So there above you have it: since I have been self-isolating, about 4 pm most afternoons, you will find me walking the rectangular deck in the photo.
I don’t walk every day, but today I started at a couple of minutes after four in the afternoon with 1,100 steps on my pedometer. I walked for 25 minutes and 1,900 steps, giving me a total of 4,000.
Can I say I walked around our deck? I don’t think so, as it is rectangular, so I rectangularised our deck? How about, I walked rectangularily? Although I usually walk using my Nordic poles on a trail or along our road, being a bit of the lazy type, if I walk on the deck, I don’t have to lace on walking shoes, I can walk in my slippers. Oh, my Chiropractor won’t like that – but they do have hard soles, Andrew.
And while walking rectangularily, what do I think of? First in my mind is the Nordic pole instruction to hold your head up. Do not look at the ground ahead of you. On our trails that can lead to stepping on horse dung, but it’s nowhere near as sticky or messy as dog poop. You can even pick the balls up and throw them like snowballs at targets in the hedge so the next poler won’t step on them. Anyway, no horses on our deck. Although some might think there is an ass rectangularising.
Next, looking straight ahead, I see the trees separating us from our neighbour to the north. And I can hear the tchk, tchk of the black-capped Chichadees, giving me a good telling off for preventing them from coming to the feeders. So, I turn right and see some azaleas and our rhododendrons. Oh, they are not in bloom yet, but I have looked at the buds and know it will be a brilliant display – like these pictures of azaleas and rhodies from last year.
Some time in late November or early December, after hurricane season and I can be sure of no more wind damage, I wander around, yes, around, the rhododendron bushes – almost trees after forty years of growth, adding one or two little plants each year – and I check how many buds are on them. In the Spring, there is nothing more beautiful than witnessing all those buds bursting out of their winter hiatus.
Then I make another turn right and see the ocean and islands as shown in the featured pic at the top of this post. Pretty bleak, isn’t it? Not even a fishing boat out there. Who can blame the fishers? Fishers? Oh, yes, in this day of me too, you never know who will be on that boat you can see. In days of yore, it would always be men or boys on board, but today it could as easily be women and girls. Or it could be a mix of genders.
And that’s what I could be thinking as I continue my walk. Or, it could be making up drivel like this, I wonder as I wander my rectangled deck how birds at the feeders go peck after peck and empty my feeders and bank account too yet I love them and ne’er want to bid them adieu.
My, how low have you sunk, I think to myself, for dreaming up such stuff as I complete my 50th rectangle. (Could I sneak a word like circuit in instead of rectangle? Likely not or some smart Alec – and I know who he is and his name is not Alec – will come back to me saying circuit is a circular route that starts and finishes at the same place.) I reverse direction every 25 rectangles and I was surprised the first time I did that everything looks different. I don’t get to see the water as well; I see parts of my neighbour’s house through a thick barrier of trees; I get to see my reflection in the door to the sun room. What a sight, that is! The wind has been blowing my extra long hair and I look like a creature out of Harry Potter.
My mind also does a turn-around as I find myself saying, 50 in 16 minutes, that’s lets’ see…. Oh, I don’t want that, I want to know how many paces in one rectangle. So, it’s the number of paces divided by the number of rectangular walks. Or is it how many minutes in an hour? See how my mind shifts? No, it’s nineteen hundred divided by fifty…….hmm, there are two fifties in a hundred and I have nineteen hundred, so double nineteen. Hmm, after a moment or two, thirty-eight.
Having solved that immense problem in my brain – wow, I still have one – what do I do with the answer. Answer: absolutely nothing. The answer is useless information which may just exacerbate the fact that my brain is retaining less and less because the storage room is diminishing.
Fifty-one, I say, as I pass go and do not collect a parking ticket; fifty-two I say; and a few seconds later, fifty-three. I see the crow waiting for me to go inside. I know he hates me. Even when I have been somewhere in the car and return to the parking lot, he sits on top of one of the tallest conifers and squawks at me. He thinks I hate him. He’s known me now for nigh on twenty years. Perhaps he’s right: I don’t hate him. Perhaps I just dislike the way he tugs on the large feeder and shakes it to make the seeds fall on the ground. And I don’t mind that too much, for the pheasants get to feed. But, he goes on and on until I chase him off.
I did 75 rectangulations today. It’s not a lot, nowhere near as far as when I am on the trail or road, but it is half an hour and it is almost two thousand steps. It kept me interested and discovering sights and sounds in my immediate vicinity. And I didn’t have to be aware of animal poop.
It had been snowing and we had been out shopping – oh, yes, this was before, what does Trump call it, the Chinese Disease? How ignorant! No, he’s changed to the Invisible Disease. Before COVID-19, anyway.
Not only had it been snowing, it had rained on the snow and then frozen some of it into ice. That slippery substance.
We got out of the car, not together: My Beloved out of her side and I out of mine. I said across the top of the car, be careful and follow in my footsteps. So, we edged towards the trunk which was open and had bags of foodstuffs – reusable bags, not plastic ones. Sobey’s nowadays has no plastic bags in the store, so you have to use your own. Reminds me of going shopping with my Mum before WWII where Mr. Fruen would cut some rashers of bacon off a slab, place it in a piece of newspaper and hand it to us to put into our bag.
I led the way very carefully across the icy patch where I could put one foot after another onto a patch of sand I had previously thrown down. The rain had melted some, however. Which again had refrozen, so it was a patchwork of sand patches. Hm! One step after another, I edged my way towards the steps where I could see safety, reminding My Beloved to step into the steps I had gone. I had almost reached the steps when a foot slipped and I couldn’t move forward or backward without fear of not only falling here, but sliding all the 50 metres down the driveway on my butt. I had done that on my front some years prior, much to the delighted chuckle of My Beloved. So, as I seemed to be temporarily stuck, My Beloved decided I was there in perpetuum. She tried to move around me, safe on her boots with spikes in the heels.
Nope! She was who ended up on her butt, sitting on wet ice, soaking up the water in her slacks. I must point out that My Beloved has knee and back issues which prevent her from getting up from the ground without support. I was the support.
Nope! I, or rather we, could not raise her from her decidedly cold, wet perch. Well, I said, there’s only one thing around here which will help. Silva, the car with the open trunk and rear-view camera. Oh, I had to shut the trunk on order to have the camera showing where I was going rather than up into the cloudy heavens.
So, I went back and put it into reverse and hoped the accelerator wouldn’t stick as I edged towards My Poor Beloved. And that the brake would work. Slowly, Silva backed up, even more slowly, as we approached the target. Well, perhaps that’s the wrong word: the supplicant, might be better. With her feet just about under the rear fender (bumper for you Brits), the brakes worked. Together, we were able to get her hands into the trunk and she could pull herself up. Then, by stepping very carefully on her spiky heels, she reached the steps and we got Silva unloaded and parked.
So you may be wondering what the featured pic is at the top of this post. One day, at the end of February a knock at the door meant the UPS man had brought a totally unexpected box. On opening it, we discovered all of the items shown: a bag of Liqorice Allsorts for Gramma, a Toblerone for Grampa, some caramels for both, two bags of seasonings, a jar of marmalade for both, I think, but it could have been for Grampa, and some photographs of her, ourselves with her, and a framed one with her between us. And additionally, a beautiful card telling us she had been passing by a store, went in and suddenly saw a number of items she knew would appeal to her grandparents. So she bought them, packed them and UPSed them. Out of the blue from a granddaughter – yes Cierra. And we were so astonished we cried.
But, back to the present, two weeks ago, after shutting the door of the Commercial Enterprise Centre, where I volunteer, we went into self-isolation.
Actually, we have had lots of practice at this. For some forty years, our risk management consulting business has been run out of our home, so the two of us have worked very easily and satisfactorily side by side for all that time. We’ve never had an issue ending in a nasty argument. Reasonable discussion has always ended well. And we’ve never gone to bed without saying I love you – and meaning it. So, the only difference is that we cannot go out together and, say, shop. Or go to the theatre. Or go to church.
I say, only difference: however, it is not until the first two weeks have passed that we realise how large a difference it is. Previously, we have been able to go out together to shop, to the theatre, and to church. And to other places, like a friend’s place for dinner. One day, a week ago, it was Sunday, Saturday had been gorgeous, at least we Nova Scotians though it had been. It was; it was a pleasant eight degrees Celsius. So was Sunday. But the wind was strong and the anticipated pleasant walk along the beach would have been rather cold, so we sat in the car, opened the windows for fresh air – and fresh, or rather windy, it was – so My Beloved’s window got closed fairly quickly, and we took in the view from inside Silva.
Look at the beautiful blue sky in the photo; it looks so lovely. But the beach was empty except for a lady and her little child and they look huddled up. That didn’t surprise us. Nor you? Oh, you may see two others and a dog way down the beach. Certainly, those on the beach are maintaining their required 2-metre distance of separation.
I believe that only one person now is allowed to go out to get essentials, such as food or medicines, but we don’t: (a) for people of our age (87), it is much too lethal if you get it and (b) we order from the store, pay online, then, at an appointed time, go to the store and they put it in your trunk. So far, we’ve had to do this only once. Before we did that, a couple of friends had bought and delivered a few items, but we don’t ask them any more, as we consider it too dangerous for them to go to the store for us and we don’t want to put them in danger.
Yesterday, I phoned a large order of food at the Superstore and they have given me an appointment of Saturday, April 4th between 10 and 11am to drive to the curb and they will put the order in the trunk. Times are interesting.
I have been taking the non-regular walk with my Nordic poles when weather allowed, say ‘Hi’ to the odd walker or dog-walker across the other side of the street, saying how sad it is we can’t stop and chat these days, and, two days ago, after returning, I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves and sat on the main deck in the sun for another good hour. This afternoon, I simply walked around the main deck 50 times, registering 1,600 paces in 15 minutes.
Also, I have been preparing a PowerPoint presentation for every Sunday service for four years now and, as we have now gone to on-line ZOOM, I am still preparing it for every Sunday, only it’s changed to Morning Prayer instead of Eucharist. If you’d like to join us, go to our web site http://www.stnicholasanglican.ca/virtual-church/ and click on the church at 9.30am Atlantic Daylight Savings. In the UK that would be 1.30pm and in San Francisco, 5.30am so, note the time difference.
Other volunteer work includes being Chair (Beryl is the Treasurer) of a large Adult Literacy/Numeracy network and up until a few weeks ago, too, we were still busy with it. Not now: it is basically totally shut down, but at least one of our teachers is maintaining contact with students virtually.
Although I didn’t like our Prime Minister Justin Trudeau when he was elected and though he has started employing shut-down and financial assistance somewhat, in my opinion, a bit late, I have been impressed recently both by the new emergency programs enacted and his daily conversations with the nation followed by answering of press questions outside his residence. An American friend recently told us that Canadian citizenship is a certainty now simply because of the way he has been handling the COVID-19 issue and his daily reports – particularly as compared to Mr. Trump. And as for the economy: it will recover. That’s my prediction having seen “Black Monday in October 1987, in 1994 and 1998; the Latin American, then the Asian currency crises, then during 2001-2003; the Tech Crash, and of course, 2007-2009; the global financial system meltdown” to quote from a financial advisor friend. All of those My Beloved and I rode and came through safely, so I still believe the economy will recover.
A really big event occurred two weeks ago, before we were self-isolating: My Beloved applied for and got her Blue card to hang in the windshield, so we can now park in the best spots. Large benefit for an unfortunate life-changing mobility issue, which she has dealt with without complaint for well over a year now.
Our dining-in has been very varied, for our freezer has been overly-stocked for ages and it is about time we started using some of our comestibles. A daughter and son-in-law, Tanis and Robb, buy us a whole lamb from an old school and military friend, Sharon, every year. So far, every year, anyway. No guaranties, I guess. So we still have a lot of Brutus left. But, for lunch, I will vary it from yogurt and unsalted roasted almonds or cashews to peanut butter and tomato sandwiches to the plate below.
And with that, I bid you keep safe and free from the COVID-19. By the way, you did know how it was named by the WHO, didn’t you? Of course, you knew it was from coronavirus disease of 2019.
What is the relationship between Madrid, Spain and Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada?
You probably cannot answer that – in fact, I am positive you cannot answer that, but I can. I like all sports to some degree or another, but there are some I love. Now, my father taught me never to use the word love about inanimate objects, but I consider sports as very animated, so ‘love’ is the correct word for cricket, tennis, some forms of aquatic sports, Canadian football and soccer.
And yesterday, Sunday, 24th November 2019 was a spectacular day. Naturally, church came first after breakfast, followed by some nibblies and a cup of tea. Then My Beloved and I headed home, determined to spend the rest of the day watching our beloved sports. Yes, I say ‘our’, for we both love the same sports.
Tennis Canada was formed in 1890 and four years later, it started a program for training boys of eighteen years of age and under. In recent years, of course, that has been opened to both boys and girls and operates in three centres in Vancouver, Montreal and Toronto. Beneath the level of these training centres are sixteen Training Development Centres, which are funded by grants, corporations and other sources. The result of all these developmental programs is that Canada has been producing young world class players.
The Davis Cup, named after a Harvard University tennis player in 1899, is the most preeminent tournament in tennis. Interestingly, Davis’ name was given to the cup, yet it is almost mythical for he himself had almost nothing to do with creating the tournament and his name dropped into obscurity. Nevertheless, the Davis Cup is something every male tennis player wishes to be part of and play for his country. (The equivalent for women is the Fed Cup.)
Canada has never won the Davis Cup, nor even reached the final, but this year our young team comprising Denis Shapovalov (20 years young), Vasec Pospisil (29), Felix Auger-Aliassime (19) beat some of 135 countries to get into the finals in Madrid. In the week before yesterday, Canada beat Italy, the USA, Australia and Russia to reach the final against Spain.
So, that’s why My Beloved and I high-tailed it home after nibblies and tea, to sit down and watch our young Canadian tennis players try to achieve the until now unachievable. Young Felix put up a great fight against the veteran Spaniard, Roberto Batista Agut (31), but lost in two sets, although the first went to a tie break. Next up, Denis Shapovalov against the world number one and only, Rafael Nadal.It was close: first set went to Nadel 6-3, but the second set went to a tie break and finished up 7-6(7) meaning after the score reach 6-6, the tie-break went to 9-7 for Nadel.
WOW! To quote Tennis Canada, “What an effort. What a week. What a team. “They won’t be coming home with the Davis Cup trophy but in reaching the final of the 119-year-old tournament for the first time in the country’s history, the BMW Canadian Davis Cup team will surely have inspired the next generation to pick up a racquet.” Were we disappointed? Slightly, but to have achieved as much as the youngsters had was in itself a joy for us and the country, according to the sports news. Many are looking forward to achieving something like the USA and its 32 victories! Let’s not be greedy, winning as many as Spain’s 6 would be good.
But that was only the afternoon’s entertainment. Did you know that the chair umpire of a match such as the final of the Davis Cup or a Grand Slam is paid £3,500 and could, through all major tournaments, earn an annual income of £170,000. The line umpires for the quarter and semi finals of a Grand Slam earn £1,500 with an annual maximum through all the major tournaments of £40,000. Hm!
Dinner, a new recipe of My Beloved’s, a ground pork meatloaf: very juicy with roasted sweet potato and sauteed broccoli. And wine!
Then our eyes again went to the TV set at 7.30pm for the Grey Cup.
The Grey Cup is a trophy produced by Birks Jewellers that has been part of Canadian sports since 1909, when it was donated by non-mythical Governor General Earl – that’s not his name, that’s his royal title 🙂 – Albert Grey for the Canadian football championship.
Many years ago, when I was young and charming (Gilbert & Sullivan for those not familiar with G&S), My Beloved and I moved from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, to Winnipeg, Manitoba. Now it is said that Winnipeg is the coldest city in North America and perhaps we proved that by producing five children. You have to keep warm at nights. I have always said our son could and did play hockey on outdoor rinks from the beginning of November to the end of March. Besides being cold in winter, it can be very hot in summer. I loved our 18 years in Winnipeg, for the city had everything one could wish for to enjoy life: great restaurants, and you know that is us, multi-cultural events, an excellent symphony orchestra, a to-die-for live theatre, a world-renowned ballet, a lovely park with a zoo, and, best of all, wonderful people. (Despite what you have heard about the record number of murders this year.)
And a great football team. The Winnipeg Blue Bombers. However, the last time they won the Grey Cup was way back in 1990, 29 years ago. And yesterday they were going to play Hamilton Tigercats, who hadn’t won since 1999. So the game was called Break the Drought game.
Until yesterday, Blue Bombers had made 24 trips to the Grey Cup and won 10 times, so the interest was exceptionally high throughout the country. I recall one very odd Grey Cup win for the Blue Bombers. The game took place in Exhibition Stadium in Toronto in 1962 over December 1st and 2nd. Over two days, you say? This is not cricket. Football lasts only four 15-minute quarters, not days. However, I will never forget watching the game on TV. As it progressed, a fog began to descend over the field and, as time ticked on, the goal posts became hidden, then the players at the ends furthest from the cameras disappeared into the gloom. Finally, it was difficult to see anyone, so the Football Commissioner pulled the game with 9 minutes, 29 seconds remaining and the score, Winnipeg 28 and Hamilton, yes the same Hamilton – different players, though – as we played yesterday, at 27. The game resumed the following day, but the score remained the same. A game never to forget.
Could our team yesterday, after 29 cup-less years break the jinx and win an eleventh? Hamilton were favoured to win by 4 points. But what do the bookies know? I, however, in my gut felt that they might be right.
No, no, no! Right from the opening play, Winnipeg got a turnover and never looked back as they added touchdowns and field goals and My Beloved and I added more fluid red calories.
So, we were worn out, exhausted from the stresses provided by superb aces, double faults, great backhands down the line, then switch games to turnovers and just inches to go with Winnipeg stopping them more than once and touchdowns and conversions. Wow! What a day!
When My Beloved and I finally retired, some few years ago, we thought we would be able to relax, take life at a more sedate pace, even lie in a little – not too long or we wouldn’t be able to do our exercises.
But, take this morning: I had set the alarm for 6.45am, so when the appointed minute arrived, my phone softly woke us. Up, out of bed, shave, bodily functions, shower, dress (that was easy, since I had left the clothes I had on for church yesterday ready for me to jump into), went downstairs to weigh myself and do some easy exercises on our Wii, had breakfast, made sure I had my laptop in my computer bag along with some papers I needed to work on………… hey! Stop right there!
I said I was retired, yet here I am taking some documents to work on. Work. Taking. Where am I going? Oh, to one of my volunteer jobs, at the Reception Desk of the local not-for-profit Commercial Enterprise Centre for four hours every Monday from 8.30am to 12.30pm. I also sometimes assist in another area of the CEC.
But, I also said I was taking some work with me. That’s because we still have one client for whom we provide risk management counsel and Monday mornings at CEC are notably quiet, so I am sometimes able to do real “work”. It keeps the grey cells working, too.
When I get home, it will be lunch time. Then nap time.
This particular Monday, will be free the rest of the day, so I will do the PowerPoint presentation for next Sunday’s church service. That entails doing the whole service, including the hymns, which the Music Director will have given me, and finding interesting, often humourous, slides as openers and closers. Oh, yes, God has a sense of humour!
The third Monday of every month entails both My Beloved and me attending the church Finance Committee in the evening from 7pm to whenever, but our chair runs an efficient meeting and we can sometimes be away in less than an hour. And if you don’t believe God has a sense of humour, come to a Finance Committee meeting and listen to the discussions about the state of our church.
Tuesday, of course, starts off the same way, although, I admit we may be an hour later arising. I might have to make wine or box it, so that takes most of the morning. I box it, not bottle it: meaning I put the finished wine back into the large 7-litre bags in which the concentrate comes, attach a tap and stuff the bag of wine back into the box in which it came. Oh, it’s much easier than having to wash and sterilise bottles, which, before I became wise, I used to do.
Then comes lunch, but no nap, for this Tuesday, it is our regular Adult Literacy Board meeting, of which I am Chair and My Beloved is Treasurer. Both of us for one more year. 20 years of that is enough and two people are prepared to take on these duties. For the next couple of hours, I try to keep eight or so people, each with his or her individuality, on the Agenda. It’s really strange how quickly we can get sidetracked, sometimes with totally extraneous issues, such a have you tried the new restaurant?Nevertheless, they are a great group of people who become friends over a period of time – and the occasional item of business does get attended to. So, a couple of hours later, back home to get dinner.
Wednesday starts the same way, but we have to get out for My Beloved’s appointment with our family doctor at 9.30am. She’s a hoot and we love visiting her. She is excellent as a doctor, just the very best, but we love the humour with which she is endowed – often at our expense.
After seeing the doc, we drive to the Bulk Barn. Oh, you can spend a complete day there looking at all the different flours, nuts, seasonings, spices, pastas, pastas with no wheat, candies, chocolates, chips and crackers for dipping, dried fruits…….. After we pick up our items, we head for home and lunch. And nap.
Thursday, after the usual program, we head to the chiropractor for adjustments and some bone-cracking. He is very good and we invariably feel our spines are still able to keep us up and walking. Speaking – or writing, rather – about walking, a week or so ago I bought a pair of Nordic Pole walkers and I have found that they are really, really good, once you get the hang of planting each pole alongside the opposite foot. Going up hill is much easier now.
Normally, choir practice would be in the evening, but as our church is putting on two weekends of 3-course dinner theatre, they are rehearsing every day of the week, so no practice . We were told yesterday that performances this Saturday, next Friday and Saturday are totally sold out; only this Friday’s opening night has some seats left.
So, now we get to Friday. Every Friday morning when I do not have another appointment, I attend a Friday morning sort of prayer and book club. It’s fun and we get into all sorts of discussions, most having little to do with the book we have been reading. Sort of like the Board Meeting on Tuesday. Quite often on Friday afternoon, after lunch and nap, we do our weekly grocery shopping, spending all that hard-earned money the government is so generous to give us oldagers – sic with sarcasm.
This coming Saturday, we have volunteered to get to church by 9am to prep the meal for the dinner theatre show that evening. I know I will be spud-bashing, as we used to call it in the RAF, peeling and cutting potatoes. And maybe peeling and cutting carrots in preparation for putting them in the food processor. But it comes with lots of fun and laughter, so it’s a very enjoyable time.
Then lunch and nap. Maybe a long nap. Yes.
Some Saturdays, we go to the theatre, the Neptune, as excellent a professional theatre as one can see anywhere. And, as we always choose the matinee performance, after that, we go and eat. Yum!
Sunday, of course, means we have to get to church to sing in the choir by 9.30am and afterwards, we get together for coffee and nibblies. Then, if you like, you can stay and sit to discuss some bible reading. We don’t like, so we skedaddle. I guess we may pay for that in the next world!
And that’s our week.
Except this past week, we had to go to visit our last and only client in Prince Edward Island (one of our three Maritime provinces). So, that took from Tuesday noon to Thursday late afternoon.
However, some of my fans have been asking about food and telling me I haven’t given any descriptions recently. Well, no, because there haven’t been any posts recently. The last one before this was w—a—a—a—a–y back in mid-July of this year.
So, here’s how we fared with our client last Wednesday evening at a restaurant in Charlottetown called the The Brickhouse Kitchen.
My Beloved and I arrived first, having walked from the hotel in which we were staying, so we chose our seats at the back of the booth and immediately ordered a Pinot Grigio. “Sorry, madam, but we seem to be out of that. ” We jokingly said, well the liquor store is immediately around the corner. Some of our guests arrived and one also would have liked the Pinot Grigio. However, she chose the same as My Beloved, a Spanish white Verdejo. Minutes later one of our guests saw a fellow carrying four bottles of wine crossing the street and into the restaurant. I guess they took us at our word.
Me? Well, you know I would not grace myself with a white, so I ordered a bottle of Argentinian Don David Malbec, after checking they had at least one other bottle in reserve.
We had a shared calamari platter for all of us, one guest having Chowder, My Beloved had half Caesar Salad and blue mussels (obviously PEI mussels); another guest had a Scallop paella; and another the Steak and Fritz; and I, the Salmon Carpacci as a starter followed by the Special of the day, bacon wrapped scallops with brisket and one of the most delicious meat sauces I have ever had the pleasure of tasting, a dish another of our guests also had and she declared it excellent.
And how did we get back to the hotel? One of our lovely guests gave us a ride back, with me in the back seat along with the baby seat.
But, if that is retirement, then it is definitely not quite what a large Life Insurance Company used to imply when advertising Freedom 55. But I love it.
Of course you have a Teddy Bear. Don’t be ashamed to admit that somewhere in your house is that wonderful little bear someone gave you soon after you were born.
Is the bear in the basement in some old box? Or even in the attic? I surely hope not. That bear of yours should be in your bedroom. After all, bears are given to you to comfort you in your childhood: just after Mum or Dad had lectured you on not closing the screen door, or your teacher told your mother you wouldn’t share toys at your kindergarten. And your bear did just that, right? And I am certain your bear is ready at any moment to offer you a little bit of a lift.
Bears come in all shapes and sizes and, indeed, often in colours one would not think a bear bearing (pun intended). There are brown bears, black bears, orange bears, blue bears (but that’s almost sacrilege), and certainly dirty and worn bears. Perhaps the worn bears are the most valued: they could be the most valuable item a person can have. At least to their owners.
Bears certainly have character. Bears can look friendly and seem to smile upon whomsoever gazes on them. They can look grumpy, but no bear is truly grumpy, so it’s just in the beargazer’s eyes that a bear might look grumpy. Bears can look happy. But, because bears have character, bears are not neutral, they are not an ‘it’: no, bears are a he or a she. Did you read that? Bears are either ‘he’ or ‘she’.
Many of you know the story of how Teddy Bears came to be: Margarite Steiff , a German business woman, was stricken with polio early in life, but still got a good education as her friends used to put her in a hay cart and take her to school. Although one of her arms was also affected, she was able to sew and became a tailor, eventually owning her own shop. One day, she made a stuffed elephant as a pin cushion and, subsequently, started giving them to her customers. However, the customers’ children like them so much, as a stuffed toy, they came back for more.
Soon, Steiff started making all sorts of stuffed animals from cats and dogs to pigs, some of them had articulating arms and legs. So, in 1880 the Margarite Steiff MbgH was registered in Germany and her nephew, Richard, joined her in 1887 and became a major figure in the company. He would go to the zoo and make drawings of animals from which stuffed animals evolved.
In 1902, President “Teddy” Roosevelt went on a hunting trip in Mississippi and, after he called other hunters ‘unsportsmanlike’ for jeering him for refusing to shoot a bear they had captured, the event became a cartoon subject in many American newspapers seen by thousands. A shop owner in Brooklyn, Morris Michtom, had a great idea and he and his wife had stuffed bears placed in their shop window, selling them to many people. By permission of President Roosevelt, the Michtoms were allowed to name their bears Teddy Bears and they sold as fast as they could make them, women and children carrying them proudly in the streets. The President himself used one as a mascot in his next re-election bid.
A year later, in 1903, an American gave an order to the Steiff company for three thousand bears, as his adventurous response to the “Teddy” bear craze.
The Steiff company, which is still in operation, has a motto as styled by Margarite Steiff, is “Only the best is good enough for children” and their products are subject to meticulous testing and inspection. They are required to be highly flame resistant and, among other things, smaller pieces such as eyes must be able to resist considerable tension, wear and tear, as only children can give.
In coming up with this post and telling of My Beloved’s and my bears, I realised I would likely become the subject of laughter, perhaps, smirking, or, like President Roosevelt, the object of mockery. No matter, My Beloved and I are proud of our own bears, each of us having kept our bear since they had been given to us some time in or after 1933 . They, as you can see are very well worn, although her Teddy ( right) has withstood the passage of time better than my Teddy. (Just like My Beloved and me.) Nevertheless, they sit by our bedside and represent a lifetime of living together.
Many years ago, before WWII, as I was trying hard to recover from a serious bout of pneumonia, my Nanny taught me to knit. And, of course, the first of several items I knitted was a pair of shorts and a pullover for my Ted. They were around for many a year, but I believe the moths loved them so much while he and I were separated for several years, that when I last saw them, they were nothing but strings of wool around my Teddy. He doesn’t seem to mind not having them, however.
Now, we have many more stuffed friends. In the chair beside our bed, and on the left hand side of the photo above you can see a little piece of Bonzo, my dog. And here is Bonzo, along with a multitude of other stuffed friends. Oh, yes, Bonzo has always been with me, too, but has withstood the passage of time somewhat better than Ted, perhaps because he was a guard dog, sitting there protecting me, whereas Ted was a comforting cuddly friend.
Sometimes I wonder what they do while we are away.
Do they enjoy being left alone for months at a time? Do they have parties? I must say that, particularly when we have guests staying at our house, my wine seems to disappear quite rapidly: could they possibly be doing a little sipping even while we are out on a day trip? And yet, when we return, be it later in the day or several months later, they are all in exactly the same positions as when we left. They really are good at not leaving any evidence of partying. It really is quite likely though they do party, as Pooh Bear has shown over a number of years, that bears can get into mischief.
Bears do travel quite well. Although neither of our Teddy Bears does any travelling, there is one bear who has traveled to many places in the world. I cannot reveal which of our children has this fine Teddy, who has been to such places as the UK, Egypt, Israel and several countries in Europe, Barbados, Cayman Islands and all over North America. He has occasionally had to go to the ER, where My Beloved has been able to repair the dire wounds of being stuffed in suitcases and inspected by unimpressed Customs agents. But, as you can see, this very valuable and totally irreplaceable Teddy Bear is a girl bear. You see, I said Teddy Bears can be of either sex, but never, no never, an ‘it‘. However, a Teddy Bear can be androgynous and still be a he or a she.
In an antepenultimate paragraph about Teddy Bears, psychologists say that in today’s society, more so than in previous generations, mother and child are frequently, very often daily, separated, the mother having to go to work. This separation is stressful to the child, so the child looks to something very familiar, her Teddy Bear, with his soft cuddly structure. From infancy, she has had her Teddy Bear and he or she has become part of her life. She has cuddled him, petted him and she has talked and will talk to her Teddy Bear, just as her mother talks to her. Both she and her mother look for ways to smooth over the daily separation; and the Teddy Bear, known to psychologists as a transition object, serves them both well. In fact, the Teddy Bear is almost a magician in making her feel less lonely and separated from her mother.
So, tonight, if, horror of horrors, your Teddy Bear is not at your bedside, go and hunt for him or her and resurrect him or her, then, at dinner, raise a glass of wine – or water, or whatever you drink – to your very own beloved Teddy Bear!
And in a final word, or should I say, image, my Teddy Bear wishes you all the very best for you and knows that your Teddy Bear and he will meet one day in Teddy Bear Heaven, for as sure and as long as Teddy Bears are comforting children, they will all meet and have one gigantic continuous party in that Teddy Bear Heaven!
Here is a little bit of history of which I knew nothing. All right, I’ll admit that I do not know everything – yet.
For those unfamiliar with Canada’s geography, we live in Nova Scotia, a funny-shaped province almost entirely surrounded by water, the Atlantic Ocean. Look carefully on the left hand side and find ‘Digby’.
Digby is the port from which a car ferry sails across the Bay of Fundy (also marked on the map) to Saint John, New Brunswick, our sister province. It is a voyage of just over two hours in length and, on a good day, you may see whales, sea birds and, frequently, dolphins.
The name of the vessel is MS Fundy Rose. And this is where the history lesson starts.
It is obvious, of course, from whence came the name ‘Fundy’, as the ship crosses the Bay of Fundy on every trip to and from Digby and Saint John. But where did the second part of the name, ‘Rose’ come from?
On 13th March 1774, Rose Fortune was born into a family of slaves in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, but her family was later relocated to Virginia by the Devones family. Her family were Black Loyalists: slaves who gained their freedom for supporting the British in the American Revolutionary War, and were resettled in British territory. During 1783 and 1784 some three thousand Black Loyalists came to Nova Scotia. The family settled in Annapolis Royal, some 35 kilometres north of Digby.
In 1825, Rose started her own business, something very rare for a woman, and a black woman as well, to do. She used a wheelbarrow to cart people’s luggage from the wharf to wherever they were staying in the town and, additionally, Rose started a ‘wake-up’ business, whereby she would notify people if their boat was about to sail. She became very well known, not only locally, but all over Nova Scotia and even as far as London, England, as a result of many letters and accounts which have survived to provide the record. They described her carrying bags, rousing her clients to catch their boats, and disciplining local boys who might get in her way. Rose became a very popular person in the docks and around the town and residents of Annapolis Royal remembered her with great affection as an iconic representative of their town and a determined keeper of order on not only the wharves, but also the town streets. Her baggage business fared so well that she was able to buy a horse and wagon to replace the wheelbarrow. Eventually, her grandson-in-law, Albert Lewis, took over the business from her under the name ‘Lewis TransferCompany’ and his descendants continued it until 1980.
As mentioned, she kept the docks and streets in order and became the self-appointed first woman police officer in North America – or anywhere.
There are very few pictures of Black Loyalists, but an anonymous person made a watercolour of Rose Fortune, and it has survived. Rose certainly left her legacy firmly imprinted in the history of, not only Black Loyalists, but simply as a wonderful person. Rose Fortune died on February 20, 1864, in the small house she owned at the engineer’s lot near Fort Anne, a fort built to protect Annapolis Royal harbour. In 1999, a plaque in her honour was installed near the location of her house in the Petit Parc on the Annapolis Royal waterfront and she was acclaimed as a National Historic Person on 12 January, 2018.
Ramen. Or Ramen noodles. I had heard of it: it was even mentioned on CTV’s Your Morning today. But what actually is it. Not being a pasta lover, I had never really thought about it.
Today, we were to have lunch with Charlie and Shirlie. Finally. Yes, there had been at least two previous attempts to get together for lunch at a particular restaurant in the Dartmouth side of Halifax, but because of (a) the first time last year, instead of driving to the restaurant, My Beloved drove me to the ER; and (b) the second attempt just last week, either he or I got the date mixed up and My Beloved and I did not join them in their lunch at Moxie’s.
But today, all four of us made it to Moxie’s. Believe it: a new item on the menu is a bowl of Miso Ramen. I know what miso is, but not knowing anything about ramen and always having been adventurous, I opted for that with added shrimp. My Beloved opted for the Loaded Hamburger, but iceberg lettuce supplanting the bun, along with a side Caesar salad. Least said about Charlie and Shirlie’s choices the better.
As it was Wednesday, Moxie’s has their wine on at half price, so a bottle of Trapiche Malbec served My Beloved and me during the lunch, 66% for her and 33% for me.
After a special grace, since I didn’t know whether I would survive this, I dived into the noodles with my chopsticks and pulled up a load of them mixed with some Chinese broccoli and a piece of green onion. Mmmm! That sure tasted great. But what was in the sauce which made it so tasty? There definitely was some Sriracha, since a plate accompanied the dish with a bottle on it, should I wish to hotten it up. There were also some mushrooms. And, sitting proudly atop of everything were two half soft-boiled eggs. Have you ever tried to pick a slippery half an egg up with chopsticks? I did it: twice.
Having devoured every solid piece of food in the bowl, I was left with one of the most delicious thin soups I have ever spooned into my mouth. There was plenty of it, but I could have gone on drinking more. But that would have been greedy and I try not to be a gourmand.
My Beloved deconstructed her lettuce burger, as there was no possible way for her to get her small and dainty mouth around it. As it was, the burger was voted just an OK; she could not finish her lettuce nor the salad. As for our friends, they did devour the substantial items on their plates and, as they and I still had left room for dessert, they shared the Fiasco Gelato, two scoops of mint chocolate chip with chocolate sauce – gluten conscious . My Beloved and I shared, 90% me and 10% her, (I let her steal some as I was still trying not to be a gourmand) a luscious flourless dark double chocolate cake, moist & rich, with almond & coconut crust, also with one scoop of the fiasco mint chocolate chip gelato – gluten conscious.
We departed still good friends and looking forward to the next lunch together. At home, I delved into Google to try to find out about ramen. The first thing I learnt was that the word ramen is a Japanese transcription of the Chinese lamian (拉麵) and the noodles are made from wheat. But here is some of what I read: Ramen noodles contain a preservative called tertiary-butyl hydroquinone (TBHQ), which extends their shelf life by quite some time. TBHQ is a byproduct of the petroleum industry and is often listed as an “antioxidant,” but it’s important to realize that it is a synthetic chemical with antioxidant properties — not a natural antioxidant. The chemical prevents oxidation of fats and oils, thereby extending the shelf life of processed foods. You’ll find it in Chicken McNuggets, CHEEZ-Its and Taco Bell beans. You’ll also find it in varnishes, lacquers, and pesticide products. Yuck! They also contain other horrible additives such as MSG .
Oh, no, you gourmand, you! What went into my stomach?
BUT then I realised they were talking about the instant stuff college kids use as a quick go-to meal and those packages have another package inside, which contains the offensive products.
So, I went to Moxie’s web site, Moxie’s.com, and, lo and behold, ALL IS WELL, for this is part of what I found there: Inspired by the rich culinary landscape of Japanese cuisine, Executive Chef Brandon Thordarson has created a hearty, belly-warming Miso Ramen. Our version is made with vegetarian miso broth flavoured with roasted garlic, nutty sesame oil, and toasted sesame seeds. We then stir in sambel oelek—a hot paste made from chili peppers, ginger, and shallots. After the broth is perfected, we add gai lan, or Chinese broccoli, fresh green onion, a marinated soft-boiled egg, shiitake mushrooms, and, most importantly, authentic ramen noodles. We invite you to try it with Chasu—fatty slices of braised pork, or sautéed prawns for a boost of protein. And, if you like it spicy, we serve our Miso Ramen with a bottle of Sriracha so you can turn up the heat!
Although I said, all is well, it really is a good meal only on very rare occasions. For, if you explore Moxie’s web site further, click on Food, then Bowls and scroll down to Miso Ramen. Alongside to the right is an (i); clicking on that brings up the Nutritional Information. Although there are good vitamins A and C and also calcium and iron , there are 3650mg of Sodium – salt. A daily value according to Health Canada should not exceed 2300mg, so ………….
…………….I will go back to one of Moxie’s locations – often – but I’ll stick with a Caesar Salad. Maybe. That ramen was really good.
I t is very odd that I start a post with a food item. It, customarily, is at the end.
But yesterday, Friday, was unique. We had been eating left over Easter barbecued duck, Chinese style, and we needed fish. Well, we had had fish on Wednesday, but we really needed some more. So I offered to pick up some sushi style tuna and make tuna tartare.
The result was magnificent. Delicious, succulent tuna in light soy sauce, sesame oil, toasted sesame seeds, finely chopped green onions (or scallions or spring onions, depending on where you were brought up), grated ginger, lime juice and zest, and, of course, wasabe paste to give it a bit of zing. The mixture, best mixed by hand, set on some lettuce leaves, was enjoyed by My Beloved and me.
In the fridge was a lovely wedge of that royal cheese, Stilton – oh, blue cheese is not too bad, but Stilton is the epitome of cheeses – and along with a bottle of Warre’s Warrior Finest Reserve Port (not the best, but affordable – and in any case, it was a gift from someone, so it didn’t cost me anything), we started on dessert.
However, first things first: a toast to Her Majesty, the Queen.
Oh, yes, my dear readers, one cannot let Stilton slowly melt in your mouth (say that s-l-o-w-l-y and isn’t it aphrodisiacal?) and sip Port without acknowledging a fine British tradition. Way back several centuries ago when Britain truly did rule the waves, the Captain on board a Royal Navy vessel might entertain his officers in his cabin with a meal followed by dessert of Stilton and Port. The rule was that the Captain would pour some Port into his glass first and hand the bottle to his left. That person would then pour into his glass and pass on to his left, all never allowing the bottle to touch the table – or a glass! Imagine that in a rocking ship. But that was why tables were constructed with something like a fixed lazy Susan with holes the size of a wine bottle above the actual table: the bottle could be set in a hole so it would not fall off the table. When the bottle had been around and came back to the Captain, he would set it in the hole, pick up his glass of Port, rise, as would his guests, and toast Her Majesty.
So did your ‘umble scribe and My Beloved.
I remarked earlier on having to eat leftovers of Barbecued Duck. Which brings me to the real item.
I had intended to use an old recipe of mine involving a duck marinated in a Chinese marinade of soy sauce, olive oil, garlic, ginger and some five-spice or anise or some other spice, all of which required an overnight marinating of the duck. However, Friday was Good Friday and, after church, it was not a day, in my opinion, maybe not yours, on which to celebrate and barbecue. So, why not Saturday? Well, because on Easter Sunday we had a sunrise service at church, following which our Men’s Breakfast Group, under my direction, was to provide a real breakfast. That meant getting up at 4.45am in order to be at the church by 5.30am to get things started. The service would end at seven o’clock or soon after and breakfast had to be ready to eat at that time.
Well, after the breakfast, we men had to clean up, dishwash and put tables and chairs away. At 9.30am, I and My Beloved had to be in the choir singing the Lord’s praises and hopefully not fall asleep during the service. After the service, we went home and I was in no mood for barbequing the duck. Besides, it had to be marinated overnight. So, I did prepare the marinade and put duckie in the fridge to suck up the juices and spices.
Which meant we ate the duck on Easter Monday.
Now there was another problem which I had to solve. Two or three years ago, I replaced a barbecue with a new one. But, apparently, I did not give much thought to the purchase. The previous barbecue had an infra-red back burner and a rotisserie on which I had stuck another one or two or three ducks. I had thought the expression ‘hoisted on your own petard’ meant something like that: but I found out that it meant, courtesy and copyright of Grammar Monster, “The term hoisted by one’s own petard means to fall foul of your own deceit or fall into your own trap. This term has its origin in medieval times when a military commander would send forward one of his engineers with a cast-iron container full of gunpowder, called a petard, to blow up a castle gate, obstacle, or bridge. The fuses on these bombs were very unreliable, and sometimes the engineers would be killed when the petards exploded prematurely. The explosion would blow (or hoist) the engineer into the air.” Just like if you turn the propane on and wait too long before igniting it.
Anyway, the new barbecue did not have a back burner nor a rotisserie and of the three I had from previous barbecues, none fitted the current one. So, I had to reimagine the rotisserie and, in fact, it looks nothing like it: simply a duck hoisted on a high rack so heat can circulate.
But it does look good, doesn’t it?
And the finished product looks – and tasted – even better!
So that’s how I ended up starting with a food item and still getting a food item to end the post.
At the moment, as I sign off, it’s pouring with rain – not Port – and I hope you all fare as well with your fare as My Beloved and I do.
It seems I have been so fortunate in life to have had many a CHOICE. Early on, while on holiday from school or, later, university, I was a bus conductor on Southampton transit. By far the majority of that life consisted of hanging out the back platform waiting for the next stop and asking people for their fares, whereupon, I would strike a lever on my ticket machine and give them a ticket equivalent to taking them a certain number of stops, or fare stages, as they were termed.
As most of our buses were double deckers, I was kept busy running up and down the stairs, trying to get all the peoples fares up top before the cheaters down below could get off without paying.
It was certainly a job I enjoyed, even though it was all split shift work, sometimes starting really early to catch those going to work, then a rest for six or seven hours, during which I could enjoy a pick-up game of cricket with a few friends, then going back to ensure that all the workers get home safely by bus. In the three summers I did this, I had the same driver for two of them, a wonderful man who had been a driver for many years, but whose surname I have unfortunately forgotten. Jim and I bonded, even though he could have been my grandfather while I was sixteen. A gentle man who drove a double-decker as if he was driving a limousine for the queen.
Quite the opposite in the third year was Harry Martin: he was middle aged, but thought he was still a teenager driving in the Monte Carlo rally. When I was ‘up top’ and he was driving around bends in the road, I soon had to learn the best skills of balance without catching hold of anything other than leaning against the back of a seat, my ticket machine and leather purse into which I dropped the pennies and threepences and sixpences and shillings and florins and half crowns or a paper note and having to withdraw the correct amount of change and striking off the ticket for the customer. At the end of the route, with Jim, we’d lounge around the engine or in the bus regaling each other with thoughts of the day, or how the Saints (Sothampton’s football team) were faring, or what life was like in his days compared to my days: it was different with Harry, he would immediately light up his cheap Woodbines, which he rolled himself, and offer little conversation. Except that when he first met me, he was, “Oh, !***!, a kid!” Well, our relationship never got anywhere near that of Jim and me, but he did mellow when he realised that I was fast with taking the fares – apparently in previous experiences with ‘kids’, the kids were slow, so this meant that he would have to wait sometimes at stops while some of the passengers’ fares were collected as they got off the bus. That meant he was late or never early at the end of the route, so did not have time for a Woodbine. That never, but never, happened with speedy me, so he did mellow quite a bit and, as I recall, he didn’t swear or blaspheme at me ever again, though he did at car drivers who cut in in front of the bus!
The next CHOICE was to stay at university studying Music, English and German, but where I was also notably enjoying myself learning to fly and, simultaneously, get paid for it in the university Air Squadron – similar to the University Officers’ Training Plan (or UOTP or ROTP) in North America – OR the other CHOICE, join the regular Royal Air Force. You know which choice won out!
The RAF sent me to Canada, where my flying skills were honed on piston-engined and jet aircraft, thence returning to England and flying twin-engined Meteors with the RAF.
After leaving the RAF, I had another CHOICE: I was offered a job as a test pilot, but having just married My Beloved, that was considered by me as too risky, although it had tremendous appeal. Besides, we had jointly made the CHOICE to emigrate to Canada.
So, for about a year, while waiting for a ship to bring us to Canada, my CHOICE was to learn the business of being an optician’s technician at a firm called Husband’s. I measured eye centres using the frame the client had chosen so that the lens would be centred with a simple ruler and to measure the length of sides needed. When the new lenses came back from the factory, I had to check
the lens was in accord with the prescription using a focimeter, a device to measure the power and axis or axes of an optical lens, then shape them by grinding them on a wheel until they fitted the frame the customer had chosen. I would then ensure by heating and bending the sides that they were a comfortable fit, a trick I have used many times since to adjust friends’ frames. I also learned to make sure the tiny screws did not come out by filling the holes with acetone (nail varnish if you don’t have the real stuff). We made our own acetone by melting down old frames. No, not metal ones!
I enjoyed being a technician and enjoyed the staff of Husband’s, except for the pompous optician who was the manager. The other two opticians were very nice and one would sometimes take me at the end of the day in her little Morris Minor and drop me off at my home. The sales girls were delightful: I well remember one, Shirley, a pretty dyed yellowish blond, frequently singing the popular song of the moment, Love and Marriage (go together like a horse and carriage), for she was going to be married soon after My Beloved and I had left for Canada. I remember leaving her a wedding present before we left.
So, we arrived in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, with no jobs, but lots of friends I had made in my over one year of pilot training there several years before. The CHOICE then was one of three:
Join the RCAF – they would have snapped me up as I had been ‘top gun’ in my course.
Join Max Ward’s bush pilots up in Edmonton and the North. Later he formed Wardair and I could have been a pilot for it.
Look for work in Moose Jaw.
My CHOICE was 3.
My Beloved found a position immediately in the local hospital, where, knowing she had been trained in England, a doctor snapped her up as a lab tech.
A grandfather of a fellow trainee pilot, who had married a local librarian and not returned to England, knew the owner of the local radio station, “CHAB, Moose Jaw, eight hundred on your dial”, Syd Boyling. Syd, a great fellow, hired me as a newscaster to put together and read the news every half hour from six in the evening until midnight. I thoroughly enjoyed this. However……
…….after Earl Barnholden, news chief, fired me after just six weeks of newscasting for running the 1976 Hungarian revolution as my lead – to me that was important but Earl considered what the Women’s Auxiliary down the street were doing as most important – Syd called me in to his office and said, “I know you and Earl have had your differences, but I want you still; I would like you to become a producer.” Another CHOICE.
Well, the only ‘producer’ I had come across during my six weeks was a fellow named Lawton or Lawson, who used to come in at the end of the day and say he had produced three more ads, or however many he had produced that day. He meant he had been out selling ads to the local businesses. I had no intention of becoming an ad salesman, so I turned Syd down. Had I known then what I discovered later that Syd had meant me to produce programs, I might well have taken the job. How a different CHOICE there might have changed our lives!
Instead, I accepted a CHOICE offered by fellow church and choir member, Trev Seaborn, who ran one of the largest insurance agencies in the province. That certainly set me on the track towards being a general insurance (not life or health) agent in Moose Jaw.
Two and a half years after landing in that lovely little city of Moose Jaw and both of us being greatly involved in the St. John’s church and choir, another CHOICE arose: to become a general insurance underwriter, which meant a move to Winnipeg and…………
……….as a liability and surety underwriter, I was privileged to analyse the books of construction companies. One, BACM Industries, was on the cusp of becoming a very large international multi-faceted manufacturing and construction company.
Although this provided me with good training in the general insurance world, I was tempted to improve my lot, so left my job as underwriter with the General Agency, Osler, Hammond and Nanton, and the CHOICE was to join Prudential of England as an inspector.
Oh, boy! Just one week after joining the Pru, the Treasurer of BACM entered my office, shut the door and said, “I don’t know what you came to Prudential for in the way of remuneration, but we will double the salary and throw in a good car of your choice. Will you accept?” Yet one more CHOICE.
My Beloved and I chose a smashingly beautiful 1961 Pontiac Parisienne Hardtop – cream outside, scarlet leather inside. A great CHOICE and still one of, if not the, best CHOICE of cars we have made.
Five kids later (our mutual CHOICE), BACM was bought by a company of the Belgian Royal family, became Genstar, and we were moved to Montreal.
The CHOICE had been stay in Winnipeg and find a new job or move and gain more experience in Montreal.
Another CHOICE came when, in 1976 in the midst of separatism in Québec, Genstar moved its Head office to Vancouver and its Executive Office to San Francisco. I would have been moved to SF, but another CHOICE was made for me: I did not get along with the unimaginative Secretary of the company, a self-important, pharisaical fellow Brit, so we came to a mutual parting of the ways. Otherwise known as being fired. For the second time. This time, no Syd or Trevor to offer a new position or career.
A broker, whom I thought did not like me (brokers naturally detest consultants and that’s really what a risk manager is) turned out to be a fine friend and found me a position with another brokerage firm which had a risk management department. This is considered a conflict of interest, for the risk management consultant is trying to reduce the amount of insurance a client has and offer better strategies. But, after a couple of years working for this company as a consultant Risk Manager, a family conference provided another CHOICE: Stay with the brokerage company OR My Beloved and I could open our own risk management consulting, totally independent, Melanber Inc. The latter, a CHOICE we have never regretted, only enjoyed.
That was 1978, forty-one years ago. Wow!
We never regretted also to leave in 1986 our major banking clients in Montreal and Toronto and move to the Maritimes where we already had more varied clients. So, Halifax, Nova Scotia, was the CHOICE.
Over the past decades, was our CHOICE to retire? No. Not totally. And we still have one active client which seems to want to keep us. Also church and volunteer work with adult literacy and a not-for-profit Community Enterprise organisation have also been our CHOICE. We are constantly busy.
Sometimes with appointments with hairdressers, chiropractors, doctors, dentists and surgeons. Oh, yes, they keep us busy, too.
But not TOO busy to eat and have a good meal at home or at a restaurant, which inevitably leads to a CHOICE………… ……..mmmmmm!!!!!!
Throughout all these choices, I know that we have been led by Our Lord God. Praise Him!
And He provides food for us all, including those stuffed lamb hearts My Beloved was braising and I have been smelling for a long time and which are ready right now, so I will bid you adieu until next Post.
Christmas – do you remember your first Christmas? Likely you don’t.
But you certainly remember an early-life Christmas.
Think back: carols were being played in elevators and in stores; store windows were replete with twinkling lights; mannequins were dressed in red and green; in one window, there was a little model train running around; you asked your mum or dad for a dollar bill to put in the kettle swinging on a tripod outside the store door; you stood in the cold (in Canada) watching a parade of decorated cars and majorettes twirling batons, all the while waiting excitedly for Santa to arrive in a sleigh pulled by horses; you couldn’t wait for Christmas Day to arrive when you knew Santa will have left presents under the tree. Oh, yes, but before that, the whole family drove out to a Christmas tree farm and much discussion – and sometimes sibling argument – ensued concerning the merits of this tree versus that tree. Jenny preferred this tree, as it was definitely bigger than Shar’s tree, which was very symmetrical, whereas Darryl’s looked like a Charlie Brown tree and Tanis was shouting for us to come and look at her tree. Tara sat in the stroller wondering what all the commotion was.
The great day was still so far away, it was impossible to wait for such a long time. Kindergarten stopped, so that meant you didn’t have to go to Kindergarten and that meant Santa would slink in one night, just a couple of days and nights away.
Christmas Eve came and off to church to sing carols and thank Jesus for coming at last – golly, it was a long wait, but now it was His birthday and then…….
………. mum and dad took us all home and said, it’s time to go to bed. You had to get to sleep early or Santa wouldn’t come. That was a real threat. But first and last, set a glass of milk , an orange and and some little snack beside the Christmas tree for Santa needed refreshment with all his travelling. Then bed.
Christmas morning. Early in the morning when it was still dark, you snuck your hand out from under the sheets and felt around above your head. YES!!!! The empty stocking felt full!!! Oh, what joy!
Although it was dark and maybe getting light, it was allowable to dig into the stocking and find out what Santa had left. All sorts of little things and always some chocolate or other sweet and the very last thing in the toe was an orange. Every year, an orange: why did Santa eat the orange left for him, yet gave one back in the stocking. Weird.
As dawn changed to day, you charged into mum and dad’s bedroom and woke them up, imploring them to hurry up so we could all go to the Christmas tree, under which would be a great big pile of presents. But they took their time. Much time.
Opening presents was such fun, but some Christmases after everyone had opened presents labelled to them, there was no BIG present – until you were told to go and look in the garage (the attached one, not the free-standing one). There might be a new toboggan or a new tricycle, hastily and very arduously put together with some sound effects of nasty words by a dad, who was losing his temper over discovering the wheel should have been put on before the brakes; but you didn’t know that.
By now, there was Christmas wrapping paper all over the place and while mum made the absolutely mandatory eggs Benedict, you had to clean the place up.
The next few hours were occupied by playing with new toys, urging dad to accompany you to the ice rink across the street with your new skates, playing the new board game with dad – mum was busy preparing the Christmas dinner, which was always very sumptuous comprising at least three courses, starting maybe, if you were lucky, with escargots, then goose – never turkey – with roast parsnips and potatoes, peas , broccoli and luscious gravy and, of course, don’t forget those Christmas crackers pulled with a bang, supposedly containing a paper hat, a joke and a little toy. Supposedly, because you might have felt cheated as one of the items was missing – not really, it had just got lost under the table when the cracker was pulled. Then there was dessert, customarily Christmas plum pudding with custard or ice cream. Somewhere after dessert there could have been some Christmas cake or chocolates.
Somewhere, also, after all of the excitement of Christmas Day, including watching a TV show, you started to feel a little sleepy, but trying hard not to let mum or dad see your eyes closing and suddenly popping wide open. Nevertheless, bed beckoned and even though you protested you were not tired, it was off to say prayers and sleep. The sleep of the innocent child.
Christmases haven’t changed much in our house or in our children’s houses, except the whole family cannot get together these days and share the excitement and joy of Christmas. For even as an adult, I still feel the essence of the Christmas season, only wishing they didn’t start filling the stores with Christmas items even before Halloween and playing Christmas carols in the stores as soon as Halloween is over. While there were always Christmas cards strung over the fireplace or propped up on the piano, as I write this, there is one lonely one hung on a string on a beam. Nowadays, particularly with a postal strike which meant thousands of parcels and letters and cards were held up and no-one knew when the strike would end – the Government legislated a temporary end to it – fewer and fewer people are sending cards. We haven’t sent any this year. I’m thinking of sending a message some time before Easter, just to say, I’m not dead, I’m alive and well.
For My Beloved and me, Christmas is still a religious Holy Day, not a holiday. We are still in the church choir, so we sing at a service on Christmas Eve. We rejoice that Christ Jesus was born to save us all from our sins.
Christmas Day, though, remains the same as I have recalled above, this year being celebrated by our eldest daughter and her husband coming from Montreal to join us. She’s the one who’s talking retirement in three years – the one who did not need dad all those years ago to accompany her as she waddled across the street to the rink with her very first pair of skates on and took to the ice by herself as if born to it. We will have our stockings, though not by the bed as of old, but down by the fireplace. And we will have presents under the tree – but not, definitely not, a big pile of them – and we’ll open them while drinking eggnog. With spirit in it, not virgin. And we’ll have those eggs Benedict. And we’ll have a lovely goose for dinner with roast potatoes and parsnips and peas and broccoli, but nowhere near the portions we would have eaten so many years ago. It is possible ur bellies may be super-satiated, so we may have to leave dessert for a few hours. And we’ll say grace and thank God for all the blessings of this life and how we are so fortunate to be able to celebrate Christ’s birthday in total freedom.
So, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a Jolly Good New Year!