but they eventually picked themselves up and walked slowly into the sun.
Proud of what he had accomplished, the driver came back and gestured to the now vacant area.
"Good shade", he said.
We protested that we couldn't take the shade away from these men. It wasn't right.
"No, it's the way we do things. Come."
Getting the cooler and a blanket from the back of the van, he strode over to the tree and set up our picnic.
We sat down and opened the cooler. It was full of sandwiches, salads, fruit and ice-cold beer---a welcome sight for two hungry and thirsty people.
We looked up from the cooler and saw that the men who had been driven from under the tree were now assembled in a circle just outside the shade of the tree---sitting in the full sun---staring at us.
Meanwhile, the driver had gone back to the minivan, turned on the engine to run the air conditioner, and settled down for a snooze.
Phyllis and I took a bite of a sandwich, as dozens of dark eyes watched us.
We looked at each other and decided that we couldn't do it.
We tried to explain to the driver why we couldn't picnic under the tree. He just shook his head as much as to say, 'If you were recruits in my platoon you would be doing a hundred push-ups!'
Back in the car, and on our way to Agra, we ate the excellent lunch and drank the refreshing beer.
000
In Agra, the driver found us an English-speaking guide, a wiry old man with very few teeth and those that he did have were stained bright red from---we later learned---chewing betel nuts. He waved for us to follow him, and set off through crowded, narrow streets.
H e said he would tell us about the history of the Taj as we walked to it. His English was passable but his descriptions were delivered in a sing-song, 'pre-recorded' spiel that was hard to follow and almost impossible to interrupt.
According to the guide, the Taj was built in the 1600s by Shah Jahan, a king of India, in memory of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. Just before her death, Mumtaz asked that a beautiful tomb be built so that she would not be forgotten.
As we walked, we were approached by beggars---young children with dirty, skimpy clothing and mothers clutching babies.
The babies were heart-breaking---tiny things, many of them with yellow-crusted eyes. Flies buzzed around the babies, some landing on the crusted eyes.
Shouting and waving his arms at the beggars, the guide told us, "Don't give them anything---it will just bring on more of them."
The noise of the crowded streets, the heat and dust, and the beggars began to get to us as we wound down yet another alley. I wondered if this had been a good idea.
Just then, we rounded a corner and started toward a stone arch. As we walked on, we had our first view of the Taj---perfectly framed by the arched doorway.
As we went through the arch, the beggars fell behind, and the dust and heat were forgotten.
We walked along the paths leading to the Taj, paths that had once been covered with oriental rugs.
I won't attempt to describe the Taj, except to say that I haven't seen anything so beautiful---to me, it is Beethoven's Ninth in marble.
After we had drunk our fill of the Taj, the guide took us back to the car.
As we went, he told us we must come back some December during full moon to see the Taj at night. He said that the Taj is even more beautiful at night with the silvery light of a full moon glistening off the marble.
I told myself that it would be wonderful to visit the Taj with Pat some December.
It hasn't happened yet but I'm still working on it.
Who knows......
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #68 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@cs.com.
A few weeks ago, the UK Antiques Road Show featured a person who had brought in a collection of autographed novels written by E. M. Forster, including "Passage to India".
The program brought back my attempts to understand 'Passage' in my first-year English course at Queen's. Growing up in a homogeneous community in rural Western Ontario hadn't really equipped me to understand this complex and subtle novel about the lives of British ex-patriates in India in the 1920s.
Some of the British characters tried to ignore---as much as that was possible---the cultural differences between their homeland and India, treating the Indians much like serfs in medieval England. A few others dipped bravely into the mysteries of the ancient culture. There was often a heavy emotional price to pay for that bravery.
Even though I didn't feel that I fully understood the novel---the professor seemed to agree with that assessment, given his grade on my essay about 'Passage'---it made me want to experience India for myself.
I was happy, therefore, to be asked, in 1969, to be part of a three-person team---Dave, the leader, Phyllis, a Human Resources official, and me---that would go to India to interview Canadian Immigration staff working in New Delhi.
Getting ready for the trip, I told myself that I must be prepared for experiences that were strange and probably unpleasant.
000
A member of the Canadian High Commission met us when we got off the plane, and seeing that we were tired from the flight tried to hustle us through Indian Customs. As the Customs officer searched through our bags, the official said,
"These people are guests of the Canadian High Commissioner and I am sure that he would appreciate anything you can do to expedite their clearance."
The Customs officer straightened up, "I am sure that the High Commissioner would appreciate that. I am also certain that he would expect me to do my duty."
And he went back to searching through our belongings.
The message was clear: 'India is a proud and independent nation. Don't mess with us.'
000
The next morning, after a good sleep in a fine hotel, we were driven to the Immigration Office. Outside the office were perhaps a hundred people sitting or lying on the ground, people who, we were told, were being sponsored for immigration and had been called in for an interview and medical examination.
Travelling from all over India, they often arrived days early so they wouldn't miss their interviews. Not having money for a hotel, they 'camped' outside the office until their turn came for an interview.
I thought of those immigrants last fall when our latest grandchild was born in the extraordinarily attractive and well-equipped Credit Valley Hospital in Mississauga. The generosity of the Indo-Canadian community was evident everywhere. A wing bore the name of an Indian family and many of the rooms in the maternity section had plaques referring to the contributions made by different Indian families.
I wondered whether some of those immigrants waiting for an interview in New Delhi---or possibly their descendents---were among those who had helped finance the hospital.
000
Having a free day after the interviews were finished, the Officer-in-Charge asked whether we would like to visit the Taj Mahal.
Dave had some paper work to do and declined but Phyllis and I agreed. We were told that the distance to Agra, the town in which the Taj is located, was about 250 kilometres but we were warned that it could be a slow journey, depending on the traffic.
We set off after breakfast the next morning in one of the High Commission's cars, a North American mini-van with welcome air conditioning---although it was spring the temperature was like a hot August day in Ottawa.
The driver was a locally-engaged Indian in a dark cotton outfit that was a cross between a suit and a uniform. His bearing and presence suggested a military past---perhaps as a sergeant major.
Until we got well out of New Delhi, the roads were clogged with every kind of motorized vehicle---from two wheels to eighteen---and ox-drawn carts. Every vehicle that had a horn used it almost constantly.
Once out in the country, I was astonished to see large green fields. We had been hearing a great deal about India's dreams for a 'green revolution' that would allow the country to feed its people without importing food. Using plant breeding, irrigation and chemical fertilizers---the dreams went---India would turn its dry dusty lands into green productive fields.
From what I had read---much of it from British media while we lived in England, which were often biased against anything Indian, perhaps because of the bitter fight for independence---it sounded like this was a pipe dream. The climate and land were too harsh and 'the Indian people simply weren't up to it'.
And yet, here were fields of very healthy looking wheat.
The green revolution was, of course, a great success.
I suppose I should add that there are now reports of some environmental problems because of the over-use of irrigation and fertilization.
Some more challenges for the Indian nation, but when you have more than a billion people with over 200 languages, challenges aren't something new.
000
Around noon, the driver said that the wife of the Officer-in-charge had packed a lunch in a cooler. He asked if we would like to pull over and have lunch in a shady spot.
We agreed and he turned off the main road into a village, looking for a suitable spot for a picnic lunch.
He suddenly put on the brakes and jumped out of the car. He marched toward a large tree with an enormous, umbrella-shaped crown that provided a wide circle of shade.
The only problem was that there were about 50 men sitting under the tree, some leaning back against the broad trunk.
Phyllis and I looked at each other. Were we to have our picnic in the midst of all these men?
Just then the driver started shouting and waving his arms at the men. We couldn't understand the words but the gestures were obvious---they were to clear off.
The men resisted, arguing with the driver, but they eventually picked themselves up and walked slowly into the sun.
Proud of what he had accomplished, the driver came back and gestured to the now vacant area.
"Good shade", he said.
We protested that we couldn't take the shade away from these men. It wasn't right.
"No, it's the way we do things. Come."
Getting the cooler and a blanket from the back of the van, he strode over to the tree and set up our picnic.
We sat down and opened the cooler. It was full of sandwiches, salads, fruit and ice-cold beer---a welcome sight for two hungry and thirsty people.
We looked up from the cooler and saw that the men who had been driven from under the tree were now assembled in a circle just outside the shade of the tree---sitting in the full sun---staring at us.
Meanwhile, the driver had gone back to the minivan, turned on the engine to run the air conditioner, and settled down for a snooze.
Phyllis and I took a bite of a sandwich, as dozens of dark eyes watched us.
We looked at each other and decided that we couldn't do it.
We tried to explain to the driver why we couldn't picnic under the tree. He just shook his head as much as to say, 'If you were recruits in my platoon you would be doing a hundred push-ups!'
Back in the car, and on our way to Agra, we ate the excellent lunch and drank the refreshing beer.
000
In Agra, the driver found us an English-speaking guide, a wiry old man with very few teeth and those that he did have were stained bright red from---we later learned---chewing betel nuts. He waved for us to follow him, and set off through crowded, narrow streets.
H e said he would tell us about the history of the Taj as we walked to it. His English was passable but his descriptions were delivered in a sing-song, 'pre-recorded' spiel that was hard to follow and almost impossible to interrupt.
According to the guide, the Taj was built in the 1600s by Shah Jahan, a king of India, in memory of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. Just before her death, Mumtaz asked that a beautiful tomb be built so that she would not be forgotten.
As we walked, we were approached by beggars---young children with dirty, skimpy clothing and mothers clutching babies.
The babies were heart-breaking---tiny things, many of them with yellow-crusted eyes. Flies buzzed around the babies, some landing on the crusted eyes.
Shouting and waving his arms at the beggars, the guide told us, "Don't give them anything---it will just bring on more of them."
The noise of the crowded streets, the heat and dust, and the beggars began to get to us as we wound down yet another alley. I wondered if this had been a good idea.
Just then, we rounded a corner and started toward a stone arch. As we walked on, we had our first view of the Taj---perfectly framed by the arched doorway.
As we went through the arch, the beggars fell behind, and the dust and heat were forgotten.
We walked along the paths leading to the Taj, paths that had once been covered with oriental rugs.
I won't attempt to describe the Taj, except to say that I haven't seen anything so beautiful---to me, it is Beethoven's Ninth in marble.
After we had drunk our fill of the Taj, the guide took us back to the car.
As we went, he told us we must come back some December during full moon to see the Taj at night. He said that the Taj is even more beautiful at night with the silvery light of a full moon glistening off the marble.
I told myself that it would be wonderful to visit the Taj with Pat some December.
It hasn't happened yet but I'm still working on it.
Who knows......
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #68 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@cs.com.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
POSTING #66
"Watch Old Joe"
It was the fall of 1963 and I was getting ready to conduct my first Canadian Immigration film show in London--- having just been reassigned from Leeds to London-- when an office colleague tapped me on the shoulder.
"See that guy coming in? We call him Old Joe (not his real name), he's a Canadian who lives here and asks really tough questions."
Joe looked to be in his 60s, tallish, slight, mainly bald with some long wisps of brown hair that could have been used for a 'combed over' look but had been blown askew. He had on a brown trench coat that looked as though it had seen many years and not many dry-cleaners. Under the coat was a rumpled suit and a tired tie.
Tucked under his arm was a folded-up copy of the pink Financial Times.
My colleague added, "Watch old Joe."
The show was being held in Caxton Hall, a much larger auditorium than I had been used to in the north of England, with room for 300 or so people on the main floor and a balcony on three sides.
As I stood on the stage ready to start the show I saw Joe in the balcony, near the stage, just on my right.
I showed two films about Canada, gave my talk and then invited questions.
Joe stood up and boomed out, "Could you comment on the latest gross provincial product figures for Alberta?"
Whew!!
I studied political science at university, not economics, and didn't have a really good handle on the concept of 'gross provincial product'.
And I hadn't seen any recent figures on Alberta.
I thanked Joe for the question and---deciding that honesty was the best policy---said that I hadn't seen the latest figures on Alberta.
But, I went on, it was clear that Alberta had an excellent future. I told about taking a train trip from Edmonton to Calgary and seeing on one side of the train a field with cattle grazing amid machines that were pumping oil from underground wells, while on the other side was an enormous field of ripening wheat.
I mentioned the tar sands in Northern Alberta that reportedly had as much petroleum as Saudi Arabia, but were waiting for a technology to be developed to extract the oil.
Then I took another question.
After the show, Joe came up to me.
"I hope I didn't embarrass you with my question."
"No, it was fine."
"It's just that Alberta is going to boom and these people could do so much better in Canada."
We chatted for a few moments and then I had to excuse myself to talk to a member of the audience who wanted some information on his prospects in Canada.
I met Joe at other film shows. He always asked a tough question that he thought would help us make the point that Canada was a great place to live.
And we always had a chat.
I learned that he spent his days studying the London Metal Market, focusing primarily on the sale and purchase of scrap metal. He explained that virtually everything that happened around the world could affect scrap metal prices---weather, political crises, economic problems, fashions etc. He had to understand what was going on---he said that the ever-present Financial Times was his window on the World.
His knowledge was encyclopedic---I had never met anyone who was so well-informed about what was going on in the world.
As we became better acquainted, he told me that he had an English partner, a wealthy man who used Joe's recommendations about which metals to buy and sell. He implied that the investments had done well, but it was obvious that if they had, he chose not to spend his returns on clothes.
At one point, Pat and I were having a representational dinner for journalists, travel company officials and other people I worked with.
I invited Joe to join us.
He seemed pleased, and I got the impression that he didn't receive many invitations to dinner.
When he arrived at our home, he was dressed just the same as at a film show---sort of 'unkempt genteel'.
At first he was a bit quiet but as the evening progressed he joined in the discussions, and seemed to enjoy himself.
Some time later, he invited us to Orpheus in the Underworld at the Royal Opera Hall in Covent Garden. He said he had invited his business partner and his wife as well, and suggested we have dinner before the performance at 'his club'.
The partner and his wife---in their early 50s---were well polished, 'old-money' people probably from a wealthy community outside of London.
At one point during the dinner, Joe and his partner went off to the washroom. They were an odd looking couple---one immaculately dressed and self-confident, the other a little scruffy and ill at ease. But they seemed to have a good relationship and it was clear that the partner respected Joe's expertise in the metal market.
After they had gone, the partner's wife leaned over to us.
"I suppose Joe has told you that he and my husband are partners. I just wanted to tell you that they are NOT partners. My husband has an investment business and Joe simply provides him with tips from time to time."
It was clear that she didn't have much time for Joe---that he wasn't one of them.
The club was more modest than the famous London clubs like Garrick's but the ambiance and dinner were excellent.
As was the Orpheus.
The seats couldn't have been better, just a few rows from the stage and right in the middle.
Joe obviously enjoyed the music, the singing and the acting. While other members of the audience were applauding with gentle enthusiasm, he expressed his pleasure and appreciation for fine performances by bellowing 'Bravo, Bravo'.
I could see the partner's wife cringing.
We enjoyed the evening but it left us with more questions about Joe.
What was the story on him?
Joe was not very forthcoming about his past but over time I began to piece together some parts of his story.
His family had migrated from Poland to western Canada before World War I. In time, his dad became a successful cattle farmer.
In the late 1930s his father saw an opportunity to export some breeding-stock cattle to Poland. Joe and his dad arrived in Poland in September 1939 with a shipment of cattle, just as Germany was invading the country---and, of course, setting off the Second World War.
Unable to leave Poland, they went to live on a farm with some relatives, hoping that the war would soon be over.
Somehow, British Intelligence agents found out about them and recruited them to spy for Britain.
Unfortunately, they were caught by the Germans and jailed.
I once asked Joe what the jail was like, was it like a prisoner of war camp?
Joe blew up.
"No, no, no! Prisoner of war camps were tough but the jails were unbelievable. There were no Red Cross inspections, no parcels from home.
"No one had any rights. The guards could do anything they wanted to us---and they did."
He wouldn't talk about the brutality of the guards except to say at one time,
"I have looked up the a--hole of humanity".
He added that although he accepted that humanity could be brutal he preferred to focus on the better side of humanity.
For him, he said, that was friendship.
And the friendship he was talking about, he told me, was summed up in this saying: "Friendship never demands, it just gives".
After the war, he settled in London, perhaps with the help of British Intelligence. (I never learned what happened to his father.)
When, in 1966, it came time for us to return to Canada, I gave Joe the news at a film show.
We had a good chat and agreed to stay in touch. He said I could send him letters care of the Canadian High Commission on Trafalgar Square.
I was puzzled why he didn't give me the address of the place where he lived. Was he embarrassed about where he lived? Or was the ex-spy simply being careful, protecting his privacy?
In the end, I didn't write to him.
And I feel guilty.
And frustrated---frustrated that I don't know, and can't tell you, 'The rest of the story' about Joe.
There are so many unanswered questions.
What kind of spying was he doing in Poland? How was he caught by the Germans? Why did he stay in England after the war when his love for Canada was so clear? Had he married? Did he have a family? Where did he live? How could he afford a club and tickets to the opera? What happened to him after 1966 when I left England?
On and on.
Perhaps a reader somewhere will recognize Joe from my descriptions and will be able to tell me (and through me, you) more about this complex man who passionately loved Canada and whose life was so terribly scarred by the war.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #67 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@cs.com.
It was the fall of 1963 and I was getting ready to conduct my first Canadian Immigration film show in London--- having just been reassigned from Leeds to London-- when an office colleague tapped me on the shoulder.
"See that guy coming in? We call him Old Joe (not his real name), he's a Canadian who lives here and asks really tough questions."
Joe looked to be in his 60s, tallish, slight, mainly bald with some long wisps of brown hair that could have been used for a 'combed over' look but had been blown askew. He had on a brown trench coat that looked as though it had seen many years and not many dry-cleaners. Under the coat was a rumpled suit and a tired tie.
Tucked under his arm was a folded-up copy of the pink Financial Times.
My colleague added, "Watch old Joe."
The show was being held in Caxton Hall, a much larger auditorium than I had been used to in the north of England, with room for 300 or so people on the main floor and a balcony on three sides.
As I stood on the stage ready to start the show I saw Joe in the balcony, near the stage, just on my right.
I showed two films about Canada, gave my talk and then invited questions.
Joe stood up and boomed out, "Could you comment on the latest gross provincial product figures for Alberta?"
Whew!!
I studied political science at university, not economics, and didn't have a really good handle on the concept of 'gross provincial product'.
And I hadn't seen any recent figures on Alberta.
I thanked Joe for the question and---deciding that honesty was the best policy---said that I hadn't seen the latest figures on Alberta.
But, I went on, it was clear that Alberta had an excellent future. I told about taking a train trip from Edmonton to Calgary and seeing on one side of the train a field with cattle grazing amid machines that were pumping oil from underground wells, while on the other side was an enormous field of ripening wheat.
I mentioned the tar sands in Northern Alberta that reportedly had as much petroleum as Saudi Arabia, but were waiting for a technology to be developed to extract the oil.
Then I took another question.
After the show, Joe came up to me.
"I hope I didn't embarrass you with my question."
"No, it was fine."
"It's just that Alberta is going to boom and these people could do so much better in Canada."
We chatted for a few moments and then I had to excuse myself to talk to a member of the audience who wanted some information on his prospects in Canada.
I met Joe at other film shows. He always asked a tough question that he thought would help us make the point that Canada was a great place to live.
And we always had a chat.
I learned that he spent his days studying the London Metal Market, focusing primarily on the sale and purchase of scrap metal. He explained that virtually everything that happened around the world could affect scrap metal prices---weather, political crises, economic problems, fashions etc. He had to understand what was going on---he said that the ever-present Financial Times was his window on the World.
His knowledge was encyclopedic---I had never met anyone who was so well-informed about what was going on in the world.
As we became better acquainted, he told me that he had an English partner, a wealthy man who used Joe's recommendations about which metals to buy and sell. He implied that the investments had done well, but it was obvious that if they had, he chose not to spend his returns on clothes.
At one point, Pat and I were having a representational dinner for journalists, travel company officials and other people I worked with.
I invited Joe to join us.
He seemed pleased, and I got the impression that he didn't receive many invitations to dinner.
When he arrived at our home, he was dressed just the same as at a film show---sort of 'unkempt genteel'.
At first he was a bit quiet but as the evening progressed he joined in the discussions, and seemed to enjoy himself.
Some time later, he invited us to Orpheus in the Underworld at the Royal Opera Hall in Covent Garden. He said he had invited his business partner and his wife as well, and suggested we have dinner before the performance at 'his club'.
The partner and his wife---in their early 50s---were well polished, 'old-money' people probably from a wealthy community outside of London.
At one point during the dinner, Joe and his partner went off to the washroom. They were an odd looking couple---one immaculately dressed and self-confident, the other a little scruffy and ill at ease. But they seemed to have a good relationship and it was clear that the partner respected Joe's expertise in the metal market.
After they had gone, the partner's wife leaned over to us.
"I suppose Joe has told you that he and my husband are partners. I just wanted to tell you that they are NOT partners. My husband has an investment business and Joe simply provides him with tips from time to time."
It was clear that she didn't have much time for Joe---that he wasn't one of them.
The club was more modest than the famous London clubs like Garrick's but the ambiance and dinner were excellent.
As was the Orpheus.
The seats couldn't have been better, just a few rows from the stage and right in the middle.
Joe obviously enjoyed the music, the singing and the acting. While other members of the audience were applauding with gentle enthusiasm, he expressed his pleasure and appreciation for fine performances by bellowing 'Bravo, Bravo'.
I could see the partner's wife cringing.
We enjoyed the evening but it left us with more questions about Joe.
What was the story on him?
Joe was not very forthcoming about his past but over time I began to piece together some parts of his story.
His family had migrated from Poland to western Canada before World War I. In time, his dad became a successful cattle farmer.
In the late 1930s his father saw an opportunity to export some breeding-stock cattle to Poland. Joe and his dad arrived in Poland in September 1939 with a shipment of cattle, just as Germany was invading the country---and, of course, setting off the Second World War.
Unable to leave Poland, they went to live on a farm with some relatives, hoping that the war would soon be over.
Somehow, British Intelligence agents found out about them and recruited them to spy for Britain.
Unfortunately, they were caught by the Germans and jailed.
I once asked Joe what the jail was like, was it like a prisoner of war camp?
Joe blew up.
"No, no, no! Prisoner of war camps were tough but the jails were unbelievable. There were no Red Cross inspections, no parcels from home.
"No one had any rights. The guards could do anything they wanted to us---and they did."
He wouldn't talk about the brutality of the guards except to say at one time,
"I have looked up the a--hole of humanity".
He added that although he accepted that humanity could be brutal he preferred to focus on the better side of humanity.
For him, he said, that was friendship.
And the friendship he was talking about, he told me, was summed up in this saying: "Friendship never demands, it just gives".
After the war, he settled in London, perhaps with the help of British Intelligence. (I never learned what happened to his father.)
When, in 1966, it came time for us to return to Canada, I gave Joe the news at a film show.
We had a good chat and agreed to stay in touch. He said I could send him letters care of the Canadian High Commission on Trafalgar Square.
I was puzzled why he didn't give me the address of the place where he lived. Was he embarrassed about where he lived? Or was the ex-spy simply being careful, protecting his privacy?
In the end, I didn't write to him.
And I feel guilty.
And frustrated---frustrated that I don't know, and can't tell you, 'The rest of the story' about Joe.
There are so many unanswered questions.
What kind of spying was he doing in Poland? How was he caught by the Germans? Why did he stay in England after the war when his love for Canada was so clear? Had he married? Did he have a family? Where did he live? How could he afford a club and tickets to the opera? What happened to him after 1966 when I left England?
On and on.
Perhaps a reader somewhere will recognize Joe from my descriptions and will be able to tell me (and through me, you) more about this complex man who passionately loved Canada and whose life was so terribly scarred by the war.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #67 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@cs.com.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
POSTING #65
Being Knocked up in Durham, and Other English Cities
In this posting, I am going back to the 1960-1966 period when I was working for Canadian Immigration in England. (See Posting #63 for other stories from this period.
One of the best parts of conducting film shows in England was staying at small, historic inns.
My favourite was The Three Tuns in Durham, which I am happy to say is still in business. It dates from the 1500s, is in the centre of the city close to the remarkable Durham Cathedral with its Norman architecture and to Durham Castle, which is now part of the University of Durham.
After my first film show in Durham and the usual pub session with the travel representatives I returned to the hotel.
The night clerk asked, "What time would you like to be knocked up?"
The North American slang expression, 'being knocked up' hadn't made its way across the Atlantic at that time. Other officials at the Immigration office had warned me about the expression so I was able to keep a reasonably straight face. As time went by, I didn't react at all to the expression but I don't think I ever used it---I just couldn't bring myself to ask to be knocked up.
As a digression, I've been told that Australian visitors to Canada often buy sweatshirts with Roots emblazoned across them because the word 'root' is, according to a dictionary, "coarse slang for sexual intercourse". It makes me wonder how Australian teachers of botany discuss the parts of a plant without sending high school students into a storm of titters and guffaws.
Anyway, back to The Three Tuns.
I told the night clerk that I would like to be wakened at 6.30 with tea and the Times.
Then I climbed upstairs for a sound sleep in a soft and comfortable bed.
Promptly at 6.30, a maid knocked. opened the unlocked door (a different time and place!) and brought in a tray with a tea pot, an attractive cup and saucer, fresh rich milk and a copy of the Times. She pulled the curtains and disappeared.
I always asked for an early 'knock up' so that I could lie in bed, propped up on several pillows, sip the best tea I've ever had (only the North of England folk know how to make tea) and digest the Times.
And then after a leisurely soak in a deep, claw-foot tub, I went down for an English breakfast with grilled tomatoes, rashers of bacon, eggs, blood pudding (which I always left) and stone-cold toast (I learned that it didn't really matter that it wasn't warm---the sweet butter and strong Scottish marmalade made up for that). And of course, lots more excellent tea.
I travelled back to the Leeds office about as happy and comfortable as a person could be.
000
On another film show occasion (in the North of England but not in Durham), the five travel representatives, who always came to our shows, and I had checked into a small inn. After the film show, the reps and I adjourned as usual to a pub.
As we sipped our beer, I looked at the reps. Four of them were clearly from working class or lower middle class backgrounds.
They were personable, hard-working, competent representatives for their companies, but their backgrounds showed. Their suits were off-the-rack, their body language showed a lack of confidence, their faces had a tense look of someone trying to get ahead, or at least trying to hang on to what they had.
Above all were the pronounced regional accents---of Lancashire, Yorkshire or Northumberland or other counties. (I thought about a secretary in our office who was spending money the family really couldn't afford to send their daughter for costly elocution lessons so she would grow up without a Yorkshire accent.)
At that time, accent was so very important. There were no regional accents on the BBC---all the presenters and newsreaders spoke 'proper English'.
The fifth travel rep, Reg Fairbottom (not his real name), was different.
He was in his 50s, not short and not tall, a little stout but his weight was concealed by a well-cut, three piece dark suit. He wore a school tie indicating that he had gone to a public (private) school.
The school had done a fine job. Reg spoke with what was called 'a posh accent'. That combined with his relaxed posture and confident manner marked him as a person who 'belonged', a person who had 'arrived'.
He could have worked for the BBC, any time.
Reg had a lot going for him but unfortunately he had a problem.
He drank too much---his favourite drink was the boiler maker, a shot of whisky (Scotch of course and spelled without the 'e')) with beer as a chaser.
Some drinkers become angry and obnoxious.
Not Reg.
As the evening wore on, he told stories, sang songs, played pranks---became more and more the life of the party.
Finally, I said good night to the group and went back to the inn.
The inn had only twenty or so rooms and no night clerk to take early morning calls. Instead, there was a chalk board on which guests were to jot down their 'knock up' details.
I wrote down "#7 6.30 T&T", which translated into: Room 7 wants tea and a Times at 6.30. And went off to bed.
I woke up with the sun coming in through the gap in the curtains. Looking at my watch, I saw that it was 7.15. I looked around for a tray with tea.
No tray. No tea. No Times.
There were no phones in the rooms to find out what had happened. So I rushed to get washed and dressed---I had a train to catch.
In the lobby, it looked like a scene from the BBC classic TV comedy Fawlty Towers. Guests were standing at the desk berating a harassed clerk who kept repeating that someone had erased the blackboard. The inn was sorry but what could it do. It couldn't make 'knock up calls' without the blackboard.
The mood in the dining room was bitter, as grumbling guests had to bolt their breakfasts in order to get to their business appointments or catch their trains.
A few weeks later, one of the travel reps called to say that the inn had decided that Reg was the culprit who had erased the blackboard and had banned him for life from the inn. The rep and I agreed that it was the kind of prank that Reg---after a night of boiler makers---might well have played
At the next film show in that city, I checked into the same inn and went down to the hall for the show.
Reg was there, big as life.
I asked him where he was staying.
"At the ------", naming the hotel that had banned him.
"But I thought...."
"Oh, there was some bother after the last show but I managed to get a room."
"How?"
Reg smiled, "You have to understand the British. I phoned and said 'This is Sir Reginald brumpf-brumpf. Would you have a room for me this evening."
Apparently, the clerk had said, "Of course, Sir Reginald, we would be delighted to have you stay with us."
"But", I asked, "what happened when you showed up?"
"Oh, they recognized me, but what could they do. For all they know I might have a 'K' (slang for a knighthood). We British still respect titles, don't you know."
And they were also deferential to someone with a 'posh' accent.
When I got back to the hotel, there was a night clerk to take the 'knock up' orders. They obviously weren't going to trust a blackboard when 'Sir Reginald' was around.
The next morning I got my tea and Times at 6.30.
Stop the Press News!!
On March 25th we saw our first boat of the season in the Welland Canal---the Rt. Hon. Paul J. Martin (Canada Steamship Lines).
It somehow seemed appropriate that in a week that the US President signed a major health care bill into law, the first ship through the Canal should be named after a politician who played a key role in bringing health care to Canada.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #66 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@cs.com.
In this posting, I am going back to the 1960-1966 period when I was working for Canadian Immigration in England. (See Posting #63 for other stories from this period.
One of the best parts of conducting film shows in England was staying at small, historic inns.
My favourite was The Three Tuns in Durham, which I am happy to say is still in business. It dates from the 1500s, is in the centre of the city close to the remarkable Durham Cathedral with its Norman architecture and to Durham Castle, which is now part of the University of Durham.
After my first film show in Durham and the usual pub session with the travel representatives I returned to the hotel.
The night clerk asked, "What time would you like to be knocked up?"
The North American slang expression, 'being knocked up' hadn't made its way across the Atlantic at that time. Other officials at the Immigration office had warned me about the expression so I was able to keep a reasonably straight face. As time went by, I didn't react at all to the expression but I don't think I ever used it---I just couldn't bring myself to ask to be knocked up.
As a digression, I've been told that Australian visitors to Canada often buy sweatshirts with Roots emblazoned across them because the word 'root' is, according to a dictionary, "coarse slang for sexual intercourse". It makes me wonder how Australian teachers of botany discuss the parts of a plant without sending high school students into a storm of titters and guffaws.
Anyway, back to The Three Tuns.
I told the night clerk that I would like to be wakened at 6.30 with tea and the Times.
Then I climbed upstairs for a sound sleep in a soft and comfortable bed.
Promptly at 6.30, a maid knocked. opened the unlocked door (a different time and place!) and brought in a tray with a tea pot, an attractive cup and saucer, fresh rich milk and a copy of the Times. She pulled the curtains and disappeared.
I always asked for an early 'knock up' so that I could lie in bed, propped up on several pillows, sip the best tea I've ever had (only the North of England folk know how to make tea) and digest the Times.
And then after a leisurely soak in a deep, claw-foot tub, I went down for an English breakfast with grilled tomatoes, rashers of bacon, eggs, blood pudding (which I always left) and stone-cold toast (I learned that it didn't really matter that it wasn't warm---the sweet butter and strong Scottish marmalade made up for that). And of course, lots more excellent tea.
I travelled back to the Leeds office about as happy and comfortable as a person could be.
000
On another film show occasion (in the North of England but not in Durham), the five travel representatives, who always came to our shows, and I had checked into a small inn. After the film show, the reps and I adjourned as usual to a pub.
As we sipped our beer, I looked at the reps. Four of them were clearly from working class or lower middle class backgrounds.
They were personable, hard-working, competent representatives for their companies, but their backgrounds showed. Their suits were off-the-rack, their body language showed a lack of confidence, their faces had a tense look of someone trying to get ahead, or at least trying to hang on to what they had.
Above all were the pronounced regional accents---of Lancashire, Yorkshire or Northumberland or other counties. (I thought about a secretary in our office who was spending money the family really couldn't afford to send their daughter for costly elocution lessons so she would grow up without a Yorkshire accent.)
At that time, accent was so very important. There were no regional accents on the BBC---all the presenters and newsreaders spoke 'proper English'.
The fifth travel rep, Reg Fairbottom (not his real name), was different.
He was in his 50s, not short and not tall, a little stout but his weight was concealed by a well-cut, three piece dark suit. He wore a school tie indicating that he had gone to a public (private) school.
The school had done a fine job. Reg spoke with what was called 'a posh accent'. That combined with his relaxed posture and confident manner marked him as a person who 'belonged', a person who had 'arrived'.
He could have worked for the BBC, any time.
Reg had a lot going for him but unfortunately he had a problem.
He drank too much---his favourite drink was the boiler maker, a shot of whisky (Scotch of course and spelled without the 'e')) with beer as a chaser.
Some drinkers become angry and obnoxious.
Not Reg.
As the evening wore on, he told stories, sang songs, played pranks---became more and more the life of the party.
Finally, I said good night to the group and went back to the inn.
The inn had only twenty or so rooms and no night clerk to take early morning calls. Instead, there was a chalk board on which guests were to jot down their 'knock up' details.
I wrote down "#7 6.30 T&T", which translated into: Room 7 wants tea and a Times at 6.30. And went off to bed.
I woke up with the sun coming in through the gap in the curtains. Looking at my watch, I saw that it was 7.15. I looked around for a tray with tea.
No tray. No tea. No Times.
There were no phones in the rooms to find out what had happened. So I rushed to get washed and dressed---I had a train to catch.
In the lobby, it looked like a scene from the BBC classic TV comedy Fawlty Towers. Guests were standing at the desk berating a harassed clerk who kept repeating that someone had erased the blackboard. The inn was sorry but what could it do. It couldn't make 'knock up calls' without the blackboard.
The mood in the dining room was bitter, as grumbling guests had to bolt their breakfasts in order to get to their business appointments or catch their trains.
A few weeks later, one of the travel reps called to say that the inn had decided that Reg was the culprit who had erased the blackboard and had banned him for life from the inn. The rep and I agreed that it was the kind of prank that Reg---after a night of boiler makers---might well have played
At the next film show in that city, I checked into the same inn and went down to the hall for the show.
Reg was there, big as life.
I asked him where he was staying.
"At the ------", naming the hotel that had banned him.
"But I thought...."
"Oh, there was some bother after the last show but I managed to get a room."
"How?"
Reg smiled, "You have to understand the British. I phoned and said 'This is Sir Reginald brumpf-brumpf. Would you have a room for me this evening."
Apparently, the clerk had said, "Of course, Sir Reginald, we would be delighted to have you stay with us."
"But", I asked, "what happened when you showed up?"
"Oh, they recognized me, but what could they do. For all they know I might have a 'K' (slang for a knighthood). We British still respect titles, don't you know."
And they were also deferential to someone with a 'posh' accent.
When I got back to the hotel, there was a night clerk to take the 'knock up' orders. They obviously weren't going to trust a blackboard when 'Sir Reginald' was around.
The next morning I got my tea and Times at 6.30.
Stop the Press News!!
On March 25th we saw our first boat of the season in the Welland Canal---the Rt. Hon. Paul J. Martin (Canada Steamship Lines).
It somehow seemed appropriate that in a week that the US President signed a major health care bill into law, the first ship through the Canal should be named after a politician who played a key role in bringing health care to Canada.
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See you next Sunday for Posting #66 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@cs.com.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
POSTING #64
A Rainy Day in London---Ontario, That Is; Some London Highlights
Pat and I went for a mini-holiday in London last weekend.
The weather forecasters were right. They said it would be wet and it was.
But we had a good time.
The rain reminded me of another rainy trip to London, on Saturday, October 16, 1954.
I was in Grade 13 at the Arthur District High School and leader of the school's drum and bugle band. The band was made up of fellows in army cadet uniforms and young women in white blouses and pleated skirts, with saddle shoes (and white socks) along with a blue and white cape with a blue pill box hat, held on by an elastic band under the chin. (It will not surprise you if I say that the school colours were blue and white.)
Over the years the band had done well in a school band competition held each autumn as part of the Western Ontario Athletic Association meet that took place in London on the campus of the University of Western Ontario. Fairly often the band came home with the top prize.
But as with bands from other small high schools, the quality of the Arthur band ebbed and flowed, as experienced drummers and buglers left and new ones were brought in.
The 1954 edition of the band was not one of the strongest, musically, but we worked hard on our drill, which was quite intricate.
The high school principal watched our last practice on Friday, the day before the competition. Clearly unimpressed by what he saw, he wished us well and told us that we shouldn't be disappointed if we didn't win. The important thing was to be good sports.
A lukewarm send off!
The next day, Saturday, we left Arthur very early in a school bus for the two hour trip to London. It was overcast and drizzling.
Bothered by the principal's negative attitude, I decided to stand up as we drove along and give the band members a pep talk.
"The principal has told us how to lose", I said, "I'm going to tell you how to win."
I told them that we should play and march our best and we should show lots of energy. It was important to pick our feet up high and put them down smartly.
By the time we got to London there was a light but steady rain. I was wondering how we could perform---snare drums don't like rain.
The event organizers came up to the bus to tell us that the forecast wasn't good and they had decided to hold the band competition in a gym instead of on the usual large field.
We got out of the bus, leaving our instruments in it so they would stay dry, and went to check out the gym.
I tried to imagine how we could change our drill---with its marching, counter-marching, elaborate pivots and so on--- that was designed for a space the size of a soccer field so that it would fit onto a basket ball court.
We would have to compress things a lot.
As I was trying to figure this out, an organizer came over to us.
"Of course, you can't wear them", pointing to our army boots and saddle shoes, "on the hardwood floor."
How could we pick-them-up-and-put-them down in our sock feet on a slippery floor?
But, I told myself, the other bands would have to cope with the same problems of the size of the floor and the no-shoes rule.
At that point, our bass drummer came up to me, "I'm afraid there's a problem. I had to leave in a hurry this morning and one of my socks has a huge hole. My big toe is going to show."
He unlaced one of his boots, and there indeed was his big toe.
My strategy for compensating for weaknesses in our music by energy, and spit and polish was collapsing.
We all met and agreed on some changes to our drill to fit the smaller space.
When it was our turn, things didn't augur well.
The music sounded tinny, bouncing off the hard walls and ceiling of the gym.
And marching was next to impossible---we were reduced to something like a sock-hop shuffle.
Then there was the bass drummer. Tall, good looking and a virtuoso, he always attracted a great deal of attention as he pounded the drum, twirled the beaters and added extra beats to jazz up the marches.
But I felt sure that when the London judges looked at him they focused not on his playing but on that big white toe.
Finally it was over, and we marched (shuffled?) off the floor.
As we got back on the bus, the rain was pelting down and the wind was strengthening. We had a great driver and although it took him far longer than usual we got home to Arthur safely.
And how do I remember the day and date?
That was the weekend that Hurricane Hazel chose to visit Ontario. The storm brought massive flooding especially around Toronto, the death of some 80 people and enormous property damage.
(Officially, Hurricane Hazel arrived on Friday, October 15, but the full brunt of the storm was not felt until the next day.)
Oh, you ask, 'How did the band do?'
I'm sorry, I thought I'd told you.
Turned out that the principal was right. We were beaten by--- I think---an all-female band from a high school near London.
I should make it clear that the loss wasn't the fault of the bass drummer and his big, bare toe. He played superbly, and managed somehow to maneuver the big drum in the tight turns in the drill without knocking over any buglers. If more of us had had his talent, we would have won.
In the end, we were good losers, congratulating the winning band.
But it was hard.
Some London Highlights
Last weekend , Pat and I visited the London's Maggie's Supper and Jazz Club and were very impressed with the food, service and the jazz (but less impressed by some clods who talked, during the performances).
Our waiter, an engaging university student (psychology and philosophy), looked after us well.
Too well, at one point.
I don't know about you, but I always know when there is a bit of coffee left in the cup, or a bit of dessert left on the plate. And I don't want the waiter walking off with that last bit.
At Maggie's our waiter, took my beer glass which contained, well, perhaps not a full swallow but at least half a one.
When I protested he gave back the glass and told us that reminded him of a story.
First he wanted to find out whether we were Irish, and if so whether we were easily offended. Pat said she was about as Irish as it comes, but not easily offended.
The story:
There were three men in a pub, an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman. A fly flew into the beer of the Englishman, and he sent the beer back to the bar.
Another fly flew into the beer of the Scotsman. He picked it out, threw it on the floor and continued drinking the beer.
The Irishman picked up the fly and squeezing it over the glass said, "Now, spit it out, will ya".
000
We've been visiting London for years and often drop into the Museum which is both an museum and an art gallery (with many splendid paintings by Paul Peel. who was born in London in 1860 and died in Paris in 1892).
At the Museum there are notices about Eldon House, a few blocks from the Museum, that is also situated above the Thames River. I had thought of visiting it but never got around to it---until last weekend.
What a jewel it is!
The house was started by John and Amelia Harris in 1834 and expanded until it was nearly 10,000 sqft. Descendants of John and Amelia lived in the house until around 1960, when they donated it to the City of London.
Pat and I love old houses and have brought back to life two, one from 1911 and the other from 1840. And Pat worked on heritage preservation committees when we lived in Ottawa.
Eldon House took our breath away. The house, the furnishings and the stories about the house and the family---stories that live on partly because of diaries maintained by Amelia and the other Harris women---are treasures.
Tara Wittmann, the Heritage Site Coordinator for Eldon House, loves the House and is extraordinarily knowledgeable about it and about the historical context into which it fits.
Go and see it if you are in London.
And don't forget to see the kitchen with its 1920-1930s Moffat electric stove and Westinghouse refrigerator, (the fridge still works---the staff keep their sandwiches and milk in it). My family had a Moffat stove and a Westinghouse fridge of about the same vintage---talk about nostalgia!
As with the other rooms in the house, the kitchen has a 'lived-in', not a 'museum' look. It doesn't take much imagination to see an Irish maid working at the long kitchen table making scones for breakfast.
The London Museum and the folks of London have every reason to be proud of this wonderful house.
000
As she does every trip to London, Pat visited the Cotton-by-Post II Quilt Shoppe in nearby Arva, to stock up on fabrics.
While there she learned that the Shoppe is organizing an exhibition of quilts made by a tiny African-American community in Alabama, called Gee's Bend. The exhibition which will be held at the London Convention Centre from August 9-14 will display a hundred of these spectacular and sought-after quilts. Click here for some images of the famous quilts
We plan to attend the exhibition.
And while in London, we will make return visits to Maggie's and to Eldon House.
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See you next Sunday for Posting #65 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@cs.com.
Pat and I went for a mini-holiday in London last weekend.
The weather forecasters were right. They said it would be wet and it was.
But we had a good time.
The rain reminded me of another rainy trip to London, on Saturday, October 16, 1954.
I was in Grade 13 at the Arthur District High School and leader of the school's drum and bugle band. The band was made up of fellows in army cadet uniforms and young women in white blouses and pleated skirts, with saddle shoes (and white socks) along with a blue and white cape with a blue pill box hat, held on by an elastic band under the chin. (It will not surprise you if I say that the school colours were blue and white.)
Over the years the band had done well in a school band competition held each autumn as part of the Western Ontario Athletic Association meet that took place in London on the campus of the University of Western Ontario. Fairly often the band came home with the top prize.
But as with bands from other small high schools, the quality of the Arthur band ebbed and flowed, as experienced drummers and buglers left and new ones were brought in.
The 1954 edition of the band was not one of the strongest, musically, but we worked hard on our drill, which was quite intricate.
The high school principal watched our last practice on Friday, the day before the competition. Clearly unimpressed by what he saw, he wished us well and told us that we shouldn't be disappointed if we didn't win. The important thing was to be good sports.
A lukewarm send off!
The next day, Saturday, we left Arthur very early in a school bus for the two hour trip to London. It was overcast and drizzling.
Bothered by the principal's negative attitude, I decided to stand up as we drove along and give the band members a pep talk.
"The principal has told us how to lose", I said, "I'm going to tell you how to win."
I told them that we should play and march our best and we should show lots of energy. It was important to pick our feet up high and put them down smartly.
By the time we got to London there was a light but steady rain. I was wondering how we could perform---snare drums don't like rain.
The event organizers came up to the bus to tell us that the forecast wasn't good and they had decided to hold the band competition in a gym instead of on the usual large field.
We got out of the bus, leaving our instruments in it so they would stay dry, and went to check out the gym.
I tried to imagine how we could change our drill---with its marching, counter-marching, elaborate pivots and so on--- that was designed for a space the size of a soccer field so that it would fit onto a basket ball court.
We would have to compress things a lot.
As I was trying to figure this out, an organizer came over to us.
"Of course, you can't wear them", pointing to our army boots and saddle shoes, "on the hardwood floor."
How could we pick-them-up-and-put-them down in our sock feet on a slippery floor?
But, I told myself, the other bands would have to cope with the same problems of the size of the floor and the no-shoes rule.
At that point, our bass drummer came up to me, "I'm afraid there's a problem. I had to leave in a hurry this morning and one of my socks has a huge hole. My big toe is going to show."
He unlaced one of his boots, and there indeed was his big toe.
My strategy for compensating for weaknesses in our music by energy, and spit and polish was collapsing.
We all met and agreed on some changes to our drill to fit the smaller space.
When it was our turn, things didn't augur well.
The music sounded tinny, bouncing off the hard walls and ceiling of the gym.
And marching was next to impossible---we were reduced to something like a sock-hop shuffle.
Then there was the bass drummer. Tall, good looking and a virtuoso, he always attracted a great deal of attention as he pounded the drum, twirled the beaters and added extra beats to jazz up the marches.
But I felt sure that when the London judges looked at him they focused not on his playing but on that big white toe.
Finally it was over, and we marched (shuffled?) off the floor.
As we got back on the bus, the rain was pelting down and the wind was strengthening. We had a great driver and although it took him far longer than usual we got home to Arthur safely.
And how do I remember the day and date?
That was the weekend that Hurricane Hazel chose to visit Ontario. The storm brought massive flooding especially around Toronto, the death of some 80 people and enormous property damage.
(Officially, Hurricane Hazel arrived on Friday, October 15, but the full brunt of the storm was not felt until the next day.)
Oh, you ask, 'How did the band do?'
I'm sorry, I thought I'd told you.
Turned out that the principal was right. We were beaten by--- I think---an all-female band from a high school near London.
I should make it clear that the loss wasn't the fault of the bass drummer and his big, bare toe. He played superbly, and managed somehow to maneuver the big drum in the tight turns in the drill without knocking over any buglers. If more of us had had his talent, we would have won.
In the end, we were good losers, congratulating the winning band.
But it was hard.
Some London Highlights
Last weekend , Pat and I visited the London's Maggie's Supper and Jazz Club and were very impressed with the food, service and the jazz (but less impressed by some clods who talked, during the performances).
Our waiter, an engaging university student (psychology and philosophy), looked after us well.
Too well, at one point.
I don't know about you, but I always know when there is a bit of coffee left in the cup, or a bit of dessert left on the plate. And I don't want the waiter walking off with that last bit.
At Maggie's our waiter, took my beer glass which contained, well, perhaps not a full swallow but at least half a one.
When I protested he gave back the glass and told us that reminded him of a story.
First he wanted to find out whether we were Irish, and if so whether we were easily offended. Pat said she was about as Irish as it comes, but not easily offended.
The story:
There were three men in a pub, an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman. A fly flew into the beer of the Englishman, and he sent the beer back to the bar.
Another fly flew into the beer of the Scotsman. He picked it out, threw it on the floor and continued drinking the beer.
The Irishman picked up the fly and squeezing it over the glass said, "Now, spit it out, will ya".
000
We've been visiting London for years and often drop into the Museum which is both an museum and an art gallery (with many splendid paintings by Paul Peel. who was born in London in 1860 and died in Paris in 1892).
At the Museum there are notices about Eldon House, a few blocks from the Museum, that is also situated above the Thames River. I had thought of visiting it but never got around to it---until last weekend.
What a jewel it is!
The house was started by John and Amelia Harris in 1834 and expanded until it was nearly 10,000 sqft. Descendants of John and Amelia lived in the house until around 1960, when they donated it to the City of London.
Pat and I love old houses and have brought back to life two, one from 1911 and the other from 1840. And Pat worked on heritage preservation committees when we lived in Ottawa.
Eldon House took our breath away. The house, the furnishings and the stories about the house and the family---stories that live on partly because of diaries maintained by Amelia and the other Harris women---are treasures.
Tara Wittmann, the Heritage Site Coordinator for Eldon House, loves the House and is extraordinarily knowledgeable about it and about the historical context into which it fits.
Go and see it if you are in London.
And don't forget to see the kitchen with its 1920-1930s Moffat electric stove and Westinghouse refrigerator, (the fridge still works---the staff keep their sandwiches and milk in it). My family had a Moffat stove and a Westinghouse fridge of about the same vintage---talk about nostalgia!
As with the other rooms in the house, the kitchen has a 'lived-in', not a 'museum' look. It doesn't take much imagination to see an Irish maid working at the long kitchen table making scones for breakfast.
The London Museum and the folks of London have every reason to be proud of this wonderful house.
000
As she does every trip to London, Pat visited the Cotton-by-Post II Quilt Shoppe in nearby Arva, to stock up on fabrics.
While there she learned that the Shoppe is organizing an exhibition of quilts made by a tiny African-American community in Alabama, called Gee's Bend. The exhibition which will be held at the London Convention Centre from August 9-14 will display a hundred of these spectacular and sought-after quilts. Click here for some images of the famous quilts
We plan to attend the exhibition.
And while in London, we will make return visits to Maggie's and to Eldon House.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #65 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@cs.com.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
POSTING #63
No Joking Matter; Attracting British Immigrants to Canada: Grandpa's Cell phone
No Joking Matter
I went to the local Toyota dealer the other day to get replacement batteries for the key fob control that locks, unlocks and starts the Prius---after nearly 5 years the batteries were getting weak.
As I approached the Parts Desk, three fellows were checking invoices or something. One of them looked up and asked if he could help me.
I guess the devil was in me that day and I said, "I understand there is a recall for key fob batteries."
As soon as I said the word 'recall', the three men started as though someone had jabbed them with a cattle prod.
"I'm just joking", I said.
The three men started to breath again.
The moral is that one shouldn't joke about recalls anywhere near a Toyota dealership.
Attracting British Immigrants to Canada
Here are some stories from the years 1960 to 1966 when I was working with the Canadian Immigration Service attracting skilled British workers to Canada, based first in Leeds, Yorkshire and then in London.
First a little background.
The Service had a limited budget and the main promotion method was the relatively inexpensive film show. We would rent a hall, hire a projectionist and place a modest advertisement in a local newspaper. Companies interested in carrying immigrants across the Atlantic, and in Canada like Cunard, Canadian Pacific, Trans-Canada Airline (as Air Canada was then called), British Overseas Airways Company (now British Air) and Canadian National Railways would join us with advertisements and would send representatives to the film shows to distribute literature.
If it were my turn to do a show, I would drive to the city, check in at a small hotel and go over to the hall to give the projectionist a couple of short films about Canada and make sure everything was ready.
After introducing myself, we would show the films and I would speak about job opportunities and living conditions in Canada. The talk was followed by a question and answer period.
Canada was in a fairly deep recession from roughly 1960 to 1963 and we had to be careful to stress that the job market was not rosy, except for certain occupations. The question sessions could sometimes be contentious, especially if there were people who had started a new life in Canada and decided to return after being laid off (for example, many British immigrants were displaced after the cancellation of the Avro Arrow aircraft program in 1959 and returned very disgruntled to the UK).
After the film show, the four or five travel reps and I would go to a pub, and then after a few drinks go back to the hotel where we were staying.
000
At one of my first shows, I was getting ready to go on the stage to introduce the first film when a man pushed through a group of people I was talking to, shook hands, gave me his name and said he was with The Times, and then withdrew.
Whoa! Stop the presses!
The Times, as in The Times of London, or as "The Thunderer". The paper that could bring down a government.
Why in the world had they sent a reporter to our show?
Were they planning a negative article, prompted perhaps by complaints from immigrants who had returned to Britain?
What would our headquarters in Ottawa think?
Years later, a senior bureaucrat mused that in all his years in the government, he couldn't recall a single public servant whose career had been advanced by talking to the press.
I think that I understood his point---instinctively---that evening at the film show. My career with the government was only two years old, and if I put a foot wrong it might be over sooner rather than later.
These thoughts kept running through my head as I conducted the show. I tried to weigh every word in the talk and in the question period.
Despite my concerns---or perhaps because of them---things went well. The questions were mainly straightforward requests for information and I didn't have trouble answering them.
After the formal part of the show ended, I stayed at the front and responded to some specific questions about opportunities in particular occupations.
Afterwards, exhausted by all this self-censoring, I wandered to the back of the hall and seeing The Times fellow went up to him.
"Well, what did you think?"
"It was good. I sold twenty-five", he said.
"Twenty-five what?"
"Copies of the Weekly Globe and Mail. The Times prints and distributes it for them."
(The Globe and Mail started the weekly paper for ex-patriates and business people with interests in Canada. It folded after a year or two.)
So, he wasn't a reporter after all, he was just flogging copies of the Weekly Globe and Mail.
After the public had gone, the travel company reps and I adjourned to a nearby pub and I ordered a pint of strong bitter (brewed with extra alcohol for Yorkshire coal miners). I felt as though I had just spent a long day of slogging at the coal face.
000
One of the matters that often came up at these after-film-show pub sessions was whether sea or air travel to Canada led to higher success among immigrants. The reps from the shipping companies argued that the four or five days on the Atlantic let the immigrants rest and get psychologically prepared for the new life, helped them to adjust gradually to the time difference and also let them take more belongings.
The reps from the airlines conceded that there were some advantages to sea travel but they were over-ridden by the importance to eventual success of getting to Canada quickly and getting started---to strike while the iron was hot.
I have never seen any study that reviewed the impact of the mode of transport on the ultimate success of the immigrants. Intuitively, I would side with sea travel.
However, there was one immigrant who chose to go by sea, who after the fact might have opted for air travel.
In 1965, when I was running the London Canadian Immigration office, my secretary announced that a Scotland Yard detective wanted to see me about an immigrant who had been approved and had sailed for Canada two days before.
The detective started by saying that the immigrant was suspected of having been involved in fraud involving travellers cheques.
I assumed, since Scotland Yard was involved, that our immigrant was part of a gang of crooks in a scam involving huge amounts of money, perhaps millions of dollars.
The case was a bit more prosaic than that.
The detective said that the immigrant had borrowed 500 pounds sterling from a contact to start his new life in Canada. He was a skilled bricklayer, bricklayers were in high demand in Canada, and he would be able to repay the loan in short order.
As the sailing date came closer, the lender began to worry that he would never see his money again. He went to the immigrant and asked for it back.
The immigrant said he couldn't do that and showed him the travellers cheques that he had purchased with the 500 pounds.
The two had an argument and the lender apparently threatened some violence if he didn't get his money back.
Then, the detective continued, the two had hatched a little illegal plot.
The immigrant would give the travellers cheques to the lender and, claiming he had lost them, get replacement cheques from the travel cheque company before the ship left.
To make reasonably sure that each was able to cash his cheques, they agreed that the lender would not try to cash the cheques until the immigrant had arrived in Canada and disappeared into the vast new country. If there were any questions, the lender would argue that the immigrant had owed him money and given him the cheques in payment.
Meanwhile, the immigrant once in Canada would cash the cheques and without the speed-of-light clearing of financial instruments that we have today it would be weeks before a problem was discovered.
The lender and the immigrants felt that once the deception was discovered the travel cheque people would probably not bother to call the police over only 500 pounds. If they did it would be hard for the police to find him in Canada.
The detective acknowledged that the plan had a certain elegance to it.
Unfortunately, greed intervened and the lender tried to cash the original cheques the day after the immigrant had sailed. Moving within un-British speed the bank passed the cheques to the travel cheque company the same day. The company spotted the problem and called the police.
Under questioning, the lender admitted the scam and was now being held.
The detective asked if we would detain the immigrant when he arrived in Montreal and send him back.
A telex went off to Ottawa and the immigrant was held on the ship. He sailed back on the same ship to Southampton, where British police were waiting for him.
Now there was a case where it would have been better to have flown to Canada.
Grandpa's Cell phone
Pat and I bought new cell phones this week and we identify so very much with the following poem written by George Parsons of Ottawa for his grand-daughter.
The poem was passed on by his wife Ann, and George has kindly agreed to let me share it with you.
000
""Recently I bought a cell phone, just to have in the car, mainly for emergencies.
As the following explains, little did I know .....
Grandpa's Cell Phone
I have a little cell phone
That goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of it
Is more than I can see.
It's larger than a postage stamp,
Though not by very much,
With twenty little buttons
That I'm required to touch
To activate its functions,
That number near a score --
From E-mail to photography,
Computer games, and more.
There's a "world clock" and a calendar,
(I'm not pulling any legs)
It converts foreign currency
And will even time your eggs.
And did I mention Voice-mail?
And FM radio?
But this is just a partial list
(As far as I will go).
Amid the many choices
One question stands alone:
With all those tiny buttons,
HOW TO USE THE BLOODY PHONE?"
George Parsons
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See you next Sunday for Posting #64 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@cs.com.
No Joking Matter
I went to the local Toyota dealer the other day to get replacement batteries for the key fob control that locks, unlocks and starts the Prius---after nearly 5 years the batteries were getting weak.
As I approached the Parts Desk, three fellows were checking invoices or something. One of them looked up and asked if he could help me.
I guess the devil was in me that day and I said, "I understand there is a recall for key fob batteries."
As soon as I said the word 'recall', the three men started as though someone had jabbed them with a cattle prod.
"I'm just joking", I said.
The three men started to breath again.
The moral is that one shouldn't joke about recalls anywhere near a Toyota dealership.
Attracting British Immigrants to Canada
Here are some stories from the years 1960 to 1966 when I was working with the Canadian Immigration Service attracting skilled British workers to Canada, based first in Leeds, Yorkshire and then in London.
First a little background.
The Service had a limited budget and the main promotion method was the relatively inexpensive film show. We would rent a hall, hire a projectionist and place a modest advertisement in a local newspaper. Companies interested in carrying immigrants across the Atlantic, and in Canada like Cunard, Canadian Pacific, Trans-Canada Airline (as Air Canada was then called), British Overseas Airways Company (now British Air) and Canadian National Railways would join us with advertisements and would send representatives to the film shows to distribute literature.
If it were my turn to do a show, I would drive to the city, check in at a small hotel and go over to the hall to give the projectionist a couple of short films about Canada and make sure everything was ready.
After introducing myself, we would show the films and I would speak about job opportunities and living conditions in Canada. The talk was followed by a question and answer period.
Canada was in a fairly deep recession from roughly 1960 to 1963 and we had to be careful to stress that the job market was not rosy, except for certain occupations. The question sessions could sometimes be contentious, especially if there were people who had started a new life in Canada and decided to return after being laid off (for example, many British immigrants were displaced after the cancellation of the Avro Arrow aircraft program in 1959 and returned very disgruntled to the UK).
After the film show, the four or five travel reps and I would go to a pub, and then after a few drinks go back to the hotel where we were staying.
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At one of my first shows, I was getting ready to go on the stage to introduce the first film when a man pushed through a group of people I was talking to, shook hands, gave me his name and said he was with The Times, and then withdrew.
Whoa! Stop the presses!
The Times, as in The Times of London, or as "The Thunderer". The paper that could bring down a government.
Why in the world had they sent a reporter to our show?
Were they planning a negative article, prompted perhaps by complaints from immigrants who had returned to Britain?
What would our headquarters in Ottawa think?
Years later, a senior bureaucrat mused that in all his years in the government, he couldn't recall a single public servant whose career had been advanced by talking to the press.
I think that I understood his point---instinctively---that evening at the film show. My career with the government was only two years old, and if I put a foot wrong it might be over sooner rather than later.
These thoughts kept running through my head as I conducted the show. I tried to weigh every word in the talk and in the question period.
Despite my concerns---or perhaps because of them---things went well. The questions were mainly straightforward requests for information and I didn't have trouble answering them.
After the formal part of the show ended, I stayed at the front and responded to some specific questions about opportunities in particular occupations.
Afterwards, exhausted by all this self-censoring, I wandered to the back of the hall and seeing The Times fellow went up to him.
"Well, what did you think?"
"It was good. I sold twenty-five", he said.
"Twenty-five what?"
"Copies of the Weekly Globe and Mail. The Times prints and distributes it for them."
(The Globe and Mail started the weekly paper for ex-patriates and business people with interests in Canada. It folded after a year or two.)
So, he wasn't a reporter after all, he was just flogging copies of the Weekly Globe and Mail.
After the public had gone, the travel company reps and I adjourned to a nearby pub and I ordered a pint of strong bitter (brewed with extra alcohol for Yorkshire coal miners). I felt as though I had just spent a long day of slogging at the coal face.
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One of the matters that often came up at these after-film-show pub sessions was whether sea or air travel to Canada led to higher success among immigrants. The reps from the shipping companies argued that the four or five days on the Atlantic let the immigrants rest and get psychologically prepared for the new life, helped them to adjust gradually to the time difference and also let them take more belongings.
The reps from the airlines conceded that there were some advantages to sea travel but they were over-ridden by the importance to eventual success of getting to Canada quickly and getting started---to strike while the iron was hot.
I have never seen any study that reviewed the impact of the mode of transport on the ultimate success of the immigrants. Intuitively, I would side with sea travel.
However, there was one immigrant who chose to go by sea, who after the fact might have opted for air travel.
In 1965, when I was running the London Canadian Immigration office, my secretary announced that a Scotland Yard detective wanted to see me about an immigrant who had been approved and had sailed for Canada two days before.
The detective started by saying that the immigrant was suspected of having been involved in fraud involving travellers cheques.
I assumed, since Scotland Yard was involved, that our immigrant was part of a gang of crooks in a scam involving huge amounts of money, perhaps millions of dollars.
The case was a bit more prosaic than that.
The detective said that the immigrant had borrowed 500 pounds sterling from a contact to start his new life in Canada. He was a skilled bricklayer, bricklayers were in high demand in Canada, and he would be able to repay the loan in short order.
As the sailing date came closer, the lender began to worry that he would never see his money again. He went to the immigrant and asked for it back.
The immigrant said he couldn't do that and showed him the travellers cheques that he had purchased with the 500 pounds.
The two had an argument and the lender apparently threatened some violence if he didn't get his money back.
Then, the detective continued, the two had hatched a little illegal plot.
The immigrant would give the travellers cheques to the lender and, claiming he had lost them, get replacement cheques from the travel cheque company before the ship left.
To make reasonably sure that each was able to cash his cheques, they agreed that the lender would not try to cash the cheques until the immigrant had arrived in Canada and disappeared into the vast new country. If there were any questions, the lender would argue that the immigrant had owed him money and given him the cheques in payment.
Meanwhile, the immigrant once in Canada would cash the cheques and without the speed-of-light clearing of financial instruments that we have today it would be weeks before a problem was discovered.
The lender and the immigrants felt that once the deception was discovered the travel cheque people would probably not bother to call the police over only 500 pounds. If they did it would be hard for the police to find him in Canada.
The detective acknowledged that the plan had a certain elegance to it.
Unfortunately, greed intervened and the lender tried to cash the original cheques the day after the immigrant had sailed. Moving within un-British speed the bank passed the cheques to the travel cheque company the same day. The company spotted the problem and called the police.
Under questioning, the lender admitted the scam and was now being held.
The detective asked if we would detain the immigrant when he arrived in Montreal and send him back.
A telex went off to Ottawa and the immigrant was held on the ship. He sailed back on the same ship to Southampton, where British police were waiting for him.
Now there was a case where it would have been better to have flown to Canada.
Grandpa's Cell phone
Pat and I bought new cell phones this week and we identify so very much with the following poem written by George Parsons of Ottawa for his grand-daughter.
The poem was passed on by his wife Ann, and George has kindly agreed to let me share it with you.
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""Recently I bought a cell phone, just to have in the car, mainly for emergencies.
As the following explains, little did I know .....
Grandpa's Cell Phone
I have a little cell phone
That goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of it
Is more than I can see.
It's larger than a postage stamp,
Though not by very much,
With twenty little buttons
That I'm required to touch
To activate its functions,
That number near a score --
From E-mail to photography,
Computer games, and more.
There's a "world clock" and a calendar,
(I'm not pulling any legs)
It converts foreign currency
And will even time your eggs.
And did I mention Voice-mail?
And FM radio?
But this is just a partial list
(As far as I will go).
Amid the many choices
One question stands alone:
With all those tiny buttons,
HOW TO USE THE BLOODY PHONE?"
George Parsons
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #64 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@cs.com.
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