This column was originally published by Profile Kingston in December 1999.
On the morning of my seventh birthday in October 1961, I walked up the hall from my bedroom to my Mom's. As I approached, I saw a tin of cookies sitting outside her door, as I got closer I saw they were our whole family's favourite. The ones with candied drawings of animals on them. I had known she wasn't well and was away a lot, but now she was at home and I thought that everything would be the way it always was.
Three weeks later, while we were having breakfast, my Dad walked into the kitchen. He told us in a quiet voice that our Mother had passed away during the night. I remember the moment after he told us, the room, for that matter, the whole world fell silent. Then, just as quickly, everyone started to cry.
The funeral was held on October 31. As in many country communities, the service was held at our house. I remember all the tears that were shed. Most of all I remember my Uncle Doug, my mother's younger brother. He always had a joke or a smile for every niece and nephew. To this day he still does.
My Dad came into my room one night, he asked me if I was OK. I thought I was. But I asked him where my Mommy was. He told me that she had died and had gone away. “Forever?” I asked. “Yes son, forever.” “Where did she go?” I asked. He picked me up out of my bed and carried me over to the window of my bedroom. “Can you see the stars out there?” He asked me. “Yes,” I said. My father said, “Your Mommy is up there now, she's a star, always shining, always watching over you at night, and she'll be with you forever.” I asked is that where you go when you die. He said, yes. But I must have driven my dad crazy asking him to point out the same star every night. To an adult they all look the same; to a child they're all different.
I have reached a critical stage of my adulthood. I think more of the effect my death would have on my three children than I think of dying itself. My youngest child Catherine is a little older than I was when my mother died. I look at all my kids and wonder how I would feel if I had to leave right now. I see the promise in their eyes, I see myself reflected in their enthusiastic response to life. I want so much to be a part of that life, to watch them grow older, to help them when they make a mistake, to be there when they need me. I think of my mother. I imagine her feelings when she realized she would not see her children grow older. I imagine her helplessness when she realized she would never hold her grandchildren, never to see her own features reflected in yet another generation.
Our oldest child, John is an astute boy, very inquisitive, but he has a very difficult concept to absorb; in fact all our kids do. I remember when he was about three years old and he first became aware of a picture of my Mother, he asked me, 'Who's that, Daddy?' I told him it was my Mommy, his Granny. He looked at me and said in a kind of scolding child’s voice, 'No, no, no, that's not my Granny. My Granny's in Ottawa.'
On a cold afternoon, we all stood by her gravestone. Each child carried a single chrysanthemum to leave for their Granny, the one they never knew. Together, we brushed off the leaves that littered the surface of her grave stone and by doing so revealed the epitaph that we chose to remember her by. Just from seeing the lyric of "Silent Night", I was flooded with memories of how Christmas Eve was with my Mom. All of us singing, dressed to the nines, so Dad could get us on film. Mom in her red Christmas dress, leading us on. At that moment, I heard quite clearly, the full-bodied sound of the piano and the somewhat off kilter singing of the rest of the family gathered around it, 'Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.'
You're right guys, it says, 'sleep in heavenly peace', it's from her favourite carol. She's like all of you, she loved Christmas too. John, turned and saw a tear roll down my cheek and as he grasped my hand with concern, he asked me if I was OK. Full circle, I thought: first my father was concerned and now my son is. I smiled at him and said, “Yes, son, I am fine. I was just remembering.
Merry Christmas, Mom.
We love you.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Time Keeps on Slippin'
Even though the days are getting shorter and the nights cooler, it is not that easy forgetting the past summer. I seem not to be the only one that has been looking back at that time of year, several publications have run columns for people to reminisce about their favorite summer.
When I think back among the summers that I have had, it is very hard to place my finger on which one was the best. It is kind of like asking me which of my kids I like the most. They are all special, they are all unique and the are all memorable. To me summer is not that of time but of place and attitude. I spent my summers from the late fifties until the early seventies at our cottage at Grippen Lake. Those years where filled with 'firsts' which make them so memorable. From my first kiss, to that exhilarating feeling of dropping your ski when you first slalom ski. It was evenings just spent with your friends late at night watching the sky as it filled with falling stars. It was meeting people from a different walk of life who turned out to be the closest friends I would have throughout my life.
I have tried to think of a year that was far and beyond the best and I can't do it. The summers run on in my life. One becoming a blur of the next. There was the last summer we spent at the cottage with my Mom before she died, and the look on my children’s face as they first played on the beach. Then there was it the summer of the UFO sightings, or the first summer I spent there alone with my two best friends (now that was a story in itself). I remember sitting there with Paul on one side and Mark on the other seriously debating whether or not we should buy new dishes because the other ones were used. Thank goodness for the kindness shown by 17 year old girls.
Corn roasts, barbecues, fireworks, the canteen, the fresh cold, cold water from the creek, the double and even triple dares we made to see who cold stand the longest in the creek's naturally ice cold water. The loons, the swims out to the Rock, the sojourns to Treasure Island by boat at moonlight (running out of gas also works in a boat). The first beer... I still remember my initial revulsion at the taste. At least I'm glad that changed. The enchanted walks late at night with the girl you wanted to hold hands with...but never did.
As with most people, music marks time in my life. And summer and rock n' roll go hand in hand. I mean who could go through a summer without a Steve Miller album? I hear songs that instantly conjure remembrances of my summers, the things that happened, yeah, the things that were. Can it all be confined to the Summer of Love? No. There are always movements in style, there is always accounting for tastes. But we move on, we graduate, we keep adding to our collective summer memory. It is a constant flow.
I was at a party a while ago, it was hot, there was quite a mix of people there. People my age, people older, people younger, much younger and the music was blaring! I was just groovin' with the tune, a little Bob Seger to make the feet move. My wife and I danced with each other the way we danced back in '76 when we met, oblivious to everything and everyone. But suddenly the music changed and I heard a driving base beat start up, followed by a repetitive back beat that was then accompanied by falsetto singing. A roar exploded from the crowd and people, mostly young people rushed to the dance floor. A crowd of gap mouthed people were edged out of the way by people, young people, wanting to dance to the insipid beat of 'Stayin' Alive'. Disco apparently still lives. As the other survivors of the seventies sat around and watched this phenomenon, I could only shake my head.
As I age though, the series of first has slowed to a trickle. Instead of a summer of exploration, I seem to be getting comfortable in watching my children's summers. So here we are, just kicking back. Summer’s gone, autumn’s here and I’m already looking forward to the next one. And to help me along, I've just popped Steve Miller into the CD for a couple of tunes. "Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future..." It certainly does Steve, it certainly does.
When I think back among the summers that I have had, it is very hard to place my finger on which one was the best. It is kind of like asking me which of my kids I like the most. They are all special, they are all unique and the are all memorable. To me summer is not that of time but of place and attitude. I spent my summers from the late fifties until the early seventies at our cottage at Grippen Lake. Those years where filled with 'firsts' which make them so memorable. From my first kiss, to that exhilarating feeling of dropping your ski when you first slalom ski. It was evenings just spent with your friends late at night watching the sky as it filled with falling stars. It was meeting people from a different walk of life who turned out to be the closest friends I would have throughout my life.
I have tried to think of a year that was far and beyond the best and I can't do it. The summers run on in my life. One becoming a blur of the next. There was the last summer we spent at the cottage with my Mom before she died, and the look on my children’s face as they first played on the beach. Then there was it the summer of the UFO sightings, or the first summer I spent there alone with my two best friends (now that was a story in itself). I remember sitting there with Paul on one side and Mark on the other seriously debating whether or not we should buy new dishes because the other ones were used. Thank goodness for the kindness shown by 17 year old girls.
Corn roasts, barbecues, fireworks, the canteen, the fresh cold, cold water from the creek, the double and even triple dares we made to see who cold stand the longest in the creek's naturally ice cold water. The loons, the swims out to the Rock, the sojourns to Treasure Island by boat at moonlight (running out of gas also works in a boat). The first beer... I still remember my initial revulsion at the taste. At least I'm glad that changed. The enchanted walks late at night with the girl you wanted to hold hands with...but never did.
As with most people, music marks time in my life. And summer and rock n' roll go hand in hand. I mean who could go through a summer without a Steve Miller album? I hear songs that instantly conjure remembrances of my summers, the things that happened, yeah, the things that were. Can it all be confined to the Summer of Love? No. There are always movements in style, there is always accounting for tastes. But we move on, we graduate, we keep adding to our collective summer memory. It is a constant flow.
I was at a party a while ago, it was hot, there was quite a mix of people there. People my age, people older, people younger, much younger and the music was blaring! I was just groovin' with the tune, a little Bob Seger to make the feet move. My wife and I danced with each other the way we danced back in '76 when we met, oblivious to everything and everyone. But suddenly the music changed and I heard a driving base beat start up, followed by a repetitive back beat that was then accompanied by falsetto singing. A roar exploded from the crowd and people, mostly young people rushed to the dance floor. A crowd of gap mouthed people were edged out of the way by people, young people, wanting to dance to the insipid beat of 'Stayin' Alive'. Disco apparently still lives. As the other survivors of the seventies sat around and watched this phenomenon, I could only shake my head.
As I age though, the series of first has slowed to a trickle. Instead of a summer of exploration, I seem to be getting comfortable in watching my children's summers. So here we are, just kicking back. Summer’s gone, autumn’s here and I’m already looking forward to the next one. And to help me along, I've just popped Steve Miller into the CD for a couple of tunes. "Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future..." It certainly does Steve, it certainly does.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tripping to Halifax
A few years ago my wife and I had a chance to fly out to Halifax for the weekend without the kids. Just a short hop out to the coast to visit with my wife’s sister and her husband. We thought we would move with the times and bought our tickets over the internet and paid for them in the same fashion. We received an email telling us our electronic tickets would await our arrival in Ottawa. Then I sent our hosts an email relaying the flight information.
On our drive to Ottawa, I kept wondering, how real were those electronic tickets anyway? I have been exposed to computers long enough to know that a) computers do screw up and b) the front line operators usually don’t believe that a computer can screw up. I had visions of an Air Canada attendant telling me that they had a seat for a Platrick Scott but nothing for a Patrick Scott.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to confront these problems, for when we arrived in Ottawa, our electronic tickets were there. However, they were also tantalizingly out of reach, until we started in a series of new procedures before boarding the flight. First, we had to show picture identification that matched the name on the tickets. That done, we were asked if we packed the suitcase ourselves and did we know what was in it. I suppose that questions of this nature could get a little uncomfortable, seeing how we were a married couple getting away from our kids for the weekend. We just smiled and nodded. We were asked if we left the luggage unattended anywhere. I said, “In our trunk”. Humour does not work well these days. We had to “affix” (couldn’t she have said “put”?) a label on our luggage. I thought about using a funny name, but the idea of spending my weekend in a small jail cell with rough looking characters instead of my wife and the contents of our suitcase in Halifax, eliminated that idea and I quickly wrote my name and address on the label. We then proceeded (couldn’t have I just said, “went”?) to the metal detector, showed our picture ID again then I had to turn the digital camera on and off, I had to turn the cell phone on and off, then had to turn my patience on and off. Finally, I emptied my pockets and as I stepped through the detector, the alarm went off. Then I really emptied my pants pockets, my sport coat pockets and even my outer coat pockets and still the alarm went off. They finally checked me out with a handheld unit and allowed me to go on. It was only when I was putting everything away that I realized I still had my wrist watch on. The scary part was all those security people staring at me and waiting for me to do something stupid (quiet out there) didn’t notice my watch either.
We went to the ticket counter and as we stood in line for our seating assignments, we had to show our picture ID again. Then, as we walked the 6 feet to the desk to get our boarding passes, we had to show our picture ID yet again. Now, I don’t know if they had mistaken my wife and I for David Copperfield and an associate, but for the life of me I don’t know how they thought we could turn into someone else in the space of six feet. But we dutifully showed them our ID and boarded the plane.
The flight was uneventful except for the guy right behind us who saw some vapour from the air conditioning unit start pouring out of the ventilation slots. There is something unnerving about racing down a runway at a couple of hundred miles an hour with a guy right behind you mumbling softly that the plane was on fire and that we are all going to die and blow up. Which, I guess, is preferable to blowing up first and then dying. He settled down quickly though, either that or he passed out from fear.
Our stay in Halifax was wonderful. We had some delectable meals, my wife got her fill of fresh seafood and I got my fill of smelling the saltwater air wafting in over the shoreline. The flight back was like all flights back. They seem a little longer than when you were leaving. Albeit, we did have two 18 months old twins with runny nose beside us, but compared to the death-wish guy, they were a bed of roses. The other thing my wife and I vowed to do when we got back was to have ID pictures that don’t make us look like inmates from one of our area penitentiaries. Heard that joke once too many times.
On our drive to Ottawa, I kept wondering, how real were those electronic tickets anyway? I have been exposed to computers long enough to know that a) computers do screw up and b) the front line operators usually don’t believe that a computer can screw up. I had visions of an Air Canada attendant telling me that they had a seat for a Platrick Scott but nothing for a Patrick Scott.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to confront these problems, for when we arrived in Ottawa, our electronic tickets were there. However, they were also tantalizingly out of reach, until we started in a series of new procedures before boarding the flight. First, we had to show picture identification that matched the name on the tickets. That done, we were asked if we packed the suitcase ourselves and did we know what was in it. I suppose that questions of this nature could get a little uncomfortable, seeing how we were a married couple getting away from our kids for the weekend. We just smiled and nodded. We were asked if we left the luggage unattended anywhere. I said, “In our trunk”. Humour does not work well these days. We had to “affix” (couldn’t she have said “put”?) a label on our luggage. I thought about using a funny name, but the idea of spending my weekend in a small jail cell with rough looking characters instead of my wife and the contents of our suitcase in Halifax, eliminated that idea and I quickly wrote my name and address on the label. We then proceeded (couldn’t have I just said, “went”?) to the metal detector, showed our picture ID again then I had to turn the digital camera on and off, I had to turn the cell phone on and off, then had to turn my patience on and off. Finally, I emptied my pockets and as I stepped through the detector, the alarm went off. Then I really emptied my pants pockets, my sport coat pockets and even my outer coat pockets and still the alarm went off. They finally checked me out with a handheld unit and allowed me to go on. It was only when I was putting everything away that I realized I still had my wrist watch on. The scary part was all those security people staring at me and waiting for me to do something stupid (quiet out there) didn’t notice my watch either.
We went to the ticket counter and as we stood in line for our seating assignments, we had to show our picture ID again. Then, as we walked the 6 feet to the desk to get our boarding passes, we had to show our picture ID yet again. Now, I don’t know if they had mistaken my wife and I for David Copperfield and an associate, but for the life of me I don’t know how they thought we could turn into someone else in the space of six feet. But we dutifully showed them our ID and boarded the plane.
The flight was uneventful except for the guy right behind us who saw some vapour from the air conditioning unit start pouring out of the ventilation slots. There is something unnerving about racing down a runway at a couple of hundred miles an hour with a guy right behind you mumbling softly that the plane was on fire and that we are all going to die and blow up. Which, I guess, is preferable to blowing up first and then dying. He settled down quickly though, either that or he passed out from fear.
Our stay in Halifax was wonderful. We had some delectable meals, my wife got her fill of fresh seafood and I got my fill of smelling the saltwater air wafting in over the shoreline. The flight back was like all flights back. They seem a little longer than when you were leaving. Albeit, we did have two 18 months old twins with runny nose beside us, but compared to the death-wish guy, they were a bed of roses. The other thing my wife and I vowed to do when we got back was to have ID pictures that don’t make us look like inmates from one of our area penitentiaries. Heard that joke once too many times.
Monday, November 16, 2009
An Inate Sense of Direction.... What?
A long, long time ago, light years from where I am now. Way back before kids, before I was married, a time where my now wife was still in the throes of rapture over me, yeah, talking a long time ago. In those days, when my money was spent on me and time was always available, a group of us decided to chuck the February snow and ice and fly to Jamaica for 2 weeks. After getting used to the immediate surroundings, we decided to leave the villa in our little red Mitsubishi and venture into Montego Bay for some nightlife. We really didn’t know where we were headed but fortunately for us, our friend announced that we were not to worry as he had, “an innate sense of direction”. Three hours later, we were lost in the mountains and ended up stopping for directions at what turned out to be a local house of ill-repute. To say that we stuck out would be understating the whole situation. Some one there did recognize the description of our villa and offered to lead the way back. What we didn’t know was how quickly he was going to lead us there. As we were whipped back and forth over the bench seat of our little car, it bounced over mammoth holes in the road. On more than one occasion, we barely skirted a tumble off the cliffs which were a mere few inches away from the side of the road. The whole time our friend sat seemingly calm, clutching the steering wheel and trying to keep up with the speeding vehicle in front of us. The only trace of any tension in him were his white knuckles and his toneless, constant singing, over and over again, “just another day, just another day, just another day...” I didn’t know or care what the song was, I just wanted to get to our place, grab the neck of a bottle of rum and swish this terrifying ride out of my head. Obviously, we made it back alive and upon grabbing the aforementioned bottle of rum, it was there decided that our friend with the “innate sense of direction” would no longer be allowed anywhere near the front seat of our little red car.
As everyone knows, we in Kingston put up with wet, horrible winter months just for the sheer pleasure of living here during the summer. There is always something to do and usually you can find someone to do it with. Getting friends and family to come down for a visit is as easy as asking them. So it was no surprise to us when some friends from our university days called and asked if they could sail down to Kingston for a weekend visit. Now, there is only one thing better than being in Kingston in the summer and that is being in Kingston in the summer while on a boat. We casually leaped at the offer, arranged a mutual weekend that was good for all and then anticipated their visit. We had expected them to arrive at around 2:30 in the afternoon, we had heard from them via cell phone that they were just off the western tip of Amherst Island. Hours passed and we still hadn’t heard any word of their whereabouts. I wasn’t too concerned for their safety, as I knew they had all the required gear that was needed for a boat of that size. I thought that maybe the battery in the cell phone had died. A thought went through my mind that perhaps they missed the end of Amherst and continued on down the south coast of Wolfe Island, but I shook that one off as being too hard to miss the gap between the two islands. As early evening arrived, my wife and I went home and had supper. We were not surprised to get their phone call and now only mildly surprised to find out that they did indeed miss the gap. I doubt it would surprise you that our driver in Jamaica, the one with the “innate sense of direction” is the same guy who sailed right past Kingston.
Their voices were weary, a little stressed, but excited as they told us they were at the downtown Kingston marina and we made arrangements to meet on a patio for a snack and drinks. There was a slight delay getting together, believe it or not, they got lost walking to the patio where we were waiting (they were at the Kingston Yacht Club and not Confederation Basin).
To say their trip went smoothly after they rerouted themselves from Cape Vincent back to Kingston would be a little misleading. To go through their trip event by event is a little too painful to relate. Suffice to mention, unfolding a seldom used chart of Kingston and finding that mice had made dinner of the approach to Kingston and the harbor, finding a shoal that had no visible markings, and a few unexpected jibes that would rattle most sailors nerves. Like all adventures, we got the whole report in the tiniest of details, from the moment they cast off in Brighton to the moment they sat down beside us. A perfect summer night in Kingston, great company, stories to last all evening, a couple of jugs of cold draught beer and sitting on a warm breezy patio. As the evening wrapped up we had to ask Regina if Michael’s “just another day” mantra had resurfaced during the sail down. She just smiled and said, “No, no. He has become much more colorful in his language since buying the boat”. Ah, a true skipper emerges.
As everyone knows, we in Kingston put up with wet, horrible winter months just for the sheer pleasure of living here during the summer. There is always something to do and usually you can find someone to do it with. Getting friends and family to come down for a visit is as easy as asking them. So it was no surprise to us when some friends from our university days called and asked if they could sail down to Kingston for a weekend visit. Now, there is only one thing better than being in Kingston in the summer and that is being in Kingston in the summer while on a boat. We casually leaped at the offer, arranged a mutual weekend that was good for all and then anticipated their visit. We had expected them to arrive at around 2:30 in the afternoon, we had heard from them via cell phone that they were just off the western tip of Amherst Island. Hours passed and we still hadn’t heard any word of their whereabouts. I wasn’t too concerned for their safety, as I knew they had all the required gear that was needed for a boat of that size. I thought that maybe the battery in the cell phone had died. A thought went through my mind that perhaps they missed the end of Amherst and continued on down the south coast of Wolfe Island, but I shook that one off as being too hard to miss the gap between the two islands. As early evening arrived, my wife and I went home and had supper. We were not surprised to get their phone call and now only mildly surprised to find out that they did indeed miss the gap. I doubt it would surprise you that our driver in Jamaica, the one with the “innate sense of direction” is the same guy who sailed right past Kingston.
Their voices were weary, a little stressed, but excited as they told us they were at the downtown Kingston marina and we made arrangements to meet on a patio for a snack and drinks. There was a slight delay getting together, believe it or not, they got lost walking to the patio where we were waiting (they were at the Kingston Yacht Club and not Confederation Basin).
To say their trip went smoothly after they rerouted themselves from Cape Vincent back to Kingston would be a little misleading. To go through their trip event by event is a little too painful to relate. Suffice to mention, unfolding a seldom used chart of Kingston and finding that mice had made dinner of the approach to Kingston and the harbor, finding a shoal that had no visible markings, and a few unexpected jibes that would rattle most sailors nerves. Like all adventures, we got the whole report in the tiniest of details, from the moment they cast off in Brighton to the moment they sat down beside us. A perfect summer night in Kingston, great company, stories to last all evening, a couple of jugs of cold draught beer and sitting on a warm breezy patio. As the evening wrapped up we had to ask Regina if Michael’s “just another day” mantra had resurfaced during the sail down. She just smiled and said, “No, no. He has become much more colorful in his language since buying the boat”. Ah, a true skipper emerges.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Everybody Loves A Mystery
Everybody loves a mystery. I am not referring to the mysteries of life, and we all know there are many of those. The mystery I am talking about are more in the vein of who-killed-Professor-Plum-in-the-library-with-a-wrench, type of mystery. The sheer popularity of this genre over the years as demonstrated by the number of novels, movies, television shows and newspapers articles that outlined the unknown, the unanswered and the unexplained can attest to that. Kingston has had its own share of mysteries over the years. We can look back to the earliest days of the city or examine the most recent of crimes in the pages of our newspaper to try and understand the unknown. I know I have played amateur detective when looking at some of Kingston’s most famous or infamous mysteries. The popularity of the Ghost Walk of Kingston, which takes people on a walking tour of some of the more famous ghostly stories of our past shows the fascination most people have about things they do not know the answer to.
The reason I brought this up is that I was faced with a mystery of my own just a few months ago and spent many hours analyzing the events to try and get some sort of understanding of what occurred. As I mentioned, everyone loves a mystery and I am no exception.
I awoke one morning after an especially unrested, fitful sleep, even before my alarm sounded at my usual time. I skipped my morning exercise, grabbed a quick breakfast and made my way into work. Like most people, first thing in the morning is not the time of day to be at the top of my game. It usually takes a little while before my consciousness catches up with me. I got into the office, mostly by rote, just following the car ahead of me. Once there, I had turned my computer on and starting going through my morning rituals, which mostly entailed of me shaking my head a few times to clear the cobwebs. I checked my email to see if there were any pressing matters to be attended to. I took a look at the time located on the taskbar of my computer and then glanced at the watch on my wrist, a gleaming new one I bought just a few short weeks before and saw that my computer time was off. That in itself is not surprising, most people have encountered a dying battery in their computer before or a situation where the system has re-booted itself to a different day and sometime year. I simply reset the time to match my watch. I continued on like any other day until someone asked me what time it was. I told them and was quickly corrected by virtually everyone in earshot. It turned out my computer had the right time and my gleaming new watch did not. After years of always having the latest advances in many things, I have settled back into old and familiar and this is true with my watch. No longer did I want or need a watch that could tell me where I was on the earth (and believe me, there were times that I needed that information), what time it was in any of twenty four time zones or even have the ability to change a television station. All I wanted was a watch that would tell me the time of day and maybe what day of the month it was. I had opted for an old style analogue watch by a well known manufacturer. It cost me about a week’s wages, which shows one of two things, either I paid a lot for it or it is a very cheap watch. But given the circumstances that the watch had not stopped before and I didn’t do anything to make it start going again, the only certainty was that I was out twenty minutes. Twenty minutes out of my life that were for all intense and purposes, unexplained. At my age, losing any time out of my life is a matter of note. Using the astute logic and reasoning I am known for, my only conclusion was I had been abducted by aliens. That would explain the bad sleep, the bad dreams I was sure I was having and the strange markings on my body. Of course, when I expounded on my theory, I was met with blank stares (a blank look that seemed frighteningly similar to those eyes I saw in my dreams) and the usual amount of disbelief from non-believers. My wife who throughout most of my life has rallied to my side in times of confusion was for the most part.... disbelieving. I was so absolutely sure of my experience that I had now started to sleep with a half-cocked eye, so I would be fully aware of any nocturnal events. I was searching my body for those tiny pinpricks you always read about in the Enquirer. My television shows of choice no longer surrounded comedy and even “24" took a backseat to the Space Channel as I tried to compare my own meeting of the third kind to that of others. It was all encompassing at times. Was I yet another chapter in the abductions that are splashed across the pages of some of the more noteworthy publications that grace our grocery check out line? Would my experiences come out in the middle of some hypnotic trance that would be so terrifyingly real that my hair would turn white? These are the mysteries that keep me going from day-to-day.
In this particular case, the mystery was resolved in the most scientific of ways. When I was pulling a T-shirt over my head, a string of thread caught on the winding stem of my new watch and pulled it out to the first stage position, stopping the watch. By pushing it in, the watch started again. There was my missing twenty minutes. The whole basis of this abduction experience was now more of a case of tossing and turning in a fitful sleep. The strange markings on my body? On reflection they were most likely from the vinyl lawn chair in my yard. Bad dreams? Could be anything from a pizza too late at night to dredging up the memories of a horrible alien abduction movie like,”Night Skies” which I watched with my kids a while ago. So there went my personal mystery and my hopes for immortality in the legends of alien encounters. Now back to drudgery of everyday life. That is, until the next mystery grabs a hold of me.
The reason I brought this up is that I was faced with a mystery of my own just a few months ago and spent many hours analyzing the events to try and get some sort of understanding of what occurred. As I mentioned, everyone loves a mystery and I am no exception.
I awoke one morning after an especially unrested, fitful sleep, even before my alarm sounded at my usual time. I skipped my morning exercise, grabbed a quick breakfast and made my way into work. Like most people, first thing in the morning is not the time of day to be at the top of my game. It usually takes a little while before my consciousness catches up with me. I got into the office, mostly by rote, just following the car ahead of me. Once there, I had turned my computer on and starting going through my morning rituals, which mostly entailed of me shaking my head a few times to clear the cobwebs. I checked my email to see if there were any pressing matters to be attended to. I took a look at the time located on the taskbar of my computer and then glanced at the watch on my wrist, a gleaming new one I bought just a few short weeks before and saw that my computer time was off. That in itself is not surprising, most people have encountered a dying battery in their computer before or a situation where the system has re-booted itself to a different day and sometime year. I simply reset the time to match my watch. I continued on like any other day until someone asked me what time it was. I told them and was quickly corrected by virtually everyone in earshot. It turned out my computer had the right time and my gleaming new watch did not. After years of always having the latest advances in many things, I have settled back into old and familiar and this is true with my watch. No longer did I want or need a watch that could tell me where I was on the earth (and believe me, there were times that I needed that information), what time it was in any of twenty four time zones or even have the ability to change a television station. All I wanted was a watch that would tell me the time of day and maybe what day of the month it was. I had opted for an old style analogue watch by a well known manufacturer. It cost me about a week’s wages, which shows one of two things, either I paid a lot for it or it is a very cheap watch. But given the circumstances that the watch had not stopped before and I didn’t do anything to make it start going again, the only certainty was that I was out twenty minutes. Twenty minutes out of my life that were for all intense and purposes, unexplained. At my age, losing any time out of my life is a matter of note. Using the astute logic and reasoning I am known for, my only conclusion was I had been abducted by aliens. That would explain the bad sleep, the bad dreams I was sure I was having and the strange markings on my body. Of course, when I expounded on my theory, I was met with blank stares (a blank look that seemed frighteningly similar to those eyes I saw in my dreams) and the usual amount of disbelief from non-believers. My wife who throughout most of my life has rallied to my side in times of confusion was for the most part.... disbelieving. I was so absolutely sure of my experience that I had now started to sleep with a half-cocked eye, so I would be fully aware of any nocturnal events. I was searching my body for those tiny pinpricks you always read about in the Enquirer. My television shows of choice no longer surrounded comedy and even “24" took a backseat to the Space Channel as I tried to compare my own meeting of the third kind to that of others. It was all encompassing at times. Was I yet another chapter in the abductions that are splashed across the pages of some of the more noteworthy publications that grace our grocery check out line? Would my experiences come out in the middle of some hypnotic trance that would be so terrifyingly real that my hair would turn white? These are the mysteries that keep me going from day-to-day.
In this particular case, the mystery was resolved in the most scientific of ways. When I was pulling a T-shirt over my head, a string of thread caught on the winding stem of my new watch and pulled it out to the first stage position, stopping the watch. By pushing it in, the watch started again. There was my missing twenty minutes. The whole basis of this abduction experience was now more of a case of tossing and turning in a fitful sleep. The strange markings on my body? On reflection they were most likely from the vinyl lawn chair in my yard. Bad dreams? Could be anything from a pizza too late at night to dredging up the memories of a horrible alien abduction movie like,”Night Skies” which I watched with my kids a while ago. So there went my personal mystery and my hopes for immortality in the legends of alien encounters. Now back to drudgery of everyday life. That is, until the next mystery grabs a hold of me.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Generation S
It seems that every generation has some symbol that represents their ideals and dreams something that crystallizes their moment in time. Be it flappers from the Roaring Twenties or the image of a daisy being placed in the barrel of a National Guards’ rifle. The whole attitude and flavour of those times can be expressed with these images. Being a child of the end of the Baby Boom, I was not really a part of the boom itself just the trickle at the end. I was not a true child of the sixties and wasn’t really a child of the seventies, I was kind of floating somewhere in between Woodstock and Disco, not quite beads and peace signs and certainly not Italian slip-ons and satin suits. All in all, a very disconcerting place to be. A sociologist has recently labeled us as the Generation Jones, which is slang word meaning an intense longing, some how that doesn’t quite ring true to me. The only intense longing I had when I was in my teens, certainly can’t be written about here.
As with most things, as you think of these generational reminders they become more and more apparent to you as you become more and more aware of them. It seemed every thing I saw connected me with a thought or twinged a memory about someone elses moment of time.
A number of years ago my wife and I were musing over this at our dinner table, just reminiscing with the kids about the events of our time. Things that I thought may even finally define our generation. We talked about the music that we listened to, the cultural impacts that occurred and the entertainment we watched as we grew older. I thought the kids would be full of questions. We told them of some of the movies that we wanted to rent for them, among them maybe 2001, A Space Odyssey, maybe a Clint Eastwood movie or two. We played some tunes for them, but yet they seemed pretty blase about the whole thing, so we asked them weren’t they interested in some of our generational icons? Our oldest child, John looked up and said, “It’s not like we don’t care, but it is a little old news, Dad.” Then as a concession to us, John said, “What do you think about this?” And as he creased his eyes into a scowl, he did a good visual impersonation of Clint and said “Go ahead, make my day.” Then he did an admirable job of singing the main musical sequence of the title song of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly with the Steph and Cat weighing in with the wa-wa’s. I looked at the girls and said, “You know about this stuff too?”, “Yeah.” They said together. “And I thought the big black thing in 2001 was way cool.” Said Stephanie. “Yeah.” Replied Catherine, “I liked the way it made people smarter”. I looked at my wife and shrugged my shoulders. “Do you know this song?” I went to the computer and clicked on Won’t Get Fooled Again by The Who. They started to sing along and even attempted the best known scream ever recorded on an album. Feeling a little frustrated, I said, “Ever hear of Grand Funk Railroad?” John looked at me and said “We're An American Band.” “Jefferson Airplane?” I asked. “White Rabbit.”
This started a flurry of questions and answers.
“Jefferson Starship?”, “We Built This City.”
“Wings?”, “Ah, they were nothing after McCartney left.”
“Planet of the Apes?”, “The Statue of Liberty.”
“Psycho?”, “The shower scene.”
Finally, I threw out, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida!!” With an almost sinister smirk on his face John sat back and said, “In the Garden of Eden, baby.”
Defeated now, I asked, “Where did you guys learn this stuff from. It certainly wasn’t from your Mom or I.” John said, “I dunno. We just know about them”. “Where from?” I asked. In unison, they replied, “The Simpsons.” I managed to say, “The cartoon show?” “Yeah.” Catherine smiled. “It’s got all sorts of things in there about people your age. You know, Homer is about your age.” I didn’t like the direction this was taking me. “Homer is about my age.” I said with humiliation. “Yeah and he drinks beer as well, listens to the same music as you do and he has three kids, the oldest is a boy also.” Said Stephanie. “But.” I retorted, “His wife has a pile of blue hair on her head, even I know that. Look at your Mom, not a trace of blue hair, at least not for a few more years!”. My wife trained her flashing dark eyes on me, making me realize what I just said. “D’oh!” I blurted out, quite by accident. Stephanie piped up, “That may be true, Mom doesn’t have Margs’ hair, but Marg is patient, loving and understanding of her Homey as Mom is of you, even if Homer is the stupidest person on the planet”. “So what you guys are saying is that my life is that of Homer Simpson?” John smiled at me and said, “Well, if those are the cards that were dealt to you, you can either play ‘em or fold ‘em.” Giving the option, I knew I had to play them. Looking around the table I saw my cards alright. A full house, two of a kind and three wild eyed jokers. So, that is it. My life, my generation is encapsulated in not something smart and sassy, but more like dumb and brassy. Not even a cool nickname, not Generation X , not an Echo Boomer not even the Me Generation, I stand before you as a Simpson Generationer or maybe in short a Generation S.
And one last thing before I go. Boy, go get me a beer, so I can finish this article.
As with most things, as you think of these generational reminders they become more and more apparent to you as you become more and more aware of them. It seemed every thing I saw connected me with a thought or twinged a memory about someone elses moment of time.
A number of years ago my wife and I were musing over this at our dinner table, just reminiscing with the kids about the events of our time. Things that I thought may even finally define our generation. We talked about the music that we listened to, the cultural impacts that occurred and the entertainment we watched as we grew older. I thought the kids would be full of questions. We told them of some of the movies that we wanted to rent for them, among them maybe 2001, A Space Odyssey, maybe a Clint Eastwood movie or two. We played some tunes for them, but yet they seemed pretty blase about the whole thing, so we asked them weren’t they interested in some of our generational icons? Our oldest child, John looked up and said, “It’s not like we don’t care, but it is a little old news, Dad.” Then as a concession to us, John said, “What do you think about this?” And as he creased his eyes into a scowl, he did a good visual impersonation of Clint and said “Go ahead, make my day.” Then he did an admirable job of singing the main musical sequence of the title song of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly with the Steph and Cat weighing in with the wa-wa’s. I looked at the girls and said, “You know about this stuff too?”, “Yeah.” They said together. “And I thought the big black thing in 2001 was way cool.” Said Stephanie. “Yeah.” Replied Catherine, “I liked the way it made people smarter”. I looked at my wife and shrugged my shoulders. “Do you know this song?” I went to the computer and clicked on Won’t Get Fooled Again by The Who. They started to sing along and even attempted the best known scream ever recorded on an album. Feeling a little frustrated, I said, “Ever hear of Grand Funk Railroad?” John looked at me and said “We're An American Band.” “Jefferson Airplane?” I asked. “White Rabbit.”
This started a flurry of questions and answers.
“Jefferson Starship?”, “We Built This City.”
“Wings?”, “Ah, they were nothing after McCartney left.”
“Planet of the Apes?”, “The Statue of Liberty.”
“Psycho?”, “The shower scene.”
Finally, I threw out, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida!!” With an almost sinister smirk on his face John sat back and said, “In the Garden of Eden, baby.”
Defeated now, I asked, “Where did you guys learn this stuff from. It certainly wasn’t from your Mom or I.” John said, “I dunno. We just know about them”. “Where from?” I asked. In unison, they replied, “The Simpsons.” I managed to say, “The cartoon show?” “Yeah.” Catherine smiled. “It’s got all sorts of things in there about people your age. You know, Homer is about your age.” I didn’t like the direction this was taking me. “Homer is about my age.” I said with humiliation. “Yeah and he drinks beer as well, listens to the same music as you do and he has three kids, the oldest is a boy also.” Said Stephanie. “But.” I retorted, “His wife has a pile of blue hair on her head, even I know that. Look at your Mom, not a trace of blue hair, at least not for a few more years!”. My wife trained her flashing dark eyes on me, making me realize what I just said. “D’oh!” I blurted out, quite by accident. Stephanie piped up, “That may be true, Mom doesn’t have Margs’ hair, but Marg is patient, loving and understanding of her Homey as Mom is of you, even if Homer is the stupidest person on the planet”. “So what you guys are saying is that my life is that of Homer Simpson?” John smiled at me and said, “Well, if those are the cards that were dealt to you, you can either play ‘em or fold ‘em.” Giving the option, I knew I had to play them. Looking around the table I saw my cards alright. A full house, two of a kind and three wild eyed jokers. So, that is it. My life, my generation is encapsulated in not something smart and sassy, but more like dumb and brassy. Not even a cool nickname, not Generation X , not an Echo Boomer not even the Me Generation, I stand before you as a Simpson Generationer or maybe in short a Generation S.
And one last thing before I go. Boy, go get me a beer, so I can finish this article.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
DB Tests: The Dumbness Quotient
The other day I ran across a list of Grade 9 math questions that was in one of the papers that I read. The writer found the questions challenging, so he threw out 4 or 5 questions for his readers to solve. Now to be fair, I do have a math background and the answers to the questions were pretty easy. I smirked and snorted as the questions were passed down the table to my wife. She laughingly grabbed the paper and started reading the questions. Her laughter gave way to titters and then to a furrowed brow. It was then that it dawned on me that she was struggling with the math and that I had stepped unhesitatingly into a looming pile of trouble. This was not smart of me at all. I tried to back track as best I could, but I knew it was game over as she raised her dark eyes toward me. “What makes you think you are so smart?” She questioned. I should have just packed my bags and said my goodbyes. There was no way out. So I made the smart move and apologized. This demonstrates the difference between intelligence and being smart. Smart is knowing when to do the right thing.
Measuring intelligence has always been a goal of scientists and sociologists as someway to establish a pecking order of organized thought processes. It gives them a concrete base to establish and give credence to whom they think are the humans with the most to offer society when it comes to thinking things out. Unfortunately, many of us tend to agree with them. We seem to equate brilliant thinking with attaining a high I.Q. score. Now, there may be some correlation between the two, whether a higher I.Q. demonstrates the ability to think outside of convention thought patterns and therefore allows the viewer to see things in a different perspective or having the ability to sift through more information and pinpoint the matters that are most significant. But that is not my point. I.Q. tests may be a wonderful way to evaluate the brain, but a terrible way to evaluate “smart”.
I was discussing this with a friend of mine and the name of Howard Gardner came up. In 1983, Gardner introduced his new theory of Multiple Intelligence’s. He stated that our usual Intelligence Quotient tests usually just rely on primarily verbal, logical/mathematical and some spatial skills. He theorized that there were many different levels of intelligence including visual/spacial, bodily/kinetic, musical, interpersonal, intrapersonal and most recently naturalist, spiritual and existential. This certainly makes sense to me as I have always thought there was a big difference between “book” smarts and “real life” smarts. So it seems to me, that in the Ying and Yang sensibilities of this world, there must therefore be an opposite to his theory, a kind of Multiple Dumbness Quotient. So, I now present my theory.
My proposed multiple levels of dumbness are;
The Uh huh Level: This is when the subject only stares at you without emotion and says, “uh huh” after everything you say to them. An example might be, “Ralph! You hair is on fire!” and Ralph replies, “Uh huh.”
The NIMBY Level: If it doesn’t exist in their own back yard, it doesn’t exist. If it can’t be touched and felt... it ain’t. This include any esoteric ideas about anything. Well, except God because they know that God is without a doubt, real.
The Sealed Path Level. Clearly is the most frustrating to most normal people. This is when even in light of the most overwhelming proof of something, the person at this level of dumbness will still fail to change their thinking. Two and two will never be four, even if you hold your fingers up to them and count really slowly.
The Disco/Kinetic Level: I am sure we all know people like this and bear the scars of their frenzied motions. No matter how out of wack with rhythm they are, in their mind they are as graceful as Astaire. This applies to not only dancing, but skating or any other physical activity that requires any sort of co-ordination.
The Death/Risk Level: Otherwise known as the How Dumb Can You Be Rule. You jump off a bridge with a rubber band around your feet. You jump off a cliff with some cloth in your hand a see how far you can fall before throwing your cloth in the air to stop you. These people have all lost the rationale of, “you risk your life, you lose your life”. Of course, something will go wrong, it always does. Death is not very picky. He will certainly select dummies as quickly as anyone else.
And last but certainly not least; The Beyond Comprehension Level of Dumbness: I was watching an A&E show about tornado's. They were interviewing people who had been through the trauma of a tornado and survived to tell the tale afterward. Most of us have heard survivors say that sound of a tornado is similar to the sound of a train rushing by. Well, one gentleman from the deep south, disputed this comparison, I’ll try to quote as best I can, “Didn’t sound like no train to me... there weren’t no woo woo’s. Just the sound of wind.”
Now excuse me for putting my neck on the line, but that is just beyond comprehension dumb.
Measuring intelligence has always been a goal of scientists and sociologists as someway to establish a pecking order of organized thought processes. It gives them a concrete base to establish and give credence to whom they think are the humans with the most to offer society when it comes to thinking things out. Unfortunately, many of us tend to agree with them. We seem to equate brilliant thinking with attaining a high I.Q. score. Now, there may be some correlation between the two, whether a higher I.Q. demonstrates the ability to think outside of convention thought patterns and therefore allows the viewer to see things in a different perspective or having the ability to sift through more information and pinpoint the matters that are most significant. But that is not my point. I.Q. tests may be a wonderful way to evaluate the brain, but a terrible way to evaluate “smart”.
I was discussing this with a friend of mine and the name of Howard Gardner came up. In 1983, Gardner introduced his new theory of Multiple Intelligence’s. He stated that our usual Intelligence Quotient tests usually just rely on primarily verbal, logical/mathematical and some spatial skills. He theorized that there were many different levels of intelligence including visual/spacial, bodily/kinetic, musical, interpersonal, intrapersonal and most recently naturalist, spiritual and existential. This certainly makes sense to me as I have always thought there was a big difference between “book” smarts and “real life” smarts. So it seems to me, that in the Ying and Yang sensibilities of this world, there must therefore be an opposite to his theory, a kind of Multiple Dumbness Quotient. So, I now present my theory.
My proposed multiple levels of dumbness are;
The Uh huh Level: This is when the subject only stares at you without emotion and says, “uh huh” after everything you say to them. An example might be, “Ralph! You hair is on fire!” and Ralph replies, “Uh huh.”
The NIMBY Level: If it doesn’t exist in their own back yard, it doesn’t exist. If it can’t be touched and felt... it ain’t. This include any esoteric ideas about anything. Well, except God because they know that God is without a doubt, real.
The Sealed Path Level. Clearly is the most frustrating to most normal people. This is when even in light of the most overwhelming proof of something, the person at this level of dumbness will still fail to change their thinking. Two and two will never be four, even if you hold your fingers up to them and count really slowly.
The Disco/Kinetic Level: I am sure we all know people like this and bear the scars of their frenzied motions. No matter how out of wack with rhythm they are, in their mind they are as graceful as Astaire. This applies to not only dancing, but skating or any other physical activity that requires any sort of co-ordination.
The Death/Risk Level: Otherwise known as the How Dumb Can You Be Rule. You jump off a bridge with a rubber band around your feet. You jump off a cliff with some cloth in your hand a see how far you can fall before throwing your cloth in the air to stop you. These people have all lost the rationale of, “you risk your life, you lose your life”. Of course, something will go wrong, it always does. Death is not very picky. He will certainly select dummies as quickly as anyone else.
And last but certainly not least; The Beyond Comprehension Level of Dumbness: I was watching an A&E show about tornado's. They were interviewing people who had been through the trauma of a tornado and survived to tell the tale afterward. Most of us have heard survivors say that sound of a tornado is similar to the sound of a train rushing by. Well, one gentleman from the deep south, disputed this comparison, I’ll try to quote as best I can, “Didn’t sound like no train to me... there weren’t no woo woo’s. Just the sound of wind.”
Now excuse me for putting my neck on the line, but that is just beyond comprehension dumb.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Medival Times
A number of years ago we decided a weekend away in Toronto would be the perfect family getaway. We got a suite in heart downtown and pulled out all the stops. Dinner at fancy restaurants, shopping, swimming, with the crown jewel of the trip being an evening at Medieval Times. I am sure that most of you have at least heard of this event, but for those who haven’t, it is an evening that takes place in the 15th century Spain. We, as Lords of the Realm, eat a meal (without any utensils) and watch as our favorite knights at first perform games while atop their steads and then as the story progresses an ultimate battle of jousting and swordplay. It was jaw dropping, eye-popping, slam on your butt stunning and that was just how I reacted when the ticket teller told me how much the admission was for 5 adults. We paid what in real terms equaled our car payment for that month and made our way into one other lineup. There seemed to be lineups for everything. As we shuffled forward, we were assigned which knight we would be cheering for, ours, it turned out was the Red Knight. We all had a cape draped over us, a goofy hat placed on our heads and a picture was snapped standing beside the Queen.(felt strangely like I was graduating again). It was there when my picture was taken with the comely Queen that she turned and addressed me as, “m’lord”. I smiled over at my wife who simply wore an expression on her face that said, “Don’t get used to it”. Before I knew it, the cape whisked off and I was propelled in to the antechamber, where we encountered more lineups. It was good to see that their attention to accuracy and detail was well illustrated with 15th century Spain having draught beer. However, the kids were more thankful that 15th century Spain had Cherry Pepsi.
We were all led into the dining hall and arena area. It was quite the sight, smoke drifting over the floor and lights flashing and music blaring. As we settled in for the show we were introduced to our Serf and Wench and we were told to treat them as our slaves for the evening. I especially enjoyed booming out a, “Wench!! More ale!!” Glancing at my wife, I discovered that same don’t-get-used-to-it expression on her face. Turning to her Serf, she said somewhat sultry, “Slave, bring me my wine.” He blubbered something and ran off to grant ‘m’lady’ her wish. I tried the same look she gave me but she trumped that with a “I could get used to this” expression.
Food was dropped of at our bench as we listened to the introductions of the knights, and we were encouraged to cheer them loudly and often. Our main dish of ribs and half a chicken were presented and all of us tore into it with hands pulling and teeth gnashing. It is quite difficult to cheer on command when you have a mouthful of food. Looking at my son, he did look the part with a drumstick in one hand and a rib in the other, his face smeared with food as he cheered madly for our knight as he raced around the arena on his agile Arabian. Unfortunately, our son eats that way at any regular restaurant. I won’t go into the whole story but it was really an event an incredible night of adventure.
We had heard earlier in the day that among the seven other Medieval Times throughout North America at least one person dies as a result of the show. I just assume they are talking about the knights and not the heart attack victims at the ticket booths. The sparks really do fly as the metal meets metal, one miscalculation and you can easily see how people could get hurt. But as with everything, the evening had to end at some time. Alas, our knight didn’t make it all the way through, he was stab through the stomach and was eliminated in the rounds of competition. It was the other one who made it through the knight (sorry, I couldn’t help myself).
On the drive home one of our daughters thought it would be great to have a Medieval Times in Kingston, unfortunately all this did was bring up talk of consumer base and how our urban demographics would not lend itself to supporting such a tourist blah, blah, blah. Can you imagine how long a two and a half hour drive can be when talking urban geography? Here I was stuck in the middle and I was the one who opted out of high school geography and took Latin instead. It was finally resolved that if we utilized only one knight and instead of a plush arena, we would use the downtown core. We could just arm one of our “local colorful characters” from downtown, give them an empty gift wrapping tube left over from Christmas. Hail him, Sir Wackalot (please don’t take that the wrong way) and let him loose downtown. It may not be the real thing, but it sure would be a lot of fun to watch from a sidewalk patio.
We were all led into the dining hall and arena area. It was quite the sight, smoke drifting over the floor and lights flashing and music blaring. As we settled in for the show we were introduced to our Serf and Wench and we were told to treat them as our slaves for the evening. I especially enjoyed booming out a, “Wench!! More ale!!” Glancing at my wife, I discovered that same don’t-get-used-to-it expression on her face. Turning to her Serf, she said somewhat sultry, “Slave, bring me my wine.” He blubbered something and ran off to grant ‘m’lady’ her wish. I tried the same look she gave me but she trumped that with a “I could get used to this” expression.
Food was dropped of at our bench as we listened to the introductions of the knights, and we were encouraged to cheer them loudly and often. Our main dish of ribs and half a chicken were presented and all of us tore into it with hands pulling and teeth gnashing. It is quite difficult to cheer on command when you have a mouthful of food. Looking at my son, he did look the part with a drumstick in one hand and a rib in the other, his face smeared with food as he cheered madly for our knight as he raced around the arena on his agile Arabian. Unfortunately, our son eats that way at any regular restaurant. I won’t go into the whole story but it was really an event an incredible night of adventure.
We had heard earlier in the day that among the seven other Medieval Times throughout North America at least one person dies as a result of the show. I just assume they are talking about the knights and not the heart attack victims at the ticket booths. The sparks really do fly as the metal meets metal, one miscalculation and you can easily see how people could get hurt. But as with everything, the evening had to end at some time. Alas, our knight didn’t make it all the way through, he was stab through the stomach and was eliminated in the rounds of competition. It was the other one who made it through the knight (sorry, I couldn’t help myself).
On the drive home one of our daughters thought it would be great to have a Medieval Times in Kingston, unfortunately all this did was bring up talk of consumer base and how our urban demographics would not lend itself to supporting such a tourist blah, blah, blah. Can you imagine how long a two and a half hour drive can be when talking urban geography? Here I was stuck in the middle and I was the one who opted out of high school geography and took Latin instead. It was finally resolved that if we utilized only one knight and instead of a plush arena, we would use the downtown core. We could just arm one of our “local colorful characters” from downtown, give them an empty gift wrapping tube left over from Christmas. Hail him, Sir Wackalot (please don’t take that the wrong way) and let him loose downtown. It may not be the real thing, but it sure would be a lot of fun to watch from a sidewalk patio.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Tilting at Windmills
I stood at the gas bar the other day just watching the numbers go flashing by on the pump. It was mesmerizing in a curious way, the rhythm of the cents counting upwards to the regular changing of the dollar amount. Maybe that is how they get us to buy more gas. They lull us with a sense of rhythm. It is fortunate that we aren’t still in the old analog days of meter reading with a bell dinging at the turn of every dollar. If that were the case, the pump would sound off like a school bell ringing as the dollar amounts wracked up at mind dizzying speeds.
I have been dealing with the economic downturn as well as the next guy, although as a writer the economic rewards do not roll in with any regularity to be all that concerned. My financial management skills consists mostly of checking my pockets for anything with a silver sheen and making sure I don’t loose the Lotto 649 tickets from one draw date to the next. The Lottery Retirement Plan, which is the linchpin in my long term financial strategy is also the vehicle of choice amongst many of my friends and family, even though it was not mentioned as a viable option when I took the Canadian Securities Course. I guess they better update that program to reflect the realities of today.
Like many other people, I have been counting my pennies and looking for ways to stretch what ever bucks happen to come my way. There are plenty of things to do in this area for cheap entertainment. We have many museums and art galleries to see, the local landscape north of the city is ideal for picnicking, the small quaint villages and towns around us gives us the opportunity to step back in time a bit and enjoy their rustic charm. The waterfront, the city’s pride and joy, is a perfect place to lie on the grass and watch the clouds drift by. It used to be just letting my eyes wander over our opposite shoreline would lull me to a state of nirvana, but now whenever I look over at Wolfe Island and see the towering windmills, I instantly flash to those lumbering alien machines that strolled through the countryside blasting apart the world as we knew it in the original movie, “War of the Worlds.” The mental image of mayhem, havoc and devastation on Wolfe Island kind of disrupts any zen state I may have achieved.
The recent economic woes have certainly impacted all levels of society, from the wealthiest to the ones who depend up the generosity of others. However, the frenetic and frantic wheeling and dealing of how to stimulate the economy that was deemed so critical in January and February has morphed into a more casual response. The buzz word of projects that were shovel ready and were ripe for an instantaneous injection of readily shoveled federal money has become sort of ...meh. Not that important anymore.
Don’t misunderstand me, the economy is still in a lousy state. But it is a little confusing when you go from a sky-is-falling, panic inducing, end of the world scenario into a kind of blase feeling in a matter of months. It is understandable if you get a little discouraged after all, look what happened to Chicken Little. It is not as though this was solely a media created problem, the economy really has taken a hit and while some believe this is a correction that has been a long time coming, that is small comfort to all those who have lost their jobs, their savings or more.
I would bet one of my few remaining loonies that if you ever got two thousand economists in the same room with one problem you would most likely emerge with two thousand solutions, if not closer to three thousand. Or better yet, two or three thousand recommendations for solutions, no use going out on a limb with a real solution. Even the ultimate question of do we throw money at an economic problem or not will not get you a black and white response. The best that can be brought forth is a definite maybe or maybe not. No one has quite figured out which is correct and we won’t ever know the solution as there really doesn’t seem to be a definitive answer to this. In reality, there is a lot of middle ground that is awash in a sea of grey. Each side gleefully hold up examples of the teachings of Friedman or Galbraith or any other economist ‘du jour’ as quintessential models of economies at work while not fully understanding any of them.
My hometown has fared better than some other urban centers and this is all part of our master plan to not overly exceed on anything but then again we never really under exceed either. There are some examples locally of business growth but most companies are part of a larger umbrella of companies of which we are just a cog. Our real estate values did not go through the roof as happened in cities like Toronto or Vancouver to the chagrin of some people. But then, our crash did not take 20% off the prices of real estate to the enormous relief of others.
Throughout history, we have seen that sometimes the best solution to surviving a crisis is to hunker down and weather the storm. I am sure many of our citizens have been through much worse and some may feel that our present problems are a creation of the forces who would benefit from them. That would not surprise me in the least. Tilting at windmills has always been a favorite maneuver of the press and politicians. Now if they want to take up this quixotic battle all they have to do is sit on our shoreline and gaze over at the wind farm scattered across Wolfe Island. Don Quixote only thought he was facing thirty or forty of them, we have eighty six, more than enough for everyone to tilt at willwith.
I have been dealing with the economic downturn as well as the next guy, although as a writer the economic rewards do not roll in with any regularity to be all that concerned. My financial management skills consists mostly of checking my pockets for anything with a silver sheen and making sure I don’t loose the Lotto 649 tickets from one draw date to the next. The Lottery Retirement Plan, which is the linchpin in my long term financial strategy is also the vehicle of choice amongst many of my friends and family, even though it was not mentioned as a viable option when I took the Canadian Securities Course. I guess they better update that program to reflect the realities of today.
Like many other people, I have been counting my pennies and looking for ways to stretch what ever bucks happen to come my way. There are plenty of things to do in this area for cheap entertainment. We have many museums and art galleries to see, the local landscape north of the city is ideal for picnicking, the small quaint villages and towns around us gives us the opportunity to step back in time a bit and enjoy their rustic charm. The waterfront, the city’s pride and joy, is a perfect place to lie on the grass and watch the clouds drift by. It used to be just letting my eyes wander over our opposite shoreline would lull me to a state of nirvana, but now whenever I look over at Wolfe Island and see the towering windmills, I instantly flash to those lumbering alien machines that strolled through the countryside blasting apart the world as we knew it in the original movie, “War of the Worlds.” The mental image of mayhem, havoc and devastation on Wolfe Island kind of disrupts any zen state I may have achieved.
The recent economic woes have certainly impacted all levels of society, from the wealthiest to the ones who depend up the generosity of others. However, the frenetic and frantic wheeling and dealing of how to stimulate the economy that was deemed so critical in January and February has morphed into a more casual response. The buzz word of projects that were shovel ready and were ripe for an instantaneous injection of readily shoveled federal money has become sort of ...meh. Not that important anymore.
Don’t misunderstand me, the economy is still in a lousy state. But it is a little confusing when you go from a sky-is-falling, panic inducing, end of the world scenario into a kind of blase feeling in a matter of months. It is understandable if you get a little discouraged after all, look what happened to Chicken Little. It is not as though this was solely a media created problem, the economy really has taken a hit and while some believe this is a correction that has been a long time coming, that is small comfort to all those who have lost their jobs, their savings or more.
I would bet one of my few remaining loonies that if you ever got two thousand economists in the same room with one problem you would most likely emerge with two thousand solutions, if not closer to three thousand. Or better yet, two or three thousand recommendations for solutions, no use going out on a limb with a real solution. Even the ultimate question of do we throw money at an economic problem or not will not get you a black and white response. The best that can be brought forth is a definite maybe or maybe not. No one has quite figured out which is correct and we won’t ever know the solution as there really doesn’t seem to be a definitive answer to this. In reality, there is a lot of middle ground that is awash in a sea of grey. Each side gleefully hold up examples of the teachings of Friedman or Galbraith or any other economist ‘du jour’ as quintessential models of economies at work while not fully understanding any of them.
My hometown has fared better than some other urban centers and this is all part of our master plan to not overly exceed on anything but then again we never really under exceed either. There are some examples locally of business growth but most companies are part of a larger umbrella of companies of which we are just a cog. Our real estate values did not go through the roof as happened in cities like Toronto or Vancouver to the chagrin of some people. But then, our crash did not take 20% off the prices of real estate to the enormous relief of others.
Throughout history, we have seen that sometimes the best solution to surviving a crisis is to hunker down and weather the storm. I am sure many of our citizens have been through much worse and some may feel that our present problems are a creation of the forces who would benefit from them. That would not surprise me in the least. Tilting at windmills has always been a favorite maneuver of the press and politicians. Now if they want to take up this quixotic battle all they have to do is sit on our shoreline and gaze over at the wind farm scattered across Wolfe Island. Don Quixote only thought he was facing thirty or forty of them, we have eighty six, more than enough for everyone to tilt at willwith.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Arrogance of Stupidity
We had a mass murder here in Kingston almost a month ago on June 30. A 50 year old woman and three teen aged girls were found dead in a car which was submerged in one of the waterway locks that connects Kingston to the Rideau Canal. The lock in question is at Kingston Mills which is part of a waterway system that eventually unites Kingston with our national capital of Ottawa about 100 miles northeast of us. What is particularly mind-boggling about this murder is that the three family members (father, mother and son) accused of this heinous act, actually thought no one would notice. They must have figured that it would be a crime that would be easily disregarded with some simple-minded explanation of their demise. That might have been the case in their native Afghanistan, but not over here.
Their official story was that sometime after midnight, after driving from Niagara Falls, they stopped at a motel off the 401 highway to spend the night. They didn’t remember which hotel they stayed at, just that it was off the 401. Then sometime after settling into their rooms, the oldest daughter (19 years old) took one of the cars to go out for a drive even though she didn’t have a license. Not happy just going alone, they said she took her two sisters and her aunt (who turns out not to be an aunt after all, but the first wife of the father who is accused of this murder). Then they somehow navigated the car through a park-like setting, between barriers and as a result of a freak accident, ended up in the canal.
The police didn’t need a mind-reader like the Amazing Kreskin to start to see the holes in this story. Even I, whose only experience at cracking murders come from the TV set, could ask questions that would cause a suspect to shift uncomfortably in a chair. But this is not an analysis of the murder, it is more an analysis of how can people be so stupid to think they could get away with it.
We have seen this time and time again from all classes of people and all from all social statuses. From the absolute dumb-ass criminals on shows like the First 48 and Cops to the more intelligent, but no less stupid, politicians. The only rational I can come up with is what can only be called the arrogance of stupidity. These people believe that they are first and foremost, smarter than they think. Which really on the scale of how they measure up against normal people, it turns out that they are still pretty stupid.
I remember a murder case in California in 2004, a kid named Skylar Deleon who passed himself of as a former TV star (actually just a bit part in one episode of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers series) murdered Tom and Jackie Hawks who owned a 55 foot yacht. The couple had the boat for sale and Skylar, in his own little world, believed he could kill the couple and take their boat by claiming he paid them cash for the boat and that the couple then subsequently disappeared into Mexico with the money. It should be mentioned that the Hawks had a family and friends. How this kid with a gift of the gab actually thought he might get away with this is beyond the comprehension of the average person. But still he went ahead with his plan and as would be expected, was arrested and has been given the death penalty for the crime. Just to top things off, it was reported he tried to cut his penis off with a razor blade while he was in prison (insert your own joke here).
We have repeatedly seen politicians who, when found with their hand buried so far in the cookie jar, have come up with what they believe are rational explanations for their behavior. I guess in that moment of sheer panic when they get caught, their sense of what is rational must have been severely compromised. American Senator Larry Craig whose homosexual encounter in an airport washroom was uncovered by security personnel, tried explained that he was simply tying his shoelace when he was caught soliciting some non-governmental sanctioned fun under a stall. Former Prime Minister Brian Mulroney when caught receiving a couple hundred thousand dollars in cash in an envelope explained that this money was a retainer for legal services he had not yet provided and therefore he didn’t report the income to the Canada Revenue Agency. He apparently felt it was unearned income at the time. If there was ever a case where income was unearned, this would have been it. I mean, besides a few babies born at the local hospital, the majority of us weren’t born yesterday.
It would be easy to go on and on about stories of this level of stupidity. The world is certainly not in short supply of examples. The tougher point to crystallize is why these people think they are smarter than the rest of us when quite evidently they are not. Why do they think that they can get away with something that even to the simplest of people, doesn’t seem remotely feasible. The only common denominator that links the lowest knuckle dragging criminal to the smoothest of smooth political operatives is their own arrogance. It is this arrogance that will bring them down, it always does. As I have said previously, the moment you start to think you are smarter than the other guy, is the moment you start to fail.
Their official story was that sometime after midnight, after driving from Niagara Falls, they stopped at a motel off the 401 highway to spend the night. They didn’t remember which hotel they stayed at, just that it was off the 401. Then sometime after settling into their rooms, the oldest daughter (19 years old) took one of the cars to go out for a drive even though she didn’t have a license. Not happy just going alone, they said she took her two sisters and her aunt (who turns out not to be an aunt after all, but the first wife of the father who is accused of this murder). Then they somehow navigated the car through a park-like setting, between barriers and as a result of a freak accident, ended up in the canal. The police didn’t need a mind-reader like the Amazing Kreskin to start to see the holes in this story. Even I, whose only experience at cracking murders come from the TV set, could ask questions that would cause a suspect to shift uncomfortably in a chair. But this is not an analysis of the murder, it is more an analysis of how can people be so stupid to think they could get away with it.
We have seen this time and time again from all classes of people and all from all social statuses. From the absolute dumb-ass criminals on shows like the First 48 and Cops to the more intelligent, but no less stupid, politicians. The only rational I can come up with is what can only be called the arrogance of stupidity. These people believe that they are first and foremost, smarter than they think. Which really on the scale of how they measure up against normal people, it turns out that they are still pretty stupid.
I remember a murder case in California in 2004, a kid named Skylar Deleon who passed himself of as a former TV star (actually just a bit part in one episode of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers series) murdered Tom and Jackie Hawks who owned a 55 foot yacht. The couple had the boat for sale and Skylar, in his own little world, believed he could kill the couple and take their boat by claiming he paid them cash for the boat and that the couple then subsequently disappeared into Mexico with the money. It should be mentioned that the Hawks had a family and friends. How this kid with a gift of the gab actually thought he might get away with this is beyond the comprehension of the average person. But still he went ahead with his plan and as would be expected, was arrested and has been given the death penalty for the crime. Just to top things off, it was reported he tried to cut his penis off with a razor blade while he was in prison (insert your own joke here).
We have repeatedly seen politicians who, when found with their hand buried so far in the cookie jar, have come up with what they believe are rational explanations for their behavior. I guess in that moment of sheer panic when they get caught, their sense of what is rational must have been severely compromised. American Senator Larry Craig whose homosexual encounter in an airport washroom was uncovered by security personnel, tried explained that he was simply tying his shoelace when he was caught soliciting some non-governmental sanctioned fun under a stall. Former Prime Minister Brian Mulroney when caught receiving a couple hundred thousand dollars in cash in an envelope explained that this money was a retainer for legal services he had not yet provided and therefore he didn’t report the income to the Canada Revenue Agency. He apparently felt it was unearned income at the time. If there was ever a case where income was unearned, this would have been it. I mean, besides a few babies born at the local hospital, the majority of us weren’t born yesterday.
It would be easy to go on and on about stories of this level of stupidity. The world is certainly not in short supply of examples. The tougher point to crystallize is why these people think they are smarter than the rest of us when quite evidently they are not. Why do they think that they can get away with something that even to the simplest of people, doesn’t seem remotely feasible. The only common denominator that links the lowest knuckle dragging criminal to the smoothest of smooth political operatives is their own arrogance. It is this arrogance that will bring them down, it always does. As I have said previously, the moment you start to think you are smarter than the other guy, is the moment you start to fail.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Hats Off to Samuel J.
Like many parents, I had a curious and inquisitive band of children. They didn’t merely stop at the standard questions about planets, mathematics or dinosaurs. They often went off into the murky world of why things were named a certain way. Although I did pride myself on being a virtual fount (really, that is the proper word, not font) of information of weird and wonderful facts, they sometimes had me stymied on certain topics. Which is how I came up with my friend Samuel J.
It started out innocently enough. If the kids asked me, for example, why was a Hula Hoop called a Hula Hoop. Me, being at a loss for an explanation, replied it was named after Samuel J. Hula. To me Samuel J. just sounded right. They seemed to accept this at face value and would continue on with their activities. But after a few times of using Samuel J. Insert-Last-Name-Here, they started to catch on. “My, that is a popular name,” I started to hear. “It seems like every inventor has the same first name and initial.” It was time to elevate my game, so to speak.
One of the kids asked me why ketsup was called ketsup (or catsup depending on your geography). I think I stuttered for a second trying to think of some answer (I now know it is thought to be a derivation of the Chinese word kê-chiap a fish brine) and then started into a story that this product was invented by a Samuel J. Kets, a small town confectionery owner from the midwest of the United States in 1843. During a period of time when he was playing with different concoctions he would label them Kets 1 or Kets Good or whatever popped into his head. One day he labeled a bottle, "Kets - Unlikely Product" which he shortened to UP, as he didn’t like the texture or taste and left it on his work table. Later that day his wife saw it and decided to give it a try and surprisingly, liked it. When Samuel got back to his workshop she asked him to make more of that Kets UP because she really enjoyed it. Hence the name KetsUP. The kids were enthralled with this story. Even my wife, a foodie if there ever was one, put her fork down and said, “Really?” I took and long sip from my wine reveled in my brilliance and then admitted I lied.
This followed the basic law of baffle gab, that if you give more than enough detailed and useless related information, people have a tendency to believe the facts all the more. It has always worked for politicians and I found it also worked in parenting. The challenge I soon faced was the fact that the kids started to use me as some form of perverse entertainment, to see whether I would wilt under their barrage of inquisition. I swear, they would spend their waking hours just trying to think of something I couldn’t relate to my friend Samuel J.
It has been over 10 years now that this little form of white lie has made its presence known in our household and even though the kids have mostly grown and moved out, I do get on occasion to relive my moments. Last Christmas as we were all sitting around the table for dinner and one of them wondered why a charger plate was called that. For those who don’t know, it is a decorative over-sized plate that is placed under your dinner plate. I felt all eyes swivel towards me and facing up to the challenge, I put my fork down and related this story.
“Samuel J. Charger was a much beloved landowner in medieval England when, during the reign of King Edward, the Sloven, it was decreed that an additional tax would be imposed on the citizenry based on the per serving plate of food. Now Charger, who was a true man of the people, felt that this was unfair and to get around this tax imposed by the monarch, he issued to all his people a larger than normal plate to hold more food than the average person could eat thereby letting them eat less meals per day. This soon became known throughout the land as a Charger Plate. The people were thankful for this and even though the tax was soon repealed by the heir to the throne, King Edward II, the Not-so-Slovenly, they honored their land Lord by using a symbolic over-sized plate which was placed under the normal sized plate. Hence, our tradition of using a charger plate for our formal dinners.”
As I finished this story and placed my napkin on my lap, I felt if there was ever a moment to hang up the guns and retire Samuel J., that this would have been it. But who knows? He may make his presence known again. I do hope one day to have one of my grand kids scramble onto my lap and explain to me that the inventor of their crib was a man named Samuel J. Crib. It would make me proud just to hear that.
It started out innocently enough. If the kids asked me, for example, why was a Hula Hoop called a Hula Hoop. Me, being at a loss for an explanation, replied it was named after Samuel J. Hula. To me Samuel J. just sounded right. They seemed to accept this at face value and would continue on with their activities. But after a few times of using Samuel J. Insert-Last-Name-Here, they started to catch on. “My, that is a popular name,” I started to hear. “It seems like every inventor has the same first name and initial.” It was time to elevate my game, so to speak.
One of the kids asked me why ketsup was called ketsup (or catsup depending on your geography). I think I stuttered for a second trying to think of some answer (I now know it is thought to be a derivation of the Chinese word kê-chiap a fish brine) and then started into a story that this product was invented by a Samuel J. Kets, a small town confectionery owner from the midwest of the United States in 1843. During a period of time when he was playing with different concoctions he would label them Kets 1 or Kets Good or whatever popped into his head. One day he labeled a bottle, "Kets - Unlikely Product" which he shortened to UP, as he didn’t like the texture or taste and left it on his work table. Later that day his wife saw it and decided to give it a try and surprisingly, liked it. When Samuel got back to his workshop she asked him to make more of that Kets UP because she really enjoyed it. Hence the name KetsUP. The kids were enthralled with this story. Even my wife, a foodie if there ever was one, put her fork down and said, “Really?” I took and long sip from my wine reveled in my brilliance and then admitted I lied.
This followed the basic law of baffle gab, that if you give more than enough detailed and useless related information, people have a tendency to believe the facts all the more. It has always worked for politicians and I found it also worked in parenting. The challenge I soon faced was the fact that the kids started to use me as some form of perverse entertainment, to see whether I would wilt under their barrage of inquisition. I swear, they would spend their waking hours just trying to think of something I couldn’t relate to my friend Samuel J.
It has been over 10 years now that this little form of white lie has made its presence known in our household and even though the kids have mostly grown and moved out, I do get on occasion to relive my moments. Last Christmas as we were all sitting around the table for dinner and one of them wondered why a charger plate was called that. For those who don’t know, it is a decorative over-sized plate that is placed under your dinner plate. I felt all eyes swivel towards me and facing up to the challenge, I put my fork down and related this story.“Samuel J. Charger was a much beloved landowner in medieval England when, during the reign of King Edward, the Sloven, it was decreed that an additional tax would be imposed on the citizenry based on the per serving plate of food. Now Charger, who was a true man of the people, felt that this was unfair and to get around this tax imposed by the monarch, he issued to all his people a larger than normal plate to hold more food than the average person could eat thereby letting them eat less meals per day. This soon became known throughout the land as a Charger Plate. The people were thankful for this and even though the tax was soon repealed by the heir to the throne, King Edward II, the Not-so-Slovenly, they honored their land Lord by using a symbolic over-sized plate which was placed under the normal sized plate. Hence, our tradition of using a charger plate for our formal dinners.”
As I finished this story and placed my napkin on my lap, I felt if there was ever a moment to hang up the guns and retire Samuel J., that this would have been it. But who knows? He may make his presence known again. I do hope one day to have one of my grand kids scramble onto my lap and explain to me that the inventor of their crib was a man named Samuel J. Crib. It would make me proud just to hear that.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Michael Jackson
I have to admit that I have never bought a Michael Jackson record in my life. Not a one, not Thriller, not Off The Wall, nothing. Back in the 70's I considered myself a rocker and to those unfamiliar with our motto, it was, “If it ain’t Rock, it ain’t music”. As we moved forward into the late 70's and early 80's, I was kind of adrift when it came to popular music. Disco was a thing that was making my stomach turn at every bar and dance club I went too. Disco babes and dancing queens (both female and male, as it turned out) were not even on my radar. I certainly didn’t have any time for the namby pamby stylings of musical acts such as Peaches and Herb, Donna Summers or God forbid, KC and the Sunshine Band. I rejoiced in teasing one of my best friends who was a fervent Stones fan about the band going disco with Emotional Rescue. I kind of stayed in my own groove and celebrated every time some real music came out. A ray of sunshine in a bleak musical landscape, so to speak.
Tape decks in cars became my outlet for music, I don’t think I tuned in to an AM station for years in a row and only rarely allowed an FM station to be played. My musical life was made up of home made tapes. In fact, the whole musical repertoire of my wedding reception consisted of 90 minute tapes that I made, just to ensure dance music didn’t somehow sneak in.
All of that changed when I first saw the video of Billie Jean on NBC’s Friday Night Videos, our only source of music videos at the time. He took elements from every genre of music and somehow melded them into a cohesive and seductive form of music. It wasn’t Rock, it wasn’t Disco, it wasn’t R&B and it wasn’t Pop, but yet it was somehow all of them, all at once. And he didn’t so much as dance as much as he glided. His movements didn’t seem to be a series of connected routines like John Travolta laid on the world in Saturday Night Fever. He had a more like a natural way to him, like a flowing river. You certainly couldn’t go into a bar and dance like Michael Jackson did, that just wasn’t realistic. But you could go in and pretend you could dance like Michael Jackson and no one would fault you for it.
The hits that followed were more of the same, each seemed to move the entertainment apect of music and videos forward. Even as the number of hits started to fall off, there was still a quality to them. The morphing faces on Black and White were, at the time stunning. It still didn’t prompt me to go out and buy any of his records, that’s just not who I was. But it certainly didn’t stop me from admiring a man who could take such divergent musical styles and history and make them into a musical entity that everyone appeared to enjoy and tap at least their toes to.
The only thing I really can’t forgive him for was introducing the Moonwalk to the rest of the world. It was nothing short of embarrassing to see grown men, usually somewhat overly refreshed, trying to do this step in a crowded bar. Man, I still cringe at the thought and to be honest, I still can't do it.
Tape decks in cars became my outlet for music, I don’t think I tuned in to an AM station for years in a row and only rarely allowed an FM station to be played. My musical life was made up of home made tapes. In fact, the whole musical repertoire of my wedding reception consisted of 90 minute tapes that I made, just to ensure dance music didn’t somehow sneak in.
All of that changed when I first saw the video of Billie Jean on NBC’s Friday Night Videos, our only source of music videos at the time. He took elements from every genre of music and somehow melded them into a cohesive and seductive form of music. It wasn’t Rock, it wasn’t Disco, it wasn’t R&B and it wasn’t Pop, but yet it was somehow all of them, all at once. And he didn’t so much as dance as much as he glided. His movements didn’t seem to be a series of connected routines like John Travolta laid on the world in Saturday Night Fever. He had a more like a natural way to him, like a flowing river. You certainly couldn’t go into a bar and dance like Michael Jackson did, that just wasn’t realistic. But you could go in and pretend you could dance like Michael Jackson and no one would fault you for it.
The hits that followed were more of the same, each seemed to move the entertainment apect of music and videos forward. Even as the number of hits started to fall off, there was still a quality to them. The morphing faces on Black and White were, at the time stunning. It still didn’t prompt me to go out and buy any of his records, that’s just not who I was. But it certainly didn’t stop me from admiring a man who could take such divergent musical styles and history and make them into a musical entity that everyone appeared to enjoy and tap at least their toes to.
The only thing I really can’t forgive him for was introducing the Moonwalk to the rest of the world. It was nothing short of embarrassing to see grown men, usually somewhat overly refreshed, trying to do this step in a crowded bar. Man, I still cringe at the thought and to be honest, I still can't do it.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Crime of the Century
I have never been one to imagine myself as a master criminal who could outsmart the police at every step of the way. I got my taste of that through the thousands of novels, television shows and movies over the years to satisfy any craving for that sort of notoriety. When even that wasn’t enough, I came up with a game show years before the onslaught of reality based television shows became the staple of everyday entertainment. 
I had envisioned a show called Crime of the Century, where an individual or a team of people would try and crack a safe house that had security measures in place to try and prevent them from stealing the treasure held within. A heady combination of the Thomas Crown Affair and The Pink Panther. Their task was to out-squirm, out-smart, out-do, out-plan and bamboozle anyone in anyway to make off with the goods. I even had the theme song selected which was the title cut of an album by Supertramp (a great cut if you have never heard it www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdXU_M9t004 ).
I don’t know if there is a similar show out there today, I started to look out of curiosity but stopped when I realized that there are literally thousands of reality shows on the air around the world. But if it hasn’t been done, now might be the time to do it. With the economy tanking, it seems more and more people are turning to the dark side when it comes to establishing an income stream. Some cloak their thievery in white collars and some just rob in plain sight.
After reading about the many investment brokers and advisors that have either swindled or willfully turned a blind eye to problems, I have come to only one solution as to why this happened. They are stupid, let me repeat that, they are stupid. I had always thought that if someone is making multi-millions on Wall St. or Bay St. there must be a gem of a mind behind that accomplishment. Now, it turns out that just like the wizard behind the curtain, there is no gleanable intelligence going on behind those whitened smiles. Their rise to the top of the wage earners of the country was a matter of RPRTRP (right place, right time, right parent). The Madoff sons appear to be prime examples of this. Their defense seems to be, “Sorry, we were too stupid to realize that there was this massive fraud occurring before our very eyes by our own father”.
I am sure I could pull hundreds of names out of the hat, the Madoff kids aren’t the only guilty ones, and point out that most of them would rather plead stupidity over savvy when it comes to market machinations and getting arrested. Rather than thinking with an independent mind, they would rather put on the blinders and focus on the pot of gold at the end of the bank vault. They seem to believe or maybe it was beaten into their heads that free thinking is verboten to the worthiness of any investment.
Of course, the in plain sight thief isn’t much better. With the Darwin Awards (http://www.darwinawards.com ) which among other things highlight the serial stupidity of most criminals and the reality television shows like Cops, America’s Most Wanted and The First 48 (I always wanted to do a Canadian version of this show called The First 24, where cops try and solve a crime before they finish a case of beer) which show us endless reels of the dumbest, stupidest criminals ever assembled. On that evidence we can easily formulate their thinking. Without a doubt, they all think they can outsmart the cops. They seem to think that every police force or intelligence operation around the world is comprised of deputies like Barny Fife and Enos Strates. The bubble only seems to burst when the cuffs hit the wrists and they then realize that cops are not dumb. The moment you start to believe you can outsmart someone, is the moment when you start to fail. That lesson is universal, from the street to the boardroom and from your marriage to your career, but unfortunately no one seems to acknowledge it, let alone appreciate it.
I had envisioned a show called Crime of the Century, where an individual or a team of people would try and crack a safe house that had security measures in place to try and prevent them from stealing the treasure held within. A heady combination of the Thomas Crown Affair and The Pink Panther. Their task was to out-squirm, out-smart, out-do, out-plan and bamboozle anyone in anyway to make off with the goods. I even had the theme song selected which was the title cut of an album by Supertramp (a great cut if you have never heard it www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdXU_M9t004 ). I don’t know if there is a similar show out there today, I started to look out of curiosity but stopped when I realized that there are literally thousands of reality shows on the air around the world. But if it hasn’t been done, now might be the time to do it. With the economy tanking, it seems more and more people are turning to the dark side when it comes to establishing an income stream. Some cloak their thievery in white collars and some just rob in plain sight.
After reading about the many investment brokers and advisors that have either swindled or willfully turned a blind eye to problems, I have come to only one solution as to why this happened. They are stupid, let me repeat that, they are stupid. I had always thought that if someone is making multi-millions on Wall St. or Bay St. there must be a gem of a mind behind that accomplishment. Now, it turns out that just like the wizard behind the curtain, there is no gleanable intelligence going on behind those whitened smiles. Their rise to the top of the wage earners of the country was a matter of RPRTRP (right place, right time, right parent). The Madoff sons appear to be prime examples of this. Their defense seems to be, “Sorry, we were too stupid to realize that there was this massive fraud occurring before our very eyes by our own father”.
I am sure I could pull hundreds of names out of the hat, the Madoff kids aren’t the only guilty ones, and point out that most of them would rather plead stupidity over savvy when it comes to market machinations and getting arrested. Rather than thinking with an independent mind, they would rather put on the blinders and focus on the pot of gold at the end of the bank vault. They seem to believe or maybe it was beaten into their heads that free thinking is verboten to the worthiness of any investment.
Of course, the in plain sight thief isn’t much better. With the Darwin Awards (http://www.darwinawards.com ) which among other things highlight the serial stupidity of most criminals and the reality television shows like Cops, America’s Most Wanted and The First 48 (I always wanted to do a Canadian version of this show called The First 24, where cops try and solve a crime before they finish a case of beer) which show us endless reels of the dumbest, stupidest criminals ever assembled. On that evidence we can easily formulate their thinking. Without a doubt, they all think they can outsmart the cops. They seem to think that every police force or intelligence operation around the world is comprised of deputies like Barny Fife and Enos Strates. The bubble only seems to burst when the cuffs hit the wrists and they then realize that cops are not dumb. The moment you start to believe you can outsmart someone, is the moment when you start to fail. That lesson is universal, from the street to the boardroom and from your marriage to your career, but unfortunately no one seems to acknowledge it, let alone appreciate it.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Food for Thought
I have been a picky eater all my life. If it wasn’t for peanut butter and jam sandwiches, I am quite sure I would have starved to death as a child. I always said that I liked what I liked and no one could tell me what I liked better than myself. I am not sure where this came from, whether I was born with genetically sensitive taste buds or somewhere along the line I learned not to like certain foods. The genetic argument has fallen by the wayside as my kids will eat almost anything put in front of them. However, I do have one child who is mortal fear of a “breach”, as she calls it. That is when one of her food items touches another on her plate. It is an exercise in civil engineering when we have any dinner that involves runny gravy.
Some people have no tolerance for picky eaters. Mrs Belcher, who was the nurse at the school I went to, was one of those. When we sat done for dinner (that being a hot lunch; as opposed to supper, which was what you call dinner), we had to eat everything on our plate. It didn’t matter if it was still moving, growing hairlike follicles out of it or just plain looked or smelled unappetizing. I think she lived through the Blitzkrieg or something and lived by the adage, “waste not, want not.” However, all it took was one well placed regurgitation on the table and that stopped her nagging. Unfortunately for a week or so afterward, I was forced to sit with a bucket at my side. It is kind of hard to carry out any sort of social interaction with a puke bucket beside you. People have a tendency to sit a little farther away from you at that point. Usually just out of projectile range.
Often my explanation took on a religious slant. “If God had meant a hotdog to taste like mustard, He, in all his wisdom, would have made it taste like mustard.” I would solemnly incant. Of course, what I didn’t realize was that God had nothing to do with the creation of a hot dog and that condiments were there to mask the horrible realization of what a hot dog was actually made up from.
I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I would studiously examine what the food item was and took many things into consideration before even deciding to sit at the same table as it. Smell, texture and appearance all were part and parcel of my testing. However, one of the biggest tests was also one of the simplest. What was it called? I guess this is why chefs often couch the name of something with a more pleasant sounding thing. Like calamari or escargot, these are things that in English would cause anyone a second thought. Squash was one food that needed a new name. Often food carries a descriptive nature to it. Mashed potatoes are one that comes to mind. What do you do with the potatoes? You mash them, hence mashed potatoes. Now think of squash. What do you squash? Bugs, of course. How in the world is a child to make that distinction? The same with yogurt. Yogurt is the sound your cat makes in the middle of the night when it is throwing up. A delectable taste treat? I think not. George Carlin famously said he didn’t eat tomatoes because they don’t quite look finished yet. Tapioca was great until a cousin of mine called them fish eyes. In my mind, if people could call squid, calamari, then I wouldn’t put it past them to call fish eyes, tapioca.
The marketing of food is one of the areas that had a profound effect on me. One time when I was quite young and had just watched a Popeye cartoon on a Saturday morning, it came upon me to try spinach. In all my youthful logic, I figured if I opened a can of spinach, poured a healthy amount of the green stuff in my mouth, like Popeye did, I would be blessed with the strength of a hundred men. I ran into the kitchen opened a can, popped the contents in my mouth and ran outside and tried to lift our house. All that happened was I covered the side of the structure with green vomit.
As I have aged, my taste buds seem to be dying off a bit as I now eat a lot of the things that would have mortified me in my younger days. But also as I have aged, I have found out that any food drenched in any combination of butter, salt or pepper or garlic will usually end up passing the gag reflex. I do now enjoy a good meal and I will often venture off into the unknown and untested culinary delights that is put in front of me. And I do this bravely without the puke bucket beside me, albeit within running distance of the washroom. You can never be too sure about these things.
Some people have no tolerance for picky eaters. Mrs Belcher, who was the nurse at the school I went to, was one of those. When we sat done for dinner (that being a hot lunch; as opposed to supper, which was what you call dinner), we had to eat everything on our plate. It didn’t matter if it was still moving, growing hairlike follicles out of it or just plain looked or smelled unappetizing. I think she lived through the Blitzkrieg or something and lived by the adage, “waste not, want not.” However, all it took was one well placed regurgitation on the table and that stopped her nagging. Unfortunately for a week or so afterward, I was forced to sit with a bucket at my side. It is kind of hard to carry out any sort of social interaction with a puke bucket beside you. People have a tendency to sit a little farther away from you at that point. Usually just out of projectile range.
Often my explanation took on a religious slant. “If God had meant a hotdog to taste like mustard, He, in all his wisdom, would have made it taste like mustard.” I would solemnly incant. Of course, what I didn’t realize was that God had nothing to do with the creation of a hot dog and that condiments were there to mask the horrible realization of what a hot dog was actually made up from.
I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I would studiously examine what the food item was and took many things into consideration before even deciding to sit at the same table as it. Smell, texture and appearance all were part and parcel of my testing. However, one of the biggest tests was also one of the simplest. What was it called? I guess this is why chefs often couch the name of something with a more pleasant sounding thing. Like calamari or escargot, these are things that in English would cause anyone a second thought. Squash was one food that needed a new name. Often food carries a descriptive nature to it. Mashed potatoes are one that comes to mind. What do you do with the potatoes? You mash them, hence mashed potatoes. Now think of squash. What do you squash? Bugs, of course. How in the world is a child to make that distinction? The same with yogurt. Yogurt is the sound your cat makes in the middle of the night when it is throwing up. A delectable taste treat? I think not. George Carlin famously said he didn’t eat tomatoes because they don’t quite look finished yet. Tapioca was great until a cousin of mine called them fish eyes. In my mind, if people could call squid, calamari, then I wouldn’t put it past them to call fish eyes, tapioca.
The marketing of food is one of the areas that had a profound effect on me. One time when I was quite young and had just watched a Popeye cartoon on a Saturday morning, it came upon me to try spinach. In all my youthful logic, I figured if I opened a can of spinach, poured a healthy amount of the green stuff in my mouth, like Popeye did, I would be blessed with the strength of a hundred men. I ran into the kitchen opened a can, popped the contents in my mouth and ran outside and tried to lift our house. All that happened was I covered the side of the structure with green vomit.
As I have aged, my taste buds seem to be dying off a bit as I now eat a lot of the things that would have mortified me in my younger days. But also as I have aged, I have found out that any food drenched in any combination of butter, salt or pepper or garlic will usually end up passing the gag reflex. I do now enjoy a good meal and I will often venture off into the unknown and untested culinary delights that is put in front of me. And I do this bravely without the puke bucket beside me, albeit within running distance of the washroom. You can never be too sure about these things.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Happy Birthday!
Sixty five years ago today the world was shaken to its core as my mother gave birth to the oldest member of my family; my brother Michael. He has lead a very interesting life, if such a mild adverb could ever be used when talking of Mike. His experiences as a member of the famed Special Forces in the US Army in both the U.S. and in Vietnam are the things that stories are written about. Many times he has kept us transfixed with a strange combination of humour and horror as he recounted some of the events of his life.
When we spoke yesterday, he asked me if I could post a poem I wrote a little over 33 years ago. For some odd reason it resonated with him. Given his well known lapses of memory which is not always 420 induced, it was remarkable he recalled it. So in honour of his birthday, I did dig out an old volume of things I wrote when I was a mere lad. Although the mates and spouses may have changed over the years the sentiment still remains today.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
I'm writing this will, I know I must,
Soon to leave not even a tracer,
I know I'm going to meet my maker.
Don't argue with me, I know it's time,
(This sentence is here to fit the rhyme,)
Of sound mind and sound body,
Nothing I leave is ever shoddy.
To Brother Micheal and his wife Linda,
A package for you I doth senda,
My satin sheets I give are free,
But understand they're C.O.D.
To Sister Jane and you too Norm,
What I leave you will keep you warm.
They're in the corner - take a look,
All for you, my paperback books
And now to Vicki and Brother Dunc,
Do not feel that you are sunk,
Although the biggies are now gone,
I leave to you my new brass john.
To Geoffrey who I hold so near,
I give to him all that's dear,
To you a person who always walks,
I leave to you all my socks.
Last but not least, to my Dad,
Who stayed in tune, never sad,
I leave the important part of the will
I leave to him, the funeral bill.
When we spoke yesterday, he asked me if I could post a poem I wrote a little over 33 years ago. For some odd reason it resonated with him. Given his well known lapses of memory which is not always 420 induced, it was remarkable he recalled it. So in honour of his birthday, I did dig out an old volume of things I wrote when I was a mere lad. Although the mates and spouses may have changed over the years the sentiment still remains today.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
I'm writing this will, I know I must,
Soon to leave not even a tracer,
I know I'm going to meet my maker.
Don't argue with me, I know it's time,
(This sentence is here to fit the rhyme,)
Of sound mind and sound body,
Nothing I leave is ever shoddy.
To Brother Micheal and his wife Linda,
A package for you I doth senda,
My satin sheets I give are free,
But understand they're C.O.D.
To Sister Jane and you too Norm,
What I leave you will keep you warm.
They're in the corner - take a look,
All for you, my paperback books
And now to Vicki and Brother Dunc,
Do not feel that you are sunk,
Although the biggies are now gone,
I leave to you my new brass john.
To Geoffrey who I hold so near,
I give to him all that's dear,
To you a person who always walks,
I leave to you all my socks.
Last but not least, to my Dad,
Who stayed in tune, never sad,
I leave the important part of the will
I leave to him, the funeral bill.
Gaskins' Lion
Compared with many other Canadian cities, Kingston is unique in several ways - not only in its sociological, historical and architectural makeup but also in its’ iconic images. When you look at what identifies some other cities certain images do pop up immediately in your consciousness; Toronto has its’ new City Hall and the CN Tower; the Peace Tower is emblematic of Ottawa, as is the canal in the winter; Calgary has the low slung profile of the Saddledome; and Sudbury has the Big Nickel. But in all its’ smalltownness, Kingston not only rivals those larger centres, but may even exceed them.
Counting among our city’s instantly recognizable images are the cupola of City Hall, which adorns our official website and the masthead of the Kingston Whig-Standard and the Shoal Tower - part of the Murney Tower system - which flies on the official city flag and so proudly worn on city politicians’ lapels. But we may have bested the big cities by at least one icon.
The Lion in MacDonald Park has been a fixture for as long as I can remember. I know I climbed all over him when I was a kid and can only imagine how many other children have clambered over his back and sat astride this cast iron statue. When you consider the number of transient citizens who have passed through Kingston as students or as part of the military who have been posted here or even the permanent residents of the city and outlying area, who have visited the Park, the number of people who have sat on the lion or been photographed on him truly boggles the mind. More than once, my own three children sat astride his back vying for right to be the one at the front to grab and hold on his mane.
At lunch a few days ago, my sister Jane and I were reminiscing about the Lion. Neither one of us knew how long it had been there or what purpose he represented, besides being a drawing point for children of every age. I decided to see whether I could find out more about him.
The Lion- as far as I can tell there really isn’t any other name given to him - was donated to the city by the family of former Mayor John Gaskin who held that office in 1882. To say he was a political animal is slightly understating history. He was a fiery, feisty Irish Orangeman who wielded his weight where and when he could to advance the Protestant rights in the city. He was hot tempered, foul-mouthed and outrageously anti-Catholic which may explain why he served only one year in office. But, as a businessman, he was successful. A Great Lakes Captain for the Montreal Transportation Company, he relocated ship building to the city and became a very wealthy man along the way .
One of the homes he lived in was at the corner of Ontario and Princess Streets where the Cornerstone Gallery now stands. It was in front of one of his houses that the Lion once stood guard. Along side him was a cannon that Mr. Gaskin fired off every July 12 in commemoration of the Siege of Londonderry in 1689. This was a proud moment in Orangeman history as they defended and survived against the British siege under King James II. The cannon that Mr. Gaskin fired off, was one of the cannons used in the actual defense and presently stands on the lawn of the St. Andrew Church at the corner of Princess and Clergy Streets.
But back to the Lion. Mr Gaskin was the man who was responsible for gaining city ownership of the lands in the area now known as MacDonald Park, land once held by the military. He died in 1908 and the Lion was donated to the city by his family and was commemorated when the Park opened in 1909 thus marking its’ one hundred years of presence in the Park this year.
Given his one hundred years of standing stoutly outdoors and being exposed to not only the elements, but also to many, many bums sliding over its surface over those years - and throw in some unauthorized and rather bizarre paint schemes - it is no wonder that the Lion is feeling his age. One of his forepaws has a hole in the side, which time will only eat away; his back and hindquarter are worn smooth, far below any protective coatings that may have been on him when he was first cast, making him even more vulnerable to decay.
I did some cursory research into trying to find out the manufacturer of the statue, which involved among other things, crawling on my back under the Lion to find any markings. My closest match was a similar cast iron sculpture from an antique dealer in New York. J. W. Fiske was one of the most prolific and famous cast iron foundries in the United States and did cast iron lions around 1880. Considering that Mr. Gaskin was a Great Lakes captain, it is not to difficult to imagine that he could have picked up this statue on his travels. A Fiske cast iron statue was painted to resembled a bronze finish, which may explain why at times the Lion has been described by historians and journalists as bronzed.
As a hundredth birthday present for the Lion, it would be nice if the city could find the funds to refurbish him to his former glory and give another century of joy to the countless children and adults who love to crawl over his back. In these times, I realize that this is highly unlikely - the $10,000 needed to complete this job is probably earmarked for other projects. It is unfortunate that the cost of some of the studies done for other projects is more than this complete restoration. In my opinion, studies are not nearly as valuable or more important than heritage.
When you are next down at MacDonald Park, give the Lion a pat on his regal head and wish him a happy birthday and let him know that in the hearts of many people that although he may not be the King of the jungle anymore, he is truly the King of Kingston.
Counting among our city’s instantly recognizable images are the cupola of City Hall, which adorns our official website and the masthead of the Kingston Whig-Standard and the Shoal Tower - part of the Murney Tower system - which flies on the official city flag and so proudly worn on city politicians’ lapels. But we may have bested the big cities by at least one icon.
The Lion in MacDonald Park has been a fixture for as long as I can remember. I know I climbed all over him when I was a kid and can only imagine how many other children have clambered over his back and sat astride this cast iron statue. When you consider the number of transient citizens who have passed through Kingston as students or as part of the military who have been posted here or even the permanent residents of the city and outlying area, who have visited the Park, the number of people who have sat on the lion or been photographed on him truly boggles the mind. More than once, my own three children sat astride his back vying for right to be the one at the front to grab and hold on his mane. At lunch a few days ago, my sister Jane and I were reminiscing about the Lion. Neither one of us knew how long it had been there or what purpose he represented, besides being a drawing point for children of every age. I decided to see whether I could find out more about him.
The Lion- as far as I can tell there really isn’t any other name given to him - was donated to the city by the family of former Mayor John Gaskin who held that office in 1882. To say he was a political animal is slightly understating history. He was a fiery, feisty Irish Orangeman who wielded his weight where and when he could to advance the Protestant rights in the city. He was hot tempered, foul-mouthed and outrageously anti-Catholic which may explain why he served only one year in office. But, as a businessman, he was successful. A Great Lakes Captain for the Montreal Transportation Company, he relocated ship building to the city and became a very wealthy man along the way .
One of the homes he lived in was at the corner of Ontario and Princess Streets where the Cornerstone Gallery now stands. It was in front of one of his houses that the Lion once stood guard. Along side him was a cannon that Mr. Gaskin fired off every July 12 in commemoration of the Siege of Londonderry in 1689. This was a proud moment in Orangeman history as they defended and survived against the British siege under King James II. The cannon that Mr. Gaskin fired off, was one of the cannons used in the actual defense and presently stands on the lawn of the St. Andrew Church at the corner of Princess and Clergy Streets.
But back to the Lion. Mr Gaskin was the man who was responsible for gaining city ownership of the lands in the area now known as MacDonald Park, land once held by the military. He died in 1908 and the Lion was donated to the city by his family and was commemorated when the Park opened in 1909 thus marking its’ one hundred years of presence in the Park this year.
Given his one hundred years of standing stoutly outdoors and being exposed to not only the elements, but also to many, many bums sliding over its surface over those years - and throw in some unauthorized and rather bizarre paint schemes - it is no wonder that the Lion is feeling his age. One of his forepaws has a hole in the side, which time will only eat away; his back and hindquarter are worn smooth, far below any protective coatings that may have been on him when he was first cast, making him even more vulnerable to decay.
I did some cursory research into trying to find out the manufacturer of the statue, which involved among other things, crawling on my back under the Lion to find any markings. My closest match was a similar cast iron sculpture from an antique dealer in New York. J. W. Fiske was one of the most prolific and famous cast iron foundries in the United States and did cast iron lions around 1880. Considering that Mr. Gaskin was a Great Lakes captain, it is not to difficult to imagine that he could have picked up this statue on his travels. A Fiske cast iron statue was painted to resembled a bronze finish, which may explain why at times the Lion has been described by historians and journalists as bronzed.
As a hundredth birthday present for the Lion, it would be nice if the city could find the funds to refurbish him to his former glory and give another century of joy to the countless children and adults who love to crawl over his back. In these times, I realize that this is highly unlikely - the $10,000 needed to complete this job is probably earmarked for other projects. It is unfortunate that the cost of some of the studies done for other projects is more than this complete restoration. In my opinion, studies are not nearly as valuable or more important than heritage.
When you are next down at MacDonald Park, give the Lion a pat on his regal head and wish him a happy birthday and let him know that in the hearts of many people that although he may not be the King of the jungle anymore, he is truly the King of Kingston.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Still Looking for My Warhol Minutes
If we embrace Andy Warhols’ idea that every person will be famous for 15 minutes, then I should be getting worried. At last time check, I was getting to be older than ideal for being famous. Let’s see, the athlete me was years ago; same with being a member of a rock band. The potential for great discoveries in science disappeared when I changed my major to economics, and a Noble Prize in Economics went out the window in one of my last exams at university. The course was the scintillatingly titled , “Mathematical and Statistical Applications in Micro-Economics”, where my answer to most problems was, “Huh?” I truly only have one last kick at the can before I will have to turn to infamous instead.
While at this time, my 15 minutes have eluded me, I have had the opportunity to meet many famous people, mostly just through the course of life. The school I went to during my early years were sprinkled with the offspring of many recognizable names. Among them, for example, were the Molson and Seagram families. One of my dorm-mates at the time was Reid Willis, the son of actors Kate Reid and Austin Willis. The school population was liberally sprinkled with a number of Bay Street and political families. But probably the most memorable encounter with someone famous was during my art class that we had every two weeks.
The artist in residence at the school was David Blackwood, who, even in those days had a name for himself, but today is even more renown for his moody landscape paintings of life in Newfoundland. On this particular day he was moving around the class giving us encouragement and pointing out how to use colour to achieve a certain effect. He stood beside my painting of the Rockies with 2 majestic mountains rising up in the air. A soft pink glow of the morning sun was bathing the rocks. “Very good. Now try to get the shadow on this side of the mountain.” It was then that I notice a kind of round man beside him looking at my painting. Because I was reading Lord of the Rings at the time, he reminded me of a Hobbit. He was maybe my height, bushy red hair and beard, and smoking a pipe. He stood beside me for a few seconds then tapped the painting with his pipe and said, “Nice boobs.” My first meeting with Farley Mowat and he thought my mountains were boobs. (And I am using a nicer word than he did.) I didn’t know what to do. I felt a little embarrassed that here I was in art class drawing what he perceived to be half a naked woman before I had even seen a real half naked woman. I hastily tried to make them more mountainous-like so I capped them off with a snow covered peak. When he returned he said, “Even better. Much more life-like.”
It was at that early age that I decided that my creative outlet should not be in art but writing. So I guess I could fudge my resume a bit by saying that it was Farley Mowat who after seeing my earlier work, encouraged me write.
One time I did get close to being famous, famous by proxy, I guess. When I was younger I had a passing resemblance to hockey great Bobby Orr. One night I was with friends at The Pub at the Townhouse Motor Inn, when a local N.H.L. hockey player asked me if he could introduce me to some girls as Bobby Orr. He wanted to impress them with someone famous. Hmm, free drinks and a chance to meet some fawning female fans. For that, I even threw in a free gimpy knee.
More recently, I was at a place I often go to after work. It gives me time to relax, read the newspaper and have a beer before heading home to pandemonium. This time, I noticed someone sit down at the table across from me, facing in my direction. A quick glance up and I saw it was a young guy, kind of scruffy looking, a skull cap pulled down over his forehead even though it was a very warm day. Every so often I could feel him looking up at me and I steadfastly kept my eyes on my newspaper. This internal alarm was from my days as a prison guard . Quite often, if you glanced at an inmate the wrong way, they would often spit out a “What are you looking at!”. So I avoided locking eyes with this guy altogether. It was only after he left and paid for his meal that the waitress came up to me gushing that Gord Downey of the Tragically Hip had just left. Now I knew why he kept looking up at me. He just wanted to say hello. We have crossed paths many times over the years and his sister is a dear friend of my wife and I. He’ll probably never try to say hello again.
There have been many other famous people over the years. I spoke to NDP patriarch Ed Broadbent at the liquor store one afternoon and chatted up Christopher Walken at the same place when he was here shooting Vendetta. Nice guy and not nearly as scary in real life as he is on the screen. (I was talking about Walken, not Broadbent, there). But you know there is one person I have never run into. One of my brothers actually pitched him a story I wrote and another brother has been to his house for dinner. It is amazing how many people I know who have a Dan Aykroyd story or two. Yet I have still to meet the man. Maybe one day when I sell one of my screenplays and have my 15 minutes.
While at this time, my 15 minutes have eluded me, I have had the opportunity to meet many famous people, mostly just through the course of life. The school I went to during my early years were sprinkled with the offspring of many recognizable names. Among them, for example, were the Molson and Seagram families. One of my dorm-mates at the time was Reid Willis, the son of actors Kate Reid and Austin Willis. The school population was liberally sprinkled with a number of Bay Street and political families. But probably the most memorable encounter with someone famous was during my art class that we had every two weeks.
The artist in residence at the school was David Blackwood, who, even in those days had a name for himself, but today is even more renown for his moody landscape paintings of life in Newfoundland. On this particular day he was moving around the class giving us encouragement and pointing out how to use colour to achieve a certain effect. He stood beside my painting of the Rockies with 2 majestic mountains rising up in the air. A soft pink glow of the morning sun was bathing the rocks. “Very good. Now try to get the shadow on this side of the mountain.” It was then that I notice a kind of round man beside him looking at my painting. Because I was reading Lord of the Rings at the time, he reminded me of a Hobbit. He was maybe my height, bushy red hair and beard, and smoking a pipe. He stood beside me for a few seconds then tapped the painting with his pipe and said, “Nice boobs.” My first meeting with Farley Mowat and he thought my mountains were boobs. (And I am using a nicer word than he did.) I didn’t know what to do. I felt a little embarrassed that here I was in art class drawing what he perceived to be half a naked woman before I had even seen a real half naked woman. I hastily tried to make them more mountainous-like so I capped them off with a snow covered peak. When he returned he said, “Even better. Much more life-like.”
It was at that early age that I decided that my creative outlet should not be in art but writing. So I guess I could fudge my resume a bit by saying that it was Farley Mowat who after seeing my earlier work, encouraged me write.
One time I did get close to being famous, famous by proxy, I guess. When I was younger I had a passing resemblance to hockey great Bobby Orr. One night I was with friends at The Pub at the Townhouse Motor Inn, when a local N.H.L. hockey player asked me if he could introduce me to some girls as Bobby Orr. He wanted to impress them with someone famous. Hmm, free drinks and a chance to meet some fawning female fans. For that, I even threw in a free gimpy knee.
More recently, I was at a place I often go to after work. It gives me time to relax, read the newspaper and have a beer before heading home to pandemonium. This time, I noticed someone sit down at the table across from me, facing in my direction. A quick glance up and I saw it was a young guy, kind of scruffy looking, a skull cap pulled down over his forehead even though it was a very warm day. Every so often I could feel him looking up at me and I steadfastly kept my eyes on my newspaper. This internal alarm was from my days as a prison guard . Quite often, if you glanced at an inmate the wrong way, they would often spit out a “What are you looking at!”. So I avoided locking eyes with this guy altogether. It was only after he left and paid for his meal that the waitress came up to me gushing that Gord Downey of the Tragically Hip had just left. Now I knew why he kept looking up at me. He just wanted to say hello. We have crossed paths many times over the years and his sister is a dear friend of my wife and I. He’ll probably never try to say hello again.
There have been many other famous people over the years. I spoke to NDP patriarch Ed Broadbent at the liquor store one afternoon and chatted up Christopher Walken at the same place when he was here shooting Vendetta. Nice guy and not nearly as scary in real life as he is on the screen. (I was talking about Walken, not Broadbent, there). But you know there is one person I have never run into. One of my brothers actually pitched him a story I wrote and another brother has been to his house for dinner. It is amazing how many people I know who have a Dan Aykroyd story or two. Yet I have still to meet the man. Maybe one day when I sell one of my screenplays and have my 15 minutes.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Get Back To Where You Once Belonged
I am of a certain age where reunions start to gain some sort of significance. I am young enough to know that a lot of my classmates are probably still alive, but old enough to not know that fact for sure. I have marked a date on my calendar to find out. I will be attending the 35th reunion of my graduating class from the school I attended as a youngster. I am not sure which is more surprising; the fact that I am attending a reunion after 35 years or that it has been 35 years since my class graduated. I say my class, because I left after what was called 5th Form (grade 12 to you colonists) so that I could see what life was like with girls in a classroom. I must say that was rather a welcome change. Not that there weren’t benefits to being in an all male school... Okay, so after a few minutes of reflection, I didn’t come up with that many benefits.
One of my old roommates made me aware of the reunion. He now lives in Toronto, or one of those outlying areas that people who don’t live in Toronto, call Toronto. He is a friend of a woman who is the wife of a guy who attended the school and with who works with my older brother - who also went to the school. Try saying that again. My roommate, Eric, got my email address and we started to exchange notes and catch up with each other. Other than the occasional hello and small talk with former students at the school who live in Kingston, I haven’t really seen or even heard of anyone from my class since I left the school in 1972.
Throughout the years I have always kept an eye on the Report on Business from the Globe and Mail to see if any of the guys I went to school with turned up in the pages. You know the articles: “Wunderkind Stock Market Analyst Nailed For Fraudulent Stock Promotion - You Know, The Guy Who Used To Room With Scottie in 4th Form At Brent House”. But the pages of the Globe have constantly been bereft of this sort of salacious news.
Not that I think of these things in a competitive way, but at the School we were raised with a certain amount of competitiveness within what was known as the Little Big Four of the private school circuit. Ridley College in St. Catharines, St. Andrews College in Aurora, Upper Canada College in Toronto and my school, Trinity College School in Port Hope, made up the group. To say that the other schools have best us in this regard is rather shaming in a way. I always did my utmost to pound the other schools as best as I could on the football field, the cricket pitch (yes, it is possible to pound someone on a cricket pitch) or in the gymnasium.
In all honesty, to see their names pop up in news circles when our school was conspicuous in its absence, is a little humiliating. I guess it must be that they taught us ethics or something. I mean we never had the scandals like UCC old boys always seem to have. All we have had were a couple titans of business and few MP’s. What is there to brag about there?
Now, I am not saying that my classmates are not capable of some heinous crime of state or finance; it could be that there have just not been caught. Or to paraphrase Henry David Thoreau -now that would impress my English Master who for the most part was thoroughly unimpressed by me- it may be that my fellow classmates are slaves to their jobs and lead lives in quiet desperation. Either way, it will be interesting to see where their lives have taken them.
I was asked to come up with a specific memory or moment at the school that has endured with me. Try as I may to remember, there really wasn’t a particular moment that crystallized my time there. Perhaps it was because I spent such a long period there that instead of it being a focus of my life, it was more of a constant. I was fortunate that for about half my time there I had two of my older brothers running point for me, paving the way, so to speak. So, in a way it was like family. These were guys I slept, ate, played sports with and learned with (okay, so some learned more than I). I went through times of discovery, disappointment and even at that young age, disillusionment. So to really capsulize a particular moment is difficult. Maybe it in 1970 when I returned from Michaelmas term break (Christmas holidays in the real world) after a trip to The Bahamas with a pair of shockingly white bell bottom jeans. I thought they contrasted particularly well with my tan, but mere moments after stepping out of my dorm, the Headmaster loudly pointed out that indeed, “Mr. Scott, this is not a discotheque!” And for all those years I labored under that misguided belief. Perhaps it is my ability to still be able to conjugate the verb, “to love” in Latin or in an uninterrupted flow of words that seem to come out like one word, still be able to recite the entire dinner grace, again in Latin and in one breath.
However, one constant that I learned from my time there that has served me well and still serves me today. It was a lesson I have carried from day one of my attendance at the school. It was there on my graduation from university, on my first job interview and as well on my wedding day. I know it will be with me on the day my children get married and every other important marker in my life until the final moment the lid on my casket is shut. The lesson learned that is so important? I know how to tie a full Windsor.
One of my old roommates made me aware of the reunion. He now lives in Toronto, or one of those outlying areas that people who don’t live in Toronto, call Toronto. He is a friend of a woman who is the wife of a guy who attended the school and with who works with my older brother - who also went to the school. Try saying that again. My roommate, Eric, got my email address and we started to exchange notes and catch up with each other. Other than the occasional hello and small talk with former students at the school who live in Kingston, I haven’t really seen or even heard of anyone from my class since I left the school in 1972.
Throughout the years I have always kept an eye on the Report on Business from the Globe and Mail to see if any of the guys I went to school with turned up in the pages. You know the articles: “Wunderkind Stock Market Analyst Nailed For Fraudulent Stock Promotion - You Know, The Guy Who Used To Room With Scottie in 4th Form At Brent House”. But the pages of the Globe have constantly been bereft of this sort of salacious news.
Not that I think of these things in a competitive way, but at the School we were raised with a certain amount of competitiveness within what was known as the Little Big Four of the private school circuit. Ridley College in St. Catharines, St. Andrews College in Aurora, Upper Canada College in Toronto and my school, Trinity College School in Port Hope, made up the group. To say that the other schools have best us in this regard is rather shaming in a way. I always did my utmost to pound the other schools as best as I could on the football field, the cricket pitch (yes, it is possible to pound someone on a cricket pitch) or in the gymnasium.
In all honesty, to see their names pop up in news circles when our school was conspicuous in its absence, is a little humiliating. I guess it must be that they taught us ethics or something. I mean we never had the scandals like UCC old boys always seem to have. All we have had were a couple titans of business and few MP’s. What is there to brag about there?
Now, I am not saying that my classmates are not capable of some heinous crime of state or finance; it could be that there have just not been caught. Or to paraphrase Henry David Thoreau -now that would impress my English Master who for the most part was thoroughly unimpressed by me- it may be that my fellow classmates are slaves to their jobs and lead lives in quiet desperation. Either way, it will be interesting to see where their lives have taken them.
I was asked to come up with a specific memory or moment at the school that has endured with me. Try as I may to remember, there really wasn’t a particular moment that crystallized my time there. Perhaps it was because I spent such a long period there that instead of it being a focus of my life, it was more of a constant. I was fortunate that for about half my time there I had two of my older brothers running point for me, paving the way, so to speak. So, in a way it was like family. These were guys I slept, ate, played sports with and learned with (okay, so some learned more than I). I went through times of discovery, disappointment and even at that young age, disillusionment. So to really capsulize a particular moment is difficult. Maybe it in 1970 when I returned from Michaelmas term break (Christmas holidays in the real world) after a trip to The Bahamas with a pair of shockingly white bell bottom jeans. I thought they contrasted particularly well with my tan, but mere moments after stepping out of my dorm, the Headmaster loudly pointed out that indeed, “Mr. Scott, this is not a discotheque!” And for all those years I labored under that misguided belief. Perhaps it is my ability to still be able to conjugate the verb, “to love” in Latin or in an uninterrupted flow of words that seem to come out like one word, still be able to recite the entire dinner grace, again in Latin and in one breath.
However, one constant that I learned from my time there that has served me well and still serves me today. It was a lesson I have carried from day one of my attendance at the school. It was there on my graduation from university, on my first job interview and as well on my wedding day. I know it will be with me on the day my children get married and every other important marker in my life until the final moment the lid on my casket is shut. The lesson learned that is so important? I know how to tie a full Windsor.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
First Impressions
No matter what your age, your social standing or your education, there doesn’t ever seem to be an end to the anxiety raised by making first impressions. They cross all boundaries; not only are they pivotal in your job and in social situations, but they influence almost every aspect of daily life. We all has that fear that one of these times, our foot will be planted inadvertently, but firmly in our mouth - from our first day at school to our final introduction at the pearly gates (Well, you see God... you are God, aren’t you? It was like this...).
First impressions lay the foundations for any future relationships and that only raises the emotional stakes. I always hated meeting people for the first time, mostly because of an absolute lack of confidence in myself; how could anyone except truly deranged and abnormal people, find me of any interest. Combine this with a genetic ability to blush to the point that even Rudolph couldn’t hold a candle to my reddish glow, you can get a rough idea of how much I enjoy first meetings. But I struggled through them, always trying to use my humour and limited charm to make people believe that I might be an asset at some time. There is nothing worse than having your first meeting with someone end up with you crying your eyes out and wetting your pants. Fortunately for me, that happened when I was two and not at any time recently. However, that is not to say that recently I didn’t feel like crying my eyes out and wetting my pants.
Many factors can go into a successful first impression. There are all of those readily recognized external things, like your appearance and the way you carry yourself. But also, and I think more important, there are the internal ones - the feeling that you are the one, the absolute Zen of it all, that exuded confidence and feeling of being in control that seems to carry you through. Sometimes you can emerge from one of these meetings amazed at the length of time that has gone by.
But on occasion, even with the most attention to detail applied, a small distraction can disrupt everything. In one meeting I had, we were two guys that were trying to make that first big impression with a Calgary company that signaled that we were the people and the product to be carried by them. Part of this preparation involved the delicate balance of our appearance.
I know of many first impressions that are lost in the greyness of being somewhere between over-dressed or underdressed. The meeting we had arranged called for the complete package. I, most normally found in jeans (clean on important occasions) was dressed in an smartly cut suit. Around my neck I wore a tie that made a statement; what the hell it said was beyond me, but apparently it yelled. There we were, two guys power dressed, ready for anything. We probably should have slammed each others shoulders and growled as we pumped each other up, but as refined men of the power elite, we compliment on another on our natty attire and put the finishing touches to our appearance.
Standing in front of the large bathroom mirror in the hotel room, I contemplated my appearance. I adjusted my tie, making sure the full Windsor sat squarely, when I noticed the shaving kit on the bathroom counter. Among the many things that spilled out was a small bottle of Dippity-Do hair gel. I looked at it with a mild level of shock. I called out to my business partner, asking him to come in the bathroom. I held the bottle like some sort of accusatory piece of evidence. He came in and asked me, "What?" I just said, "Dippity-Do?" He replied that his hair was really fine and the gel helped it stay in place. "Yes, but Dippity-Do?” I stammered. “Couldn't you use something with a name a bit more masculine? Maybe Oil of Whale Testicles or something? If I only knew about this earlier, I am sure we could have knocked off that Doo-Wop guy singing on the corner and scored his tube of Brylcreem. Don't you know that every time I look over at you during the meeting I will be thinking that everyone else in the room will be staring at your hair and texting each other with, 'Is that Dippity-Do in his hair?'"
A stutter was his best response. “Why don’t you just slap on a tutu, go into the meeting on your tippy toes and give them all a big, wet, sloppy kiss. It would have the same effect!” To say I was unsettled would be to minimize my state; unfortunately the whole thing went south from there.
Probably the most significant first impression and one that stays in someone’s memory the longest is “meeting the parents”. Nothing causes more hand wrenching and foot shuffling than that moment. But now that I am positioned to be the parent who is being met, I can say with honesty it is almost as gut wrenching to be met.
All the ideas I entertained over the years of greeting the future spouses of my children - with such lovable antics such as blowing loudly on a empty paper towel tube and then emerging with a whoosh from a darkened hallway dressed in tights and a towel for a cape proclaiming myself to be SuperDad have gone by the wayside. I am now leaning towards the funny, but subdued and understanding parent. Having raised my children I know what lurks behind that happy and pleasant exterior. I also know what evil can lurk in their beating little hearts. So if I want them to move out anytime soon, I better not scare anybody off.
First impressions lay the foundations for any future relationships and that only raises the emotional stakes. I always hated meeting people for the first time, mostly because of an absolute lack of confidence in myself; how could anyone except truly deranged and abnormal people, find me of any interest. Combine this with a genetic ability to blush to the point that even Rudolph couldn’t hold a candle to my reddish glow, you can get a rough idea of how much I enjoy first meetings. But I struggled through them, always trying to use my humour and limited charm to make people believe that I might be an asset at some time. There is nothing worse than having your first meeting with someone end up with you crying your eyes out and wetting your pants. Fortunately for me, that happened when I was two and not at any time recently. However, that is not to say that recently I didn’t feel like crying my eyes out and wetting my pants.
Many factors can go into a successful first impression. There are all of those readily recognized external things, like your appearance and the way you carry yourself. But also, and I think more important, there are the internal ones - the feeling that you are the one, the absolute Zen of it all, that exuded confidence and feeling of being in control that seems to carry you through. Sometimes you can emerge from one of these meetings amazed at the length of time that has gone by.
But on occasion, even with the most attention to detail applied, a small distraction can disrupt everything. In one meeting I had, we were two guys that were trying to make that first big impression with a Calgary company that signaled that we were the people and the product to be carried by them. Part of this preparation involved the delicate balance of our appearance.
I know of many first impressions that are lost in the greyness of being somewhere between over-dressed or underdressed. The meeting we had arranged called for the complete package. I, most normally found in jeans (clean on important occasions) was dressed in an smartly cut suit. Around my neck I wore a tie that made a statement; what the hell it said was beyond me, but apparently it yelled. There we were, two guys power dressed, ready for anything. We probably should have slammed each others shoulders and growled as we pumped each other up, but as refined men of the power elite, we compliment on another on our natty attire and put the finishing touches to our appearance.
Standing in front of the large bathroom mirror in the hotel room, I contemplated my appearance. I adjusted my tie, making sure the full Windsor sat squarely, when I noticed the shaving kit on the bathroom counter. Among the many things that spilled out was a small bottle of Dippity-Do hair gel. I looked at it with a mild level of shock. I called out to my business partner, asking him to come in the bathroom. I held the bottle like some sort of accusatory piece of evidence. He came in and asked me, "What?" I just said, "Dippity-Do?" He replied that his hair was really fine and the gel helped it stay in place. "Yes, but Dippity-Do?” I stammered. “Couldn't you use something with a name a bit more masculine? Maybe Oil of Whale Testicles or something? If I only knew about this earlier, I am sure we could have knocked off that Doo-Wop guy singing on the corner and scored his tube of Brylcreem. Don't you know that every time I look over at you during the meeting I will be thinking that everyone else in the room will be staring at your hair and texting each other with, 'Is that Dippity-Do in his hair?'"
A stutter was his best response. “Why don’t you just slap on a tutu, go into the meeting on your tippy toes and give them all a big, wet, sloppy kiss. It would have the same effect!” To say I was unsettled would be to minimize my state; unfortunately the whole thing went south from there.
Probably the most significant first impression and one that stays in someone’s memory the longest is “meeting the parents”. Nothing causes more hand wrenching and foot shuffling than that moment. But now that I am positioned to be the parent who is being met, I can say with honesty it is almost as gut wrenching to be met.
All the ideas I entertained over the years of greeting the future spouses of my children - with such lovable antics such as blowing loudly on a empty paper towel tube and then emerging with a whoosh from a darkened hallway dressed in tights and a towel for a cape proclaiming myself to be SuperDad have gone by the wayside. I am now leaning towards the funny, but subdued and understanding parent. Having raised my children I know what lurks behind that happy and pleasant exterior. I also know what evil can lurk in their beating little hearts. So if I want them to move out anytime soon, I better not scare anybody off.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Ghostly Visits, I am a 9 Percenter
I passed a milestone a little while ago that was something I never really thought about, but I guess in some manner it is an accomplishment. I have been a published writer for over 20 years now. Not that I have shaken the earth with any of my ramblings or even given it the slightest of nudges, but still it is something that not many people can boast.
Over that span of years only once has a complete stranger taken the time and effort to respond. That was after I wrote an article that described living in an old house in the oldest part of town. Strange things seemed to happened there involving missing keys, oddly stacked canned goods in the pantry and furniture that aligned itself up on its own. I then explained that I had a 2 year old child who lived in the house whose actions explained all of these events. The respondent rebuked me for, “wrecking a perfectly good ghost story with kids.” Throughout their lives, my kids have had an incredible talent for wrecking a good many things, but a ghost story is not one of them. Now that they have grown up and their curiosity level has somewhat leveled out - the mantra for much of their childhood seemed to be, “I wonder what would happen if...” - things don’t seem to break all that often.
I should have known better than to mess with a ghost story, even if it was well intentioned. According to an Ipsos-Reid survey completed in October 2006, 47 per cent of Canadians believe in ghosts, with 9 per cent of those saying that they have had a visit from a dead relative (there are times at family reunions that I am certain that number has to be higher). I wanted to compare that figure to how many people believed in a fair and balanced government, but that seems to be a top secret statistic revealed only to those who cower on bended knees to the Gods of Ottawa. I easily found out how many Canadians believed in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, God, Satan and the percent of Canadians who brush their tongues in the morning - 55 per cent for those who are really reading this closely. But the number who believe in good government is another matter all together; I still think it will be less than those who believe in ghosts.
What brought me to this point is that I am one of the 47 per cent above and for that matter one of the 9 per cent as well (although I am not part of the 55 per cent). Living in an old city and more importantly, in an old part of an old city I have had my share of could be considered ghostly experiences. When I lived in a house on University Avenue as a student, my bedroom was at the top of a stairway, the only room on the attic level. One night I heard someone walking up the stairs with quite deliberate footfalls and then stop at the top of the stairs, which was at the foot of my bed. Thinking it was one of my house-mates trying to scare me, I rolled over quickly to catch him. There was no one there. Needless to say, my sleep was a bit disturbed that night.
A much more visual moment took place years ago when I was working at a local private hospital. I was on a midnight shift and it was just before dawn. My chin was drooping to my chest, when suddenly my eyes popped open to see a woman with brown hair and wearing a brown smock come running up to me with a smirk on her face. The sight of her shocked me, as patients were asleep at that hour and I sat upright in my chair. Just as suddenly, she was gone. I put this off due to a sleepy hallucination, but the following day I mentioned it to a person who had worked there for years and she just said, “Oh, so you saw the Lady in Brown?”
My kids stayed the night at the hospital after it closed to see if they could detect any activities. They had cameras set up, tape recorders set to automatically start with sounds. Strangely enough, among other sounds and events, they did hear and record a woman’s voice seemingly humming a tune at 3:00 am.
Shortly after my father passed away in 2005, I had a dream in which everyone in my family unexpectedly dropped by my house. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my Dad walk up to me. Characteristically, he was wearing a loud sport coat, his tie was slightly askew and his silver hair was long and swept back. When I saw him, I asked him what he was doing here, as he was dead (I guess it is a bit easier being blunt when you are asleep). He just looked at me and said, “I am fine and everything is going to be alright.” Before I even had a chance to say, “You’ve been dead for two weeks and you are still giving advice?” he was gone. And he was right. Everything has turned out to be alright.
So I guess when everything is weighed, whether these ghostly sightings are a manifestation of the mind in tired or stressful situations or they really are contact from the other side, we won’t know until we get there. Houdini tried to do that and it was the one trick he couldn’t pull off. I will happily count myself among the 9 per cent who have dead relatives visit, but hopefully they won’t stay for more than a night. From what I understand, having resident ghosts in your house just kills the real estate value.
Over that span of years only once has a complete stranger taken the time and effort to respond. That was after I wrote an article that described living in an old house in the oldest part of town. Strange things seemed to happened there involving missing keys, oddly stacked canned goods in the pantry and furniture that aligned itself up on its own. I then explained that I had a 2 year old child who lived in the house whose actions explained all of these events. The respondent rebuked me for, “wrecking a perfectly good ghost story with kids.” Throughout their lives, my kids have had an incredible talent for wrecking a good many things, but a ghost story is not one of them. Now that they have grown up and their curiosity level has somewhat leveled out - the mantra for much of their childhood seemed to be, “I wonder what would happen if...” - things don’t seem to break all that often.
I should have known better than to mess with a ghost story, even if it was well intentioned. According to an Ipsos-Reid survey completed in October 2006, 47 per cent of Canadians believe in ghosts, with 9 per cent of those saying that they have had a visit from a dead relative (there are times at family reunions that I am certain that number has to be higher). I wanted to compare that figure to how many people believed in a fair and balanced government, but that seems to be a top secret statistic revealed only to those who cower on bended knees to the Gods of Ottawa. I easily found out how many Canadians believed in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, God, Satan and the percent of Canadians who brush their tongues in the morning - 55 per cent for those who are really reading this closely. But the number who believe in good government is another matter all together; I still think it will be less than those who believe in ghosts.
What brought me to this point is that I am one of the 47 per cent above and for that matter one of the 9 per cent as well (although I am not part of the 55 per cent). Living in an old city and more importantly, in an old part of an old city I have had my share of could be considered ghostly experiences. When I lived in a house on University Avenue as a student, my bedroom was at the top of a stairway, the only room on the attic level. One night I heard someone walking up the stairs with quite deliberate footfalls and then stop at the top of the stairs, which was at the foot of my bed. Thinking it was one of my house-mates trying to scare me, I rolled over quickly to catch him. There was no one there. Needless to say, my sleep was a bit disturbed that night.
A much more visual moment took place years ago when I was working at a local private hospital. I was on a midnight shift and it was just before dawn. My chin was drooping to my chest, when suddenly my eyes popped open to see a woman with brown hair and wearing a brown smock come running up to me with a smirk on her face. The sight of her shocked me, as patients were asleep at that hour and I sat upright in my chair. Just as suddenly, she was gone. I put this off due to a sleepy hallucination, but the following day I mentioned it to a person who had worked there for years and she just said, “Oh, so you saw the Lady in Brown?”
My kids stayed the night at the hospital after it closed to see if they could detect any activities. They had cameras set up, tape recorders set to automatically start with sounds. Strangely enough, among other sounds and events, they did hear and record a woman’s voice seemingly humming a tune at 3:00 am.
Shortly after my father passed away in 2005, I had a dream in which everyone in my family unexpectedly dropped by my house. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my Dad walk up to me. Characteristically, he was wearing a loud sport coat, his tie was slightly askew and his silver hair was long and swept back. When I saw him, I asked him what he was doing here, as he was dead (I guess it is a bit easier being blunt when you are asleep). He just looked at me and said, “I am fine and everything is going to be alright.” Before I even had a chance to say, “You’ve been dead for two weeks and you are still giving advice?” he was gone. And he was right. Everything has turned out to be alright.
So I guess when everything is weighed, whether these ghostly sightings are a manifestation of the mind in tired or stressful situations or they really are contact from the other side, we won’t know until we get there. Houdini tried to do that and it was the one trick he couldn’t pull off. I will happily count myself among the 9 per cent who have dead relatives visit, but hopefully they won’t stay for more than a night. From what I understand, having resident ghosts in your house just kills the real estate value.
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