moving right along here .....

Just a few more thoughts in passing. Getting ever more adventurous, I have been delving into my daughter's websites so full of beauty, both in thought and in image, that I'm struck anew with sadness that I'd used complacency with 'the old ways' to put off getting seriously into computers. Obviously they were not going to go away and I hated being left behind. My daughter was recruited, and the computer smarts of my son and daughter-in-law freely and regularly (sometimes hysterically) called on. I've only nudged the surface so far but already the rewards are inestimable.

And the word 'learn' especially is the key word here. I think my Moment of Truth hit me at about 70 - hey, I'm on the slippery slope down now, I have more past than future, and was promptly overcome with all I still had to do with what I had left.

Today computers, tomorrow the world! Or maybe I'll just have another stab at figuring out my cell-phone.

Now if I can only find a way to hang onto all the old comfortable ways, because that's who I really am, but still grapple and maybe learn from this cursed/addictive electronic age. So far, so good -

a bit of everything

I should really have posted a photo of my dear departed Koko here but I'm still working on the emptiness without her. So instead, with a Canadian winter on the horizon, however hazily, I will post one of my favourites - a sunset in Retiro Park in Madrid, surely one of the most beautiful parks anywhere, in the 'old world' traditional sense with statuary, fountains, a lake to row on, ancient trees and broad walkways.

I am still wheel-less and not accepting the constraints very well atall. I do not share my daughter's and granddaughter's happy reliance on city buses. I will explain: yesterday, leaving the Seniors' Centre, I caught the only bus that had appeared over the space of an hour. Wrong destination but - hey - it would have to end up at the Town Centre transfer point at some time. An hour and a half later I knew Kingston intimately and I swear was seeing the same streets for the third time. After baking at the bus-stop in 33-degree heat, then freezing in a bus with an air-conditioning unit on steroids, I was still there, a captive to kids' screaming amplified 80% with my hearing aids, and wondering where I went wrong. I asked the driver plaintively "Don't you EVER go to the Town Centre?" "Oh sure" he replied breezily, "when I finish my downtown route". With what I thought was remarkable restraint, I told him that to get from the Seniors' Centre to my home takes 15 minutes by car and what would he suggest. Already my transfer was no good. "Well, why didn't you say when you got on that that's where you wanted to go? I could have dropped you near the Bus Station and you could have caught a 'C' bus to the Town Centre, then your #3 to Queen Mary Rd".

Logistics to take a bus???

I'm a car person. I love driving. I love the freedom, the independence, the wide-open spaces. Being able to come and go when I want. Half of me, the sensible part, knows that another car is not economically feasible. I just have to convince the other half, my pig-headed half. It'll be easier in the winter, when I can hop onto a heated bus in the middle of a blizzard. It says here.

Requiem for a '91 Mustang

Aging is all about acceptance and adapting - easy when it just involves pesky little things like hearing loss and/or creaky joints and instalment peeing, these 'go with the territory'. you adapt and move on. But when it involves losing one's freedom and independence to the ravages of automotive aging, now that hurts. And if it's a Mustang, that hurts big-time.

Mine was like a part of me, like a comfortable old shoe (designer of course!) A racy old lady turning obediently over on the most frigid winter morning. Nimble and superbly maneuverable wherever I took her, a perfect example of the fun being in 'getting there'.

Sadly, rust had its way with her. To such an extent that local squirrels had set up housekeeping in the trunk with enough nuts to see them into their golden years through a convenient hole in the floor.

The time had come. My Mustang was no longer sustainable on my income, it was an indulgence that I could ill-afford. I was aging better than it was. On the way to the autowreckers, the clutch was breathing its last. Luckily the last stretch was downhill. $250. What an epitaph, what an ignominious ending for such a loyal friend.

Maybe I'll win The Big One on the 649, I'd better hurry or I'll miss my bus ......

Sob.

what goes around .....

The subconscious is an amazing resource. All the adages, the rules and guidelines, explanations and stern warnings by parents that had always been thought to go into one ear and out the other of their offspring, in fact in my case hunkered down in my S.C., becoming like a savings account, or bonds with a maturity date (which latter I finally achieved in my 30's), a treasure-trove of rules to live by that I could draw on in times of stress, panic or frustration in later years:

"This too shall pass", "Mind over matter, dear"

These especially carried my mother through to an impressive 105, she lived them, but there were many others, ones that I was not even aware of absorbing till magically - when the need arose - they were there. By word and by deed, mom's mantra on integrity, honesty and kindness, being true to oneself and all that good stuff, guided us. And continues to guide us (with a few adaptations and concessions to the world we now live in!)

Now to finish the title: "........ comes around", and the little thrill of pleasure I feel when I hear my daughter use the same admonishment or turn-of-phrase that I had used to her 50 years ago. That I'd thought had fallen on deaf ears. Tch, tch, ye of little faith .....

a news junkie lament

As an escape from reality shows and tired old sitcoms with their laugh-tracks, I had become a news junkie, my channel of choice Newsworld - the home of not only the superb Passionate Eye, W5 and the Fifth Estate, but excellent ongoing news coverage.

Whatever happened to the old Newsworld, CBC? Is this cluttered screen with its scrolling, zipping, flashing, sliding components your new "digital look"?

To compare:

With Newsworld there was an anchor reading the news and an easily-read scrolling news strip across the bottom.

Now we have a screen that includes -

- the time, scrolling up through Mountain, Pacific, CT, AT and ET
- the CBC news logo
- a box proclaiming "News Now" but wait! Every 3 seconds the colours change first of the printing, one word at a time, then the background, sliding to the left, then to the right.
- the news strip at the bottom is now half its previous size and moves - not smoothly as before - but zips off the screen to the left after I've read the first 5 words. The only place you'll find tinier print is what you're Not covered for in a contract.
- above that is a 5-day scrolling weather forecast for the whole country. I can think of no circumstances under which I would need to know the weather in Iqaluit that I cannot pronounce and can barely spell. And what happened to the u after the q? Besides, 2 clicks and I could be on the Weather channel.
- then comes a box with admittedly pertinent information - subject being discussed, interviewer, interviewee, etc. again scrolling to the left or right. -

THEN finally we have the anchor

And just in case we missed the boxes that proclaimed this to be CBC News, or Sports, or whatever, 6 TV screens in the background will sometimes flash reminders.

By way of introduction to their "new look", the anchors do a skit made up of hi-speed flash-card type images of them delivering one sentence, 2-3 words each, sometimes only 1. The mind reels. Gravol, anyone?

Trying to watch the news has become a multitasking exercise in frustration with all the extraneous movement. Information overload and so disconcerting. Just the news, please!

Did I say "lament"? Make that "rant".

There. I feel better.

Fergie the unforgettable

Fergie left me last Sunday. She fought the good fight. She had irritated, delighted, angered, endeared and frustrated, but never bored me. She was not your average cat, and I miss her more than I ever thought possible.

When my son and daughter-in-law gave me this beauteous calico in 1992, my sister Doreen had named her Fergie because of her colouring and because she spent more time in the air than sleeping like any other self-respecting cat would do. Add to this an incorrigible need to explore and hind legs that would be the envy of any jack-rabbit. I could see the writing on the wall one day when, on my return from work, I found my TV face down on the floor and Fergie hiding under the bed. OK, so the TV was a little tippy, but still!

Then all set to watch my favourite series with a plate of boeuf bourguignon on my knee one evening (I must have been celebrating something), I noticed Fergie watching me intently on the other side of the room, some 6' away. Sorry, Fergie, this is mine. Supercat had other ideas - she flew through the air, landing on my dinner-plate and had hoovered up half of my beef before I knew what was going on.

The vet had described her as a classic hyperthyroidism. Once I knew this, it made her perpetual motion easier to understand, but didn't help when she'd leap up onto the counter, shove off lids, clean off butter knives, etc. The fastest tongue in the west. She had such a cosmopolitan appetite! Drop some Caesar croutons, bits of feta, artichoke dip or chopped-egg filling on the floor? Gone!

Maybe in another life she was an executive chef. Who knows? I jest of course, whatever it takes to get through this vacuum without her -

Sleep well, dear Ferg ......

Up close and personal with a French armoured tank

This happened during our posting to France in the 60's when we were en route to England from Metz in a second-hand Mercedes and a new Dutch trailer, happily anticipating 2 weeks' holidays. My newly-married sister had come up from Madrid to join us. At a stop-street in a small town in northern France, we waited while a convoy of armoured tanks turned into our street from the right, the roar and the rumble deafening. The kids were so thrilled - what an opportunity to see tanks so close! Wow. But hey, where is that last tank going? And what's the crew looking at, off to the right? Excuse me, guys? Would you mind? Look where you're going!!! All rational thought ceased in the car at this point and we sat frozen, unbelieving, waiting for the end, as it headed our way. When the tank hit us, peeling off the left front like tissue-paper, it didn't even shudder and wouldn't have stopped were it not for the townspeople running hysterically after the tank, waving their arms. The captain of course was tres apologetic, and insisting that we go back to the Officers' Mess for lunch. Eating was the last thing on our minds. What we really wanted to do was throw up. So close ... so close .... They could have chewed us up and spit us out without even a burp. We had come face-to-face with our mortality and he's TALKING LUNCH?

His crew were able to straighten the twisted metal so we were able to get to Zweibrucken and the Mercedes garage at 25 mph where we camped for a week before again heading to England, where it rained every day but one. With the ferry crossing the roughest in 25 years, the Vacation from Hell was born.

But I gained new understanding of why people, when faced with doom one way or another, freeze. No longer "why didn't they run?" "why didn't they get out?" You can't. Period. Your survival instincts - probably because of the shock - seem to close down and motor power is the first victim.

a U.S. pat on the back for Canada

This was too good not to post, from the Chicago Tribune -

"It's a good thing that Canada won the hotly-contested gold medal hockey match ...... hockey is the beloved national pastime and sacred birthright of all Canadians. Getting beat on home-ice by bumptious Yanks might have sparked a dangerous surge of fury and nationalism ....

It's scary to think what those unpredictable Canadians might have done to retaliate: cut off shipments of Moosehead beer? Repatriate Celine Dion and Morley Safer? Halt international crossings until we agree to pronounce the letter Z "zed"?

Maybe there wasn't really much to worry about. In much of the world, borders are sites of tension. Russia has to share a boundary with the most populous nation on earth, China, a longtime rival. Germany and France get along these days, but it was not always so. .......

The border with Canada, though, is as inconspicuous and forgettable as a Toronto Blue Jays third-base coach. Drug traffic? Sure, but most of it involves prescription arthritis medicines sought by penny-pinching American seniors.

As for armed conflict, there hasn't been any worth mentioning since the war of 1812..... The two nations had a few border disputes in the 19th century, with heavy casualties in the form of observers who died of boredom. ......"

People-watching in the digital age

Gone are the days in airports and train stations when you could while away the hours people-watching, speculating on lives and stories behind the furrowed brow, the faraway gaze, the joy, the tears, the anxiety. A marvellous kaleidoscope of the human condition. If you were lucky, you might even have found, through a chance remark, a kindred spirit to chat with or to share a comfortable silence with. If you were even luckier, an idle conversation could have led to unexpected rewards, as I discovered in Toronto waiting for my flight to London one week after 9/11. Most of those waiting to board also had had their flight changed from 9/12, so we were a somber bunch, each lost in our own thoughts and fears - none more than an elderly couple across from me, holding hands and bleak with worry. When the seat next to them became vacant, I went over to have a chat - as much to take my mind off my love/hate feelings about flying as to cheer them up - and in no time we were chatting like old friends with even a giggle from his wife. On boarding, my seat in row 27 had been changed to one UPSTAIRS!! And 3 rows away in 1st class was the British couple I'd just parted from. So it was just a serendipitous coincidence that our seats in the Holding Room were beside the British Air desk manned by some very observant agents!!

That was then. This is now. Especially in train and bus stations. No more animated faces. Heads now buried in laptops, cell phone conversations telling us more than we ever wanted to know about people's marital problems and office frustrations. Everyone dangling with wires and "i" thingies, their eyes either remote or glazed. Very effective in discouraging any kind of social interaction! And kind of sad. The electronic age has effectively scuttled one of my favourite pastimes and I miss it.

A Homechild Success Story

Mention 'homechildren' and one thinks of the thousands of English youngsters who were shipped to the colonies - Australia and Canada mainly - from 1868 to 1928 under Dr. Barnardo's plan to ostensibly give them a new start in life. His philanthropic motives would be called into question for years after because certainly his plan was not without flaws. Just ask descendants of those homechildren who were shipped to the prairies where many suffered deprivation, loneliness and even abuse while working as cheap farm labourers, with very little oversight.

For the most part, these children were orphans, homeless, or just abandoned by parents who were totally destitute. Given the social structure at the time, often the only option left was to turn children out to fend for themselves.

Britain's Gordon Brown has issued a formal apology to descendants of the homechildren, as had Australia's prime minister. Our PM Harper, however, 'sees no need' Why am I not surprised. In a rare conciliatory move, though, he did have 2010 declared The Year of the Homechild.

In all fairness to the oft-maligned Dr. Barnardo, his system did work, at least in Ottawa, and my father was one of his success stories. He was not an orphan, nor homeless. When his father died at sea in 1900, leaving my grandmother penniless with 6 children, there were not a lot of options. I remember being horrified early on when I learned that our grandmother had given up her only son, just 4, putting him and his sister Flo in a Home. (I shouldn't have been because dad loved it there too!) I later learned that this was customary - daughters could work as domestics or chambermaids and put food on the table where sons usually ended up going to sea, their future assured.

Dad sailed for Canada in April 1912, at the age of 14, reaching Halifax about the time that the Titanic went down, joining his sister in Ottawa. They were lucky to end up together because some families had been split up between Australia and Canada. Presumably Dr. Barnardo by 1912 had streamlined the process and corrected a lot of the earlier problems because in Ottawa there was oversight. I have the monthly reports on his welfare and progress - did he attend Sunday School?, were his shoes in good repair? was he happy? His health and conduct were tracked and his job performance at Birks monitored. For carrying purchases upstairs to be wrapped, he made the princely sum of $3/week, $2.50 of which went for room & board. Within a year he had saved $5, had enrolled in Night School and joined the YMCA. In retrospect, his lifelong glass-half-full philosophy started then!

Growing up, dad would regale us with tales of WWI, but only the funny parts like having to borrow a pair of long pants to join up underage in 1915, joining the cavalry even though the only horse he'd ever seen was pulling a milk-wagon, or using his daily tot of rum to 'buy' his way out of Night Watch in France since he didn't drink. There was Ypres, Vimy Ridge, then Passchendaele where he was wounded.

Now, with all the unspeakably sad stories once again emerging of lonely, frightened children being shipped to a strange country only to face exploitation and neglect by some out on the prairies, I often wonder how dad would have fared had he been sent out there. He was from Liverpool, so I dread to think. Would his marvellous spirit have been broken? Or would his inherent optimism and engaging personality have carried him through? It was his good fortune, and by extension ours, that he was sent to Ottawa and became the remarkable man who was our father. Great genes, dad!! Mine's half-full too!!

Bring on the flags!

I am drunk on patriotism and I hope there IS a hangover. Watching our 2010 Vancouver Olympics for the past 16 days, I have never been so impressed in my life, nor so loved this country of mine. We as a nation have never been given to overt displays of flag-waving or chest-beating (we are reserved, don't you know?). But then Canada got the Winter Olympics and Vancouver proceeded to put us on the map. Everyone did themselves so proud - athletes and organizers, volunteers and visitors, giving such a marvellous picture of us to the world. I thank you for waking us up to what we have and for your herculean efforts to 'bring home the gold', reinforcing our pride in being Canadian.