POSTING #122

 

About Harold Pinter and Tools

Last week we had dinner with old friends, David and Mary, from Ottawa who were in town for their annual theatre swing through Niagara-on-the-Lake and Stratford.

Out of that dinner came the two items in this Posting---my thanks to our very good friends!

About Harold Pinter

Our friends told us that they had tickets for a Stratford play---The Homecoming by Harold Pinter---that they could not use. Would we be interested in seeing the play?

We accepted, with delight.

Last Sunday we drove to Stratford.

The play was powerfully acted and full of the raw emotions, the long pauses and the ambiguity that characterize Pinter's plays. I won't attempt to describe the plot---for that you may wish to read the laudatory New York Times review of the play, a review with which we totally agree.

After the cast had taken their bows, Pat and I looked at each, a look that said that we were totally confused and would spend the two and a half hour drive back to Virgil trying to figure out what the play was about (after 50 years of marriage there is a lot of communication in a single glance!).

As we started down the stone steps from the Avon Theatre to the sunlight of Downie St. I saw something I had never seen before at a theatre.

A well-dressed women, in perhaps her late 40s or early 50s, had planted herself, feet apart, on the bottom step facing the people coming down the steps.

"Does anyone know what this play was about?, she demanded. "Who understands it?"

People smiled, shook their heads, and stepped around her.

"What did it mean?", she persisted.

Staring at me, she asked, "Did you understand it?"

I guess the devil was in me, and I said "Yes".

"Can you explain it to me?", she pleaded.

"Sure, how much time do you have?", I said and then laughed to show that I was joking and that I was confused as she was.

"Why are you laughing? Is it because you think I'm stupid that I don't understand it? Or is it because you don't understand it either?', she demanded.

I assured her it was the latter---I wasn't laughing at her, I was just as confused as she was.

We moved on, while she continued trying  to find someone who could explain it to her.

Pat and I did discuss the play during the two and a half hour trip home, and then carried on for another two and a half days.

We now think ('think', that is!) we know what the play is about. At least we have an answer that satisfies us.

I wonder if that woman has found an answer that satisfies her.

All of this demonstrates the power of the Nobel-prize-winning Pinter and his wonderful, and wonderfully ambiguous plays.

Tools

At dinner with our friends, Mary told about being at a party a few years ago in Almonte, Ontario. Seeing a man she didn't know, she asked him what his name was and when he said, "Leonard", a light came on. She said, "I didn't recognize you".

He said, "I was hoping you wouldn't."

She had realized that he was Leonard Lee, the 'Lee' in Lee Valley Tools. He went on to say that it got boring explaining how he had left the Canadian Foreign Service and started a tiny company to find or make, and then to sell high quality woodworking tools.

I love Lee Valley Tools and have been meaning for a long time to write about the company.

So, prompted by our friend's story, here goes.

For me, Lee Valley Tools is a case study of how listening to your customers, treating them well and selling only high quality goods can build a multi-million dollar business.

About listening to your customers.....

I have always found it strange that many surgeons apparently love to relax by engaging in woodworking. Strange, because I would have assumed that they would be worried about losing a digit or two when working with a lathe, a router or a band saw. Apparently not.

Surgeon/woodworkers loved Lee Valley's tools, and when some of them complained to the company that they wished  it made operating room tools, the company obliged, with a line of medical/surgical instruments.

Gardeners complained about tools that rusted and didn't work. The company moved into gardening supplies.

Cooks complained about the quality of kitchen tools, and the company introduced a number of superb items.

Tailors and quilters complained about things like scissors and seam rippers, and the company responded.

And so on.

And then, about treating your customers right......

An electronic gadget that Lee Valley sells to keep cats away from flower beds stopped working.

I phoned Customer Service, got 'a real person' and explained the problem. He apologized and said he would send a replacement, which arrived by special delivery in a couple of days. A few days later, I received a letter from the head of Customer Service (a real letter with my name and a description of the problem---not a boiler-plate, one-size-fits-all response) apologizing for the problem and hoping that it had been rectified. If it hadn't, I was to call her.

I also like it that the company takes its business seriously, but not itself.

During a visit to the Lee Valley store in Burlington, Ontario, I saw a basket of "April Fool Tape Measures' at the check out. When I picked up one of the regular-looking tape measures, and gave a puzzled look to the clerk he suggested I pull out the tape. I did, and the tape was blank, no numbers or markings at all. He explained that each year the company tries to come up with an April Fool gift they can send as a gift to suppliers and contacts. This year they had a few left over and were selling them to the public. I bought one for a favourite friend who I knew would enjoy showing it to his buddies---and he did!

One of the problems of being a Lee Valley fan is that there is a huge temptation to pester your friends with recommendations about the latest 'really neat tool' you have found.

I'm afraid I'm going to give in to that temptation, and recommend a few tools that we like. (Christmas is coming, and it occurs to me they might make good stocking stuffers.)

Set of Three Eye Loupes

The loupes provide 2X, 5X and 10X magnification and are great for Pat's work checking out artifacts at the museum and for my work cataloging 35 mm slides that I have inherited. They are also good for a great many other occasions when aging eyes need an assist, such as removing slivers. The kit costs $6.50

All Purpose Scissors

The compact 5-1/2 inch scissors are tough fellows that don't need babying. They cut paper and wire and are great for getting into those plastic-bubble-enclosed items that we all hate. We have four sets, stored strategically around the house. Cost is $6.95

Pro Seam Ripper Kit

Pat just loves this kit but says you have to watch---the blades are really sharp. Cost: $18.95

Head Lamp

This is an astoundingly bright LED light with a comfortable head band. Pat uses it in sewing and I use it everywhere, and especially in dark corners of the basement. Cost: $12.50.

Grandpa's Weeder

Now, this is NOT a potential stocking stuffer!

This elegant, but low-tech tool has apparently been around since the early 1900s. Grandpa (or grandma!) steps on a lever, moves the handle to the side, lifts up, and out pops the weed, root and all. It is great for dandelions and plantain. Just what we need as our governments---wisely---restrict the use of chemical weed killers. Cost: $28.50

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I should add that I have no connection with Lee Valley Tools, except as a totally satisfied customer and a fervent booster.

(I am indebted to the Lee Valley website---a site that I find very user-friendly---for the above images.)

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See you on October 2nd for Posting #123 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting,  or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.

Note:

I have now uploaded three Postings on The Icewine Guru blog: one about the dangers of the US income gap; one about a possible lesson the US could learn from Canada about how to deal with its unemployment crisis: and another about whether 'Western' countries should ban the wearing of face coverings by Muslim women. The topics are serious but I have tried to give them an entertaining treatment. If you haven't tried the Guru blog yet, you might like to browse these Postings by clicking on the link below. The next Guru Posting will appear on September 25th. http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

POSTING #121

NOTE: This Posting is being uploaded a little early because I am tied up for the rest of the week.

A Thief or a Spy, or Both?

I enjoy reading mystery novels, especially ones involving courtroom action.

Recently, while reading the excellent mystery, "The Guilty Plea" by Robert Rotenberg, a prominent Toronto criminal lawyer, I remembered a story told by a solicitor we met while we were living in London in the 1960s.

I have to warn you at the beginning that I don't know how the story ends.

I am going to have to ask you to make up your own ending.

If you decide to stop reading at this point---well---I will understand.

Let me carry on, for those who are still with me.

Our solicitor friend specialized in criminal law and had great stories about 'the old lags' he was defending (translation: a British expression for people who have been in and out of prison frequently). He didn't actually argue cases in court but in accordance with the British system he would brief a barrister (think of Horace Rumpole) who would don a wig and robe and argue the case in the Old Bailey.

He said that the old lags knew the legal system well and if caught by the police they knew what to say ("I'm innocent gov'nor, and I'm not saying anything until I gets my solicitor") and what not to say ("I'm sorry, I'm guilty").

One night at dinner, he told a story about a different kind of case. A bookkeeper with absolutely no criminal record had been arrested for stealing money from his employer.

As soon as he had been assigned the case, the solicitor hurried to the jail to interview his new client. When he was brought into the interview room, the prisoner, a man in his 50s, appeared to be in a state of shock, shoulders down, eyes looking around aimlessly. He  looked very vulnerable---not cocky like the old lags.

The solicitor introduced himself, sat the man down, took out a pad of paper and started to talk. He told the man that he wasn't to say anything until he, the solicitor, had finished.

The solicitor told him that as an officer of the court he was required to reveal to the court whatever his client told him about his guilt or innocence.

"If you tell me you did it, then I will have to tell the court that you are pleading guilty."

The man started to say something but the solicitor cut him off. "Remember I told you that you are not to say anything until I have finished."

The accused closed his mouth and sat back in his chair.

"Now, on the other hand", the solicitor continued, "if you tell me you are not guilty and that you have an explanation for what happened then I am duty bound to accept  those statements at face value and give you the best defense I possibly can".

The man started to say something, but the solicitor put up his hand, "I am not finished!"

"Now what I would like you to do is spend tonight in your cell thinking about what you want to tell me about what happened. Remember, if you tell me you stole the money we will have to enter a guilty plea, but if you tell me you didn't and have an explanation, then we will plead not guilty and I will defend you. In the meantime, you are not to say anything to the police or other prisoners."

When the solicitor returned the next day, he saw that his client, despite a night in jail, appeared less distressed, more confident.

"Now", the solicitor said, "remembering everything I told you last night, are you ready to tell me what happened?"

The accused nodded and began to talk.

He had worked, he said, for several years as a bookkeeper for an import-export firm owned by the USSR, a firm that organized the shipment of goods to and from the Soviet Union. He was frequently given large sums of cash from the officers in the firm, all of whom were Russians, which he would deposit in the firm's account in a British bank. The firm's officials now claimed that they had discovered that he was not banking all the cash he was being given---that he was stealing some of the firm's money. They had called in the police.

The solicitor looking at the police report about the arrest said, "According to this report, the firm has documentary evidence that you kept some of the money you were given. How do you explain that?"

"Well, what you have to understand is that the firm is not a legitimate import-export company. It's a front for a spying operation."

The solicitor sat up, this was a far more interesting story than any of the ones his old lags came up with. "Go on", he said.

"After I had been working there for a few months, the head of the office asked me to do some spying for them on commercial matters involving other London companies. He explained that in return they would let me keep a portion of the cash depending on how valuable my information was to them. So the money they claim I stole was actually payment for my spying."

The solicitor sat back in his chair, stunned. "So are you admitting that you spied for the Soviet Union?"

"Yes, but I never stole any money from the company. The money I took was payment for the spying I did."

The solicitor looked around the dinner table at us and said, "So now I have to find a barrister who is prepared to argue this defense before a judge and jury at the Old Bailey."

We discussed the case for a while with people around the table offering questions and comments. Someone suggested that the firm may well have been a front for a spying operation---there had been a number of incidents of Soviet spying in Britain in the 1960s---but wondered why the firm would have called attention to itself by asking the police to investigate the alleged theft? Another person wondered whether the accused realized that spying was potentially a more serious offense than stealing?

The solicitor didn't attempt to respond, and when someone asked him whether he thought the bookkeeper was guilty of theft, he just smiled and said, "I leave guilt and innocence to the jury"

Our foreign service tour in the UK ended shortly after the dinner, and we returned to Canada.

Life got very hectic and we lost touch with the solicitor.

So I don't know what happened to the accused bookkeeper.

Did the case go to trial with the spying defense?

If so, was he convicted, or not?

When the Soviet company realized that he was going to talk about spying, did they withdraw the charges?

It's frustrating not to know what happened.

But life's like that sometimes, isn't it.

Too many damnable mysteries that we have to learn to live with.

A Reward

I feel guilty about leaving you high and dry, without a clear conclusion to the above story.

To compensate you in some small measure, I would like to offer a gift---a recipe that you may find useful.

First, some background.

For years I have been experimenting with mixes of various kinds of fiber, trying to find a combination that induced a healthy regularity.

I finally found a mix that works for me and have been using it for some years. Lately, friends and relatives who pooh-poohed my mix  (it is hard to avoid double entendres when talking about regularity!) have been trying what they had always laughingly called, "John's Potion".

And finding that it works.

And asking for the recipe.

So, here is the recipe, which must be accompanied by the usual caveats: that I make no medical claims for the mixture or myself and that persons should check with their doctor before trying it.

Add to a large bowl, and then stir until well mixed, equal quantities of the following (for a month's supply, I use one and a half cups of each ingredient):

1. Psyllium husks---I buy it at Bulk Barn. I tried powdered Psyllium husks but prefer the non-powdered husks.

2. Oat bran ---I use Quaker's Oat Bran

3. Ground flax seed---I buy organic flax seed and grind it in a cheap coffee grinder with a rotating blade. Mine is made by Braun. Bulk Barn sells ground flax seed but I prefer to grind it fresh.

4. Ground almonds---I use the blanched type, and pulse them in the above grinder until they are fine.

And that's it!

Perhaps a comment about the choice of the ingredients. Psyllium and oat bran are well-known aids to regularity.

When I was young, I remember farmers using flax seeds whenever a horse was constipated, so I decided to include it in my mix.

Finally, I have added almonds because of their manifold nutritional benefits and because they make the mix more palatable.

I put a heaping tablespoon on my porridge in the morning and another on a small helping of cereal before I go to bed. When I'm travelling, I sometimes mix it with a little juice and spoon it down. Other people have found that one heaping tablespoon a day is enough.

I would suggest starting with a teaspoon or so until you know how your system will react to it.

As with any fiber, it is important to drink plenty of water during the day.

Finally, what to call the mix?

"John's Potion" sounds too medical.

Pat and I had a brain-storming session. I started off with "John's Fiber Booster" but we agreed that was just too pedestrian. After considering a whole slew of ideas, Pat came up with the winner.

 "Skip to the Loo".

I like it because it's yet another double entendre---I confess I like double entendres---that combines regularity with memories of the ever-popular Saturday night square dances in the Arthur Town Hall.

If you try the mix and like it, please feel free to pass on the recipe---there is no copyright or patent. I would be grateful, however, if you would use the name, "Skip to the Loo", so we can track its progress.

  

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See you on September 18th for Posting #122 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.

On September 11th, you may like to check out the next Posting of The Icewine Guru. http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

POSTING #120

Memories of Prince Edward Island

The recent visit of Will and Kate (aka the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge) to Prince Edward Island brought back memories of trips I have made to that lovely island over the years.

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During the early fall of 1964, we were back in Canada for home leave after a posting in the United Kingdom. Following a holiday, I set out with 3 other foreign service officers on a cross-Canada re-familiarization tour. We arrived in PEI in September just as the province was getting ready for a visit by the Queen and Prince Phillip that would take place in October. The trip was to commemorate the centennial anniversary of the Confederation Conference held in Charlottetown in 1864.

The province and its people were excited by the visit and were using a lot of elbow grease to make a good impression on the royals. Houses were being painted, trees were  being trimmed, lawns and flower beds were being weeded, fertilized and watered.

That kind of thing.

On our first day on the island, we were being taken to a brand new seafood processing plant a few miles outside of Charlottetown that the Queen and Prince Phillip were to visit. As we drove along an asphalt  road, we could see a large red brick building on a hill---the new factory.

As we got close to the factory, our host, the manager of the local Canada Immigration office, pointed to the road. He said that it had been a gravel road but it had just been paved---especially for the royal visit.

Smiling, he said that the paving stopped just over the crest of the hill. Islanders felt that it was important to put on a good show for the royals, but there was no need to get carried away.

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As the day of touring plants and businesses came to an end, we asked our host if he could recommend a restaurant where we could have 'a good feed of lobster'. He shook his head. No restaurant at the time served lobster---fish sticks maybe, but no lobster. Residents went down to the dock, bought lobsters from the fishermen, took them home and cooked them.

Church groups occasionally had lobster dinners for tourists but there was none scheduled for that time.

We groaned and complained about how we had been dreaming about tender lobster bits dipped into melted butter.

Our host took pity on us, said he would arrange a dinner that we could eat back at the motel. He asked us what we would like for dinner. Our menu was simple: lots of lobster, some beer and perhaps some pie.

Leave it to me, he said,

Will you join us, we asked. Of course, he said.

Our first stop was at the dock where he arranged with one of the fellows to boil some lobsters. We would be back to pick them up.

Then it was off to the provincial beer store. There were some scruffy looking men loitering outside the beer store. They stopped us as we were about to enter.

"Are you from off the island?", one asked. We said we were.

"Well then, could you buy us some beer." He explained that locals could only buy a certain amount of beer a month, whereas visitors could buy as much as they wanted. He held out some bills.

They looked thirsty and our inclination was to be good Samaritans and help them. At that point, our host who had been watching from his car, came over and shooed them away. He explained that they didn't want the beer for themselves, but that they were working for a local bootlegger. Any beer they cadged went into his stock.

We mused about the differences between Quebec, which we had just visited---where beer was sold freely in grocery stores---and PEI (or Ontario for that matter).

We got our box of 24 Molson's Ex and headed for a local 'greasy spoon' restaurant for an apple pie, which we knew would be made of canned apples with a cardboard crust---it was---but what the hell, you couldn't have a 1960s dinner without some pie.

Then to the dock for the lobsters and some melted butter.

Back at the motel, our host produced a bottle opener (this was before screw tops) some nut crackers and picks. And we started some serious lobster cracking.

I'm not going to say it was the best meal I have ever had, but it was clearly the best lobster dinner ever.

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Later on, after I had left the Foreign Service, I went often to the Island for conferences and meetings. I loved the island and the people, and decided that Pat should have a chance to enjoy it.

Leaving the kids with a motherly woman who was used to looking after them, we flew to PEI for a holiday at the family-run Shaw's Hotel (which is still in business---after 150 years!) 

It was early in the season and we were the first guests that year.

I had of course told Pat about the wonderful PEI lobsters so we didn't have to look at the dining room menu. It was going to be lobster.

The young and cheerful server went off to the kitchen with our order. She came back with a delicious salad and some fresh rolls.

We finished the salad and waited. There was laughing in the kitchen but no lobster.

The server came back and took our empty salad plates. The lobster would be ready soon, she said.

And we waited some more. The laughing in the kitchen continued.

Finally, as I was about to knock on the kitchen door, our server came back, flushed from laughing. She said that the chef for the season had just arrived on the Island that day. "He's from Winnipeg", she smiled, "and doesn't know how to cook lobsters!".

We discovered later that he was a good looking young man, and our server and the other young women in the kitchen had obviously enjoyed teaching him how to boil lobsters.

The lobsters when they came were fine, but perhaps not quite as good as the lobsters at the motel.

Must have been the motel's ambiance.

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After breakfast one morning at Shaw's , we joined an elderly local for coffee. He had lived his whole life on the Island, and told some marvellous stories about growing up on PEI.

We mentioned our lobster dinner experience and he laughed about a chef from the West who didn't know how to cook lobsters.

He said that when he was growing up, his family was poor but they never went hungry---they always had lobsters and potatoes. His father had a few lobster pots and a large potato garden.

He said that he and his brothers and sisters had always gone off to school with lobster sandwiches for lunch. He remembered asking his mother why they couldn't have bologna sandwiches like the other kids. She had explained that bologna was too expensive for them.

He looked out the window and mused, "Who would have thought?"

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In the early 1970s, while working as a social policy officer at the Privy Council Office, I was part of a team looking at ways of increasing the income of  what at the time were called 'have-not provinces'.

PEI was one of the provinces.

The team was looking at a variety of solutions including adjustments to  the equalization payments made by the Federal Government, and different kinds of development assistance.

In the midst of this work, I found a survey that had just been conducted by a reputable  Toronto firm in which they had asked Canadians to rate their level of happiness. The survey found that the happiest people in Canada lived in---you guessed it, Prince Edward Island.

I suspect that if the survey were repeated today, the results might well be the same.

What is that old saying: 'Money doesn't bring happiness'.

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See you on September 4th for Posting #121 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.

On August 28th, you may like to check out the next Posting of The Icewine Guru. http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

POSTING #119

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NOTE

In my last Posting---#118 at the beginning of July---I asked permission to continue my blog holiday so I could finish some chores around the house.

Things have gone well.

I can now go into the garage, the work room, my study and the store room without shuddering at the confusion and disorganization. When I want to find something or fix a problem, it is a breeze.

Now I am ready to get back to blogging.

As I have been bringing order out of the chaos, my mind has been working away on its own, as minds sometimes do.

The mind is suggesting that I should have two blogs, not just one.

The rationale is that I should have one blog for telling stories ---this blog, Letter from Virgil---and a second blog in which I can discuss current issues.

I have always tried to avoid mixing opinions in with the stories, and looking back over the Postings I think I have generally been successful. (There have been some slips, for example, when I offered some comments on the US health care system.)

My government career involved a fair bit of policy development, which I enjoyed. Today when I read or listen to pundits discussing this or that social, political or economic issue I find myself arguing with them. "You are giving too much prominence to this factor and not enough to that." Or, "You are overlooking an underlying trend that makes your proposal nonsensical."

Instead of just continuing to complain to Pat, who I must say is a very patient and tolerant listener, I have decided to send my views into cyberspace. Hopefully this will reduce the number of tirades that Pat has to put up with.

The second blog will be called, The Icewine Guru, and will be found at http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

It will consist (hopefully) of lively and entertaining Postings of imaginary conversations between two friends, one a semi-retired consultant whose hobby is producing the world's best organic icewine, and a retired high school history teacher.

When in my government work, I had to come up with recommendations on complex policy issues, I sometimes imagined a debate between two intelligent, well-informed people who although strong-willed were open to being convinced by a proposition that involved better facts and stronger arguments.

The two blogs will alternate, with Letter from Virgil one Sunday, the Icewine Guru the next.

The first Icewine Guru Posting will appear on August 14.

Please give The Icewine Guru a try and let me know what you think.

Now, here is today's Letter from Virgil.

The Contractor and the Lincoln

There is a story that I have been wanting to tell for some time involving a friend I have known since we were young, let's call him Freddy.

But I didn't want to tell it until I had a chance to check the facts with him, which I was able to do recently.

When we were young, I was always envious of Freddy's skill in woodworking. In shop class he could turn out bird houses that didn't need plastic wood to fill in gaps from  poorly fitting joints---I always had a problem with joints (to be clear, I should say we're talking here about joints of the wooden, not pot kind).

He could take a block of hardwood and shape it into a glorious fruit bowl.

He was a whiz.

After leaving school, Freddy started working as a carpenter building houses and ended up as a very successful and respected contractor,  building not just houses, but apartments, nursing homes, that kind of thing.

Freddy never advertised and always had more work than he could handle, because of word-of-mouth recommendations.

On one occasion, the owner of a Lincoln dealership intent on diversifying his savings tried to persuade Freddy to construct an apartment building for him as an investment property. Freddy declined, saying he had enough on his plate, he just couldn't' handle any more work.

The car dealer tried to sweeten the deal by saying he would throw in a  new Lincoln.

Freddy thought about it, and agreed to drop by the dealership some time and check out the Lincolns.

Now, Freddy's success was largely due to the fact that he was a hands-on manager. He didn't sit in an office, he was on the site each day pitching in with whatever task was falling behind.

At the end of  a particular workday, he showed up at the dealership in his dusty  boots and overalls. The salesman, dressed in an impeccable suit and tie---he was selling Lincolns, after all--- clearly didn't know what to make of this strange customer.

Freddy opened the driver's door of a big Lincoln and leaning in checked out the dashboard and the fine upholstery on the seats.

"That looks OK, " Freddy said as he shut the door. I imagine the salesman started breathing again when it became clear that this man in the dusty overalls wasn't going to get in and sully the Lincoln's pristine upholstery.

 "Could you open the trunk?", Freddie asked.

"The trunk?", the salesman looked puzzled. No one buying a Lincoln was ever interested in the trunk.

"Yes, I just want to see if I can get a wheelbarrow and a bag of cement in it."

The salesman gasped, but he opened the trunk and Freddy checked it out.

Nodding, he left the dealership, leaving behind a totally confused salesman who couldn't wait to regale his colleagues with the story about his bizarre customer.

Freddy rearranged his projects, and soon took delivery of a large silver-grey Lincoln, provided by a grateful dealer.

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When I checked the above details with Freddy, he said that I had the story right.

He added one factor. He said that at that time he had been suffering from back pains and his doctor had been trying to persuade him to stop driving a pickup truck---to get a sedan instead. After checking out the Lincoln, Freddy had asked the doctor if he thought that a Lincoln would be better for his back.

The bemused doctor thought for a moment and then gave his considered medical opinion---that a Lincoln would indeed be just fine for his back. He may also have been wondering whether he was in the wrong business.

Freddy added another story about the Lincoln. He was once driving on the 401 highway on his way to a project, with the trunk lid up and a builder's jack sticking out the back.

An OPP constable waved him over. Freddy rolled down his window and the constable said, "OK where'd you steal this car. No one who owns a Lincoln drives around with the trunk full of stuff and the lid up."

After Freddy showed his documentation, the policeman walked back to his car shaking his head.

Although around 80, Freddy continues to work, helping his son who has now taken over the business. The company still doesn't advertise and still has more business than it can handle.

A Sequel to Jonas Robinson

At our anniversary party (see Posting 118) I had a chat with a cousin from Florida who had seen Posting 108  in which I described buying some paintings from---at that time---an unknown Ottawa Valley folk artist, Jonas Robinson.

My cousin said that the story reminded him of two paintings his father---my uncle----had brought home some years before his death,

His father had read about a terrible fire on Lake Rose, near Orlando, in which a man had died and his artist wife had been badly burned. When the wife returned from an extended stay in hospital, his father had driven over to see if he could help. He found that the woman had resumed painting and he bought  two paintings---of pelicans---as a gift for his wife.

The paintings hung in the living room of my cousin's parents home on the Inland Waterway, near Edgewater, Florida. He says that his parents loved to look at the paintings and then move to the porch to watch live  pelicans fly over or glide onto the Waterway.

When his dad and mother had died, my cousin and his siblings had to sort out their belongings. They studied the paintings, found them attractive, but the cousin and his siblings couldn't figure out what to do with them. No one had space on their walls for the rather large pictures (24 by 30 inches), and yet they didn't want to get rid of them.

Finally, it was agreed that one of the siblings and his wife would take the pictures and store them in their laundry room. Recently they  saw a  newspaper story about 'a local artist', Joy Postle (pronounced 'postal') Blackstone who for years before her death in 1989 loved to paint Florida scenes, especially of pelicans and flamingos. An author, Judy Madsen Johnson, had just published a book, "Joy Cometh in the Morning: the Joy Postle Blackstone Story"

My cousins checked the paintings in the laundry room and sure enough they were by Joy Postle Blackstone.

(I have found that many articles about the artist refer to her just by her maiden name, Joy Postle.)

The University of Central Florida has recently developed a website featuring Joy and her work. Here is a another sample of Joy's work, taken from that website.

The Wikipedia Encyclopaedia has an article on Joy Postle Blackstone in which she is described as "...a pioneering American environmental artist and creator of celebrated murals depicting Florida wildlife." 

The paintings have now been moved from the laundry room to the living room, and my cousins are delighted they had the good sense---and taste---to keep the pictures. (I am grateful to them for taking the pictures of the pelican paintings shown above!)

Jonas Robinson and Joy Postle are similar in some respects. Their paintings are being rediscovered after their deaths, and they were both devoted to preserving, through their work, the world around them.

But there are marked differences.

Jonas was a self-taught artist who captured local scenes in a lively and happy but naive style. Joy on the other hand was a highly-trained artist who produced elegant pictures in a variety of media: oil paintings, water colours, murals etc.

According to the articles I have been able to read, she lived a life full of both adventure and adversity, and through it all she kept on painting.

I wonder how long it will be before someone in Hollywood decides that Judy Madsen Johnson's new biography should be turned into a movie.

I am so grateful to my cousins for introducing me to Joy Postle, and for giving me some (more) warm memories of their parents---my aunt and uncle---who were very special people to all who knew them.

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See you on August 21st for Posting #120 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.

On August 14th, you may like to check out the first Posting of The Icewine Guru. http://theicewineguru.blogspot.com/

Tags: my contractor friend and his Lincoln, Jonas Robinson, Joy Postle Blackstone, Judy Madsen Johnson,

POSTING #118

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

It did.

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

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

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

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

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

I promise.

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

I hope you enjoy it.

See you on August 7th!

Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary

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

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

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

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

Preparing Canadian Consultants for the Cultural Challenges of Russian Dinners

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I agreed.

Big mistake!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was when I made my second mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Pictures of the 50th Anniversary

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See you on August 7th for Posting #119 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.

POSTING #117

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

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

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

A Speech I Couldn't Give

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

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

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

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

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

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Good evening!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the last night I had trouble sleeping.

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

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

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

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

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

I found that to be true.

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

I think you will as well.

Let's turn  to teaching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do we go about collecting stories?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it, and that was perfectly adequate.

But the world has changed.

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

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

Please take care of yourselves.

And have a wonderful, safe summer full of stories!

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See you on July 3rd for Posting #118 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting,  or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.