It could be worse

I have been looking forward to this weekend for weeks, nay months. It's Ryder Cup weekend and I deliberately planned to have nothing at all to do from 8am to 6pm every day from Friday to Sunday.

So this morning, I got up at 7:30, got my breakkie, a cup of organic mint/green tea, today's paper, and in my bathrobe went back to bed to enjoy a day of golf. (I hate playing golf but I love watching Tiger.)

Tiger and Jim Furyk had just gone 3 Up when the screen went blank. Every darn channel was nothing but grey dots and static. Say what? Okay, probably just a temporary outage. Time to take my shower. 10 minutes later after an unusually leisurely shower (for me), I turn on the TV again to find the same #($*. Okay, now I'm getting upset.

I phone the cable company. From my number, they are able to tell where I'm phoning from and the recorded male voice says, "I see we are experiencing difficulty in your area. We are currently working on the problem and expect to have it corrected by ... [inserted female voice] 3 P.M."

I can't believe it. My day is in shambles. There is absolutely nothing else I want do. I made sure that everything else that needed doing this weekend has been done. Even stayed up late last night making some window panels (long story) that had been on my list for a few days.

Sigh. Double sigh. I just know it's some old lady that's bunged herself and her car up against a telephone pole. There's been a rash of senior driver accidents here lately. Just two days ago an old lady killed a man who was crossing a driveway in a motorized scooter. A few weeks ago, an old man who must have been blind as well as stupid, drove his car into a plate glass window of a house. It seems that he also accelerated as he did it. But I digress. That's a whole 'nuther rant.

I thought I'd content myself with at least keeping up with the score on the Internet. but alas, there's a time lag. The scores they are posting are for the afternoon matches, and I haven't even seen the complete morning match yet. I don't want to look at the score for the morning match in case TV comes back on again and I'll have spoiled all the fun.

Okay. Time to regroup. Take a deep breath. It could be worse. I could always be a Taliban wife.

Fog for the Blog

John has gone off to cover the Terry Fox Run this morning so I was all alone when I woke up the second time. Came into the living room to find that there was a wall of fog surrounding the building. The railing on the balcony resembled the railing on a ship fog-bound outside of Port-aux-Basques. A familiar sight. A little startling not to see anything -- anything at all. This is the third time I've seen fog here. Must be the lake effect. Reminds me so much of Newfoundland which, by the way, we will be returning to sometime around Oct. 16 to spend our first nights in the new homestead. Doris and Tom will likely meet us at the airport and accompany us since they probably won't be building anymore that time of year.

John has recovered from his food allergy. We are now looking around to find a place where he can get some testing done to find out just what it was that did it to him. Since it was a fairly extensive anaphylactic shock, we have to arm ourselves with some knowledge so that it doesn't happen again. Poor fellow is afraid to eat anything now, although he has agreed to foods that he has had many times before, despite the fact that everything we ate last Sunday night was also very familiar to him.

I went home this past week to attend a Lymphedema workshop. Found out that I can get it, even though I now have no symptoms, just about anytime. Even thirty years from now should I be lucky enough to live so long.

Very sad this week to hear of the death of Oriana Fallaci. I did not even know she had breast cancer and I feel a kinship with her after the fact. I am going to check out her latest books from the library this week and see what everyone's been talking about. I do not believe that she went off the deep end in her old age, or that she mouthed off just because she knew she wouldn't be around much longer. I do believe that everything she said, she truly believed. And given that she was right about so much else in her life and work, she might well be right in these books too. I'll read and report.

What a weekend brings

Some of the things I've learned this weekend:
1. Not everything at the Dollar Store is a bargain.
2. Shorts and t-shirts on other people are not an indicator that the weather is warm enough for you to do the same thing.
3. If you think things are going well, wait a few minutes.

Yesterday John and I went to the 7th annual Music on the Mountain festival. This is an fundraiser for spinal cord research with free music by talented and some very well known musicians, yummy food, silent auction and general outdoor enjoyment. John was assigned to cover it for The Pioneer and although he could have shown up, taken a few pictures and done an interview with the organizer, Chris MacKay (a young man with a personal stake in the outcome of spinal cord research), we stayed all afternoon. The MacKay family was grateful and might, in future, have nicer things to say about journalists.

John and I took our living room chairs to sit on. It was a people-watching paradise. I think some of these folks have been growing their hair since 1960, on their heads and/or on their chins falling to their navels. White and bushy.

We got home around seven o'clock and made the quickest dinner we could, including a green salad with toasted almonds and sesame seed dressing. John called his kids and his mother, I called my son and we then both settled down for an evening of this and that - John was going to edit his afternoon's pictures and I was going to fire up the computer and get myself ready for writing this week.

Around 9:45, John said he felt itchy and was scratching himself in some very odd places. I didn't pay much attention. At 9:55 he asked me to come to the bathroom where the light is good and check out something. He said, Is my bottom lip swollen? I said, Well, stop sticking it out and I'll let you know. He said, I'm not sticking it out. Whoa! And he had spots everywhere.

Maxi story, mini version: he ended up at the hospital today for nearly five hours and came home with prescriptions for Benadryl, raniditine (which I could have given him because it's what I take), antiobiotics (God knows why) and an epi-pen. The first and the last I figure he needs. The rest - well, it's money out of our pockets which are already rather empty.

So... now we go on a hunt to find out what it was he ate that caused all this. Almonds or poppy seeds are the most likely culprits. But he's food-shy now for sure and doesn't want to eat anything. Could be a long autumn.

Meanwhile we have to get him well enough to get back on the job. He's exhausted and wants to sleep non-stop. Still itching. Still some facial swelling. The managing editor was appalled today that he couldn't make it in (although sympathetic). Will he make it tomorrow? Watch this space.

Is this how birds feel?

We've made the move and are now living in an apartment for eight months while John goes to school. I have to admit to a sense of freedom like I haven't had in a very long time. When I was unpacking the bags and boxes I'd brought with me, putting stuff away in the bathroom or bedroom or kitchen or wherever it belonged, I felt so light, that I thought I would float around the apartment. It was as if I'd had sacks of rocks removed from my shoulders that I didn't even know were there.

The view from the balcony is in itself freeing. The tops of houses, even the tops of some apartment buidings are visible. Lake Ontario is off to the right with the semi-islands of Prince Edward County providing a lush backdrop for the sailboats that race in and out of the yacht club on the waterfront. Since we are on the top floor, birds seem to fly right at us, then deke up at the last minute to clear our rooftop. You can hear the flutter of their wings against the air. No wonder I feel free.

Perhaps - actually, no perhaps to it, I'm sure this is the real reason - it is the lack of possessions that makes me feel free. We have very little - just the essentials like computers and desks for each of us (Ha!); folding lawn chairs in the living room for watching the one channel we get on TV (one my mother-in-law discarded when she got a new one, along with her old DVD and VCR players); a small round table in the dining room that was second-hand twenty years ago. Oak chairs in the dining room came with a house bought in 1972. I stripped them about 10 years ago and this summer I gave the two that had not come unglued a coat or two of varathane and they look pretty good. Not the most comfortable of all chairs, but servicable.

The bed we started out with was an inflatable one that we bought a few years ago for guests. Figured it would do us just fine while we're here. Not. John spent Monday and Tuesday on it and, by the time I got here on Wednesday, was determined that we needed an actual bed. I slept on it Wednesday night and after a completely sleepness night, on Thursday we went out and bought a real bed. The cheapest new bed we could find (about $300) and we're sleeping like kings now. What a treat. And that's the extent of what we possess. Our bedspread is one that I bought when I got married the first time 36 years ago. It has a tear in it now but it keeps us warm and it covers the queensized bed for which I have no other blankets that fit. It is snuggy and warm. We have four knives, four forks, four soup spoons and four teaspoons. The dishes we are using are the ones that John had when he was in University 26 years ago. The newspaper they were wrapped in was dated 1981. A few kitchen gadgets - like a can opener and a vegetable peeler and we' re good to go. I'm very happy.

Have been here nearly three days now and apartment living agrees with me. Housework consists only of sweeping the bathroom, vacuuming the living room and bedroom and wiping down the counters and sinks. The neighbours are quiet and must not cook much because there are no food smells in the hallway. They may not like us when I get started using the bottle of fish sauce I bought yesterday (found a store that sells Chinese groceries, and Caribbean, African, Indian and much more). I've heard "Hello" and "Good Day" from neighbours here more often than I've heard in eight years in Ottawa. Everyone is cheerful, polite and outgoing. They hold doors for you, let you in if you're fumbling for your front door key simply because they recognize you from seeing you in the elevator or at the mailboxes.

I don't have to worry about whether there's a groundhog building a condominium in our backyard or whether sumac is pushing its way up through the deck. If something breaks, I can just call the super rather than worrying about how to go about repairing it myself. I have to clean up only after myself and, if I tidy as I go, which I do, I minimize even that. Can't say the same for John but I'm cutting him some slack because he's so busy with his class assignments.

We went to a country fair last night in Picton. John is assigned to cover it and a music festival tomorrow. I'm looking forward to the latter. The fair was interesting from a sociological point of view but even that gets stale when one's feet are searing from all the walking and the bathrooms are nowhere in sight. I attended my first tractor pull and I have a feeling it will be my last. Luckily we were on the right side of the venue when the black smoke was pouring out of the exhaust as the tractors strained against The Terminator. I learned that there is an whole industry in building tractors especially designed to compete at these rodeos. The drivers even wear asbestos suits and full helmets. There were firemen on the scene. When I asked about that, John said it's probably because they're burning nitro. Sounds dangerous. Would the firemen save the onlookers or the tractors? The amount of fuel that is burned at these events is astounding. Let's see. Each tractor probably burns every ounce in its tanks trying to pull the weight. The weight machine itself has an engine for driving about. A front-end loader idles constantly at the side of the track to smooth the dirt back into position after each pull. Several generators rumble away, each powering four high-energy lights to illuminate the scene. What waste! What pollution! What obscenity! There oughta be a law. Maybe I should be grateful. At least they weren't using horses.

John has gone back to the fair this afternoon for the mutt (you heard right) competition and for the demolition derby later on this evening. A journalist has to be inpartial, so it wouldn't help him for me to be there muttering about the pollution and wastefulness of it all. I stayed home and will get myself in gear to start some writing this afternoon ... perhaps.

I just called all the Subways in town and none of them sell Garden burger subs. They didn't even know what I was talking about. The last lady said, when I explained what they were and that they were available in Ottawa, that they hadn't reached here yet. That's how it used to be in Newfoundland years ago. We will survive without Gardenburgers. Certainly we'll save money by not eating there. Too bad, though, because I love Gardenburgers. Maybe I'll write to Subway and complain.

More to come.

Blame it on the Walkman

We're a nation of music-addicted zombies. Mp3's. iPods. Even our telephones play music.

The first Cassette Walkman appeared in 1979. Kids begged. Santa caved. CD Walkman showed up. Santa bought the bill of goods again.

We've created a generation of people that eat/drink/sleep music. They can't walk down the street without earphones. They study with earphones. They ride the bus with earphones, usually also with eyes closed, zoned out. They don't see the frail passenger who might need their seat. The cries of anyone needing help are drowned out by the boom-boom hiss-hiss in their ears. They are the most unapproachable, unfriendly creatures ever to walk our streets. Unfortunately for them, they are also being involved in accidents at an alarming rate when they fail to hear approaching traffic over the roar in their ears.

Other cultures encourage dialogue. People gather in coffee shops, doorways, street corners; slap each other on the back, ask about each other's families, pass the time of day finding out about each other, testing the temperature of the community to make sure all is well.

Not here. We not only prefer the privacy of our homes but we carry that privacy around with us in the form of earphones. Like tortoises we have our shells at the ready should we need to retreat. What better protection from the homeless man with his hand out. If we can't hear him, then we don't know that he's asking for something. Can't be expected to know what's going on if we have earphones on, now can we? Great way to stay uninvolved, not responsible, and answerable only to ourselves. It's hard to care about or even be aware of anyone or anything when music is tickling your insides, revving your feel-good metre, recharging your batteries, soothing your nerves, massaging your brain, eating away your eardrums.

If I was a conspiracy theorist, I'd be checking to see who's investing in this technology. Who has a stake in making sure we don't talk to each other? People who talk often discover that things are not as they should be. People who talk a lot often stage such anti-establishment activities as boycotts, rallies, protest marches. They refuse to serve in armies. They cast votes for people other than the reigning elite. They even help get the other guys elected. Can't have that. Keep them busy with heavy beat, empty lyrics. It's hard for them to organize if they don't talk to one another.

Should we blame it on the Walkman?

[The above was sent to the Ottawa Citizen as a letter to the editor, July 2, 2006.]

Where was France?

And where was France this morning? From where I stood, I couldn't see all the dignitaries but I was standing point blank in front of a speaker and didn't hear anyone say that so-and-so of the French Embassy was present.

And when the wreaths were all laid, there was a wreath from France, but it was among the smallest. Why wasn't it the biggest? Why didn't someone from France stand up and say, Merci à tous vous Terre-neuviens. Merci de nous avoir sauvé. Merci d'avoir donné votre vie pour la notre. Merci toujours et rien que merci.

Where was France this morning?

We Will Remember Them

I just got home from downtown where Canada Day festivities are in full swing. We normally don't join the masses until about now but today was special. The government of Canada had a service at the war memorial (in the middle of downtown) to commemorate the soldiers who died at the Battle of the Somme and Beaumont-Hamel in 1916.

In Newfoundland, July 1 was always Memorial Day. We wore artificial forget-me-nots in our lapels and went to the cenotaph for a service. I remember somber music on the radio and there was never much reason for gaiety. Once Newfoundland joined Canada (in 1949) it also became Dominion Day¹ for that was the day that the Articles of Confederation were signed in Charlottetown, P.E.I. in 1867 forming the original nation of Canada.

And so for us, July 1 had a dual purpose. Remember the dead. Celebrate with the living. Not a problem for most Newfoundlanders. We never forget when someone does something for us and we're up to celebrate most anything.

Today marks the first time that the valour of our Royal Newfoundland Regiment has been commemorated anywhere else in Canada besides Newfoundland. It is the first time that anyone but Newfoundlanders have publicly remembered that on this same day in 1916, only 69 of 801 soldiers answered roll call when the battle was over.

It felt good, so very good to stand there and sing the Ode to Newfoundland on Ottawa soil. I feel like finally we're part of the Canadian fabric in a way that we have never been before. Needless to say, I was a blubbering mess long before a young soldier read the Act of Remembrance.

They shall grow not old,
as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them,
nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun
and in the morning
We will remember them.

RESPONSE: We will remember them

Newfoundlanders in the crowd were visible by the Newfoundland flags they carried, the Newfoundland tartan ties around their necks, or simply by the radiance of their teary smiles.

I met my babysitter. She used to wheel me in my baby carriage around the harbour of Brigus when she was about 9, as near as we can figure. She told me she'd have recognized me anywhere.

What a morning! What a glorious day.
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¹Dominion Day was officially renamed "Canada Day" by an Act of Parliament on October 27, 1982 after the BNA Act (Canada's Constitution)was repatriated by Pierre Trudeau.

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The root of all...obesity?

Someone sent me a link this morning to an article about how the French are becoming obese, and how they blame it on becoming Americanized. (I'd include the link but it's one of those current affairs type sites where the links disappear in a few days so no point including it here.)

It occurred to me while reading that article that 'becoming Americanized' gets the blame for a lot of the things we don't like about ourselves. Fat. Pollution. Crime. Conservatism. And the list goes on.

Where does self-responsibility come into the equation? When did we lose the ability to say no to the things that are not good for us? Why did we not pass by the MacDonald's when they sprang up on the street corner? Why didn't we laugh when car dealers began displaying SUV's?

Seems to me that the root of the problem is money. The more affluent we become, the more we seem less able to make healthy and informed choices. Money to burn? Sure, then why not buy an SUV just because you can. Money to burn? They why bother cooking. We can pretend we're rich and never have to cook again. Eat out like the stars. Order in on a whim. Change the furniture every few years. Own more shoes than we can wear in two years. The good life. If you can afford it, why not?

Besides, hamburgers can't be that bad, can they? After all, Americans invented them and they're the most affluent nation on earth. Aren't they? They have the most choice, don't they? They have freedom of speech and Julia Roberts and gleaming teeth. Heck, if we get fat, we can just have liposuction.

And all it takes is a little cash. The fact that the amount we spend on lipstick per year is probably enough to feed an entire African nation has nothing to do with it. Well, if you insist, we could stop using lipstick and get it tattooed on permanently.

What song do you sing?

The longer I live, the more I realize that most people on the planet just don't get it. We're here for such a short time. We're here by the grace of something much larger than any of us could ever, in any religion, conceive of. We're here in the same way that robins are here, or octopi, or the farthest star in the universe is here. And all us beings have more in common, so much more, than even we can dream of. We are as alike as blades of grass are alike, as snowflakes are alike (yes, I know no two snowflakes are alike but we all know what happens to each and every snowflake when it hits the ground.)

The other day on CBC there was an item about loons - how the male loon changes its song when it changes location, in an apparent attempt to distinguish itself from the other male loons that preceded it.

If loons in all their bird-brained wisdom can adapt to changing conditions, how come humans who - so the theory goes - have superior intellect, keep singing the same old song - "I'm right. I'm right. I'm right."

For more info on that loon see:
http://sciencenow.sciencemag.org/cgi/content/full/2006/223/2