Memory Circa 1951

We were in the Laurentian mountains visiting my Uncle Harry and his family at their cottage. My cousin, who was a teenager at the time, had just caught a large fish. Everyone was applauding him and taking pictures of him proudly holding his catch. I stared at the fish. It was flapping furiously and gasping for breath. Poor, poor fish! I was eight years old and I decided that fishing was wrong.

Poem For My Mother

Mother's Day 2000


When I'm feeling sad, 
I call you and you cheer me up.
When I find myself in a dilemma, 
I call you and you help me to figure out what to do.
When I'm delighting in an achievement, 
I call you and you celebrate with me.
And when I just feel like talking, 
I call you and you really listen.
I'm so blessed to have you.


And a time will come when I no longer have you.
And when I'm feeling low, 
I will remember your words of encouragement.
And when I struggle with a decision, 
I will apply your wisdom.
And when I celebrate an achievement, 
I will know you would have been proud.
And when I need to talk to you,  
I will.

The McFarland House

My blog is called, “Memoirs of a Gersho”.  So, here’s my question: how long ago did something have to happen for it to qualify as a ‘memoir’?  Today’s entry is about something that took place two weeks ago.  Here goes.

The McFarland House is a Georgian style home built in 1800 and is the oldest of the properties owned by the Niagara Parks Commission, and a popular tourist attraction.  It’s in a lovely setting on the Niagara Parkway in Niagara-on-the-Lake.

I arranged lunch and a tour there for my Arts & Culture group.  Nine of us went, and we thoroughly enjoyed it.

But there was a ‘glitch’ -- a very amusing glitch.

I drove to Niagara-on-the-Lake with my dear friend Lorraine, who was visiting me from Ottawa.  Although I’m usually very organized, I left my house forgetting to take the actual address on the Niagara Parkway.  Not to worry, I thought, the signage will be good.

But we were almost into the Old Town and had still not found it, so I was concerned that I may have accidentally passed it.  Happily, we came across a Canada Post truck delivering the mail.  We told the letter carrier we were looking for The McFarland House, and asked if she could direct us.  She seemed pleased to help.  “You just passed it”, she said.  “It’s the second driveway on the right hand side.”

We turned around and pulled into the said driveway.  It was indeed a beautiful and very large, old house.  But no sign.  Surprising, that.

The doorbell was answered by a very pleasant couple.

“We’re looking for The McFarland House?”, we said.

“This is the McFarland house.  We’re the McFarlands.  And you are .....??

Remembering Jean-Pierre

More poetry.  This one about my dear, dear cat Jean-Pierre.


JEAN-PIERRE
cat
quiet 
companion
good
red
dead

Picnics: a poem

Look what I just found!  A poem I wrote when I was 15 years old.

Picnics
Their picnic basket always seemed to have Pepsi and Orange Crush,
While we drank Allen’s Apple Juice.
They filled up on creme-filled cookies,
While we ate cantaloupe.
They listened to the Top Ten,
While we played Chess.
We were better than them, I remember learning.

But if we are better than the Gentiles, Daddy
Why are you so nervous around them?
You put on your finest English.

Customer Peddling

Do You Know What a Customer Peddler is?

My father was a Customer Peddler all the years I was growing up.  In school, when I was asked, “What does your father do?”, I replied, “He’s a customer peddler”. Faces were always blank.

From what I gather, customer peddling was unique to Montreal, unique to Jews, and unique to the 1940’s & 1950’s. Correct me if I’m wrong.

Here’s how it worked:

The Canadian Outfitting Company on St. Lawrence Blvd. in Montreal (Main Street), was a three-story department store. But unlike other department stores, there were no cash registers, and only people who could shop there were those who were ‘approved’ customers. The ownership of the Canadian Outfitting Co was held jointly by about 30 men, all Jewish. Each had his own clients (customers). These clients would get approval from their ‘salesman’ - my father was one of the thirty or so – before going to the store to shop. Items in the store were all marked with a code that translated into their price. I remember the code well; it was PLATED IRON, though I don’t remember how it translated to a dollar figure. The clerks at the store served the customers, but were limited to sell them items up to, and not more than, the amount pre-approved by their salesman.

Confusing? Stay with me.

Most of the customers were French Canadians. All the customer peddlers were fluently bilingual. Most of the customers were poor, otherwise they would be able to shop at regular department stores. But by shopping at the Canadian Outfitting Co, everything was purchased on credit. They could spend up the the level approved for credit by their salesman, and every week they paid their salesman an agreed upon amount. Usually that amount was one or two dollars. Yes, that was all. Everyday my father would get into his car and make the rounds, reaching each of his customers once a week. He would run up the stairs, ring the bell, and collect $1.00 or sometimes $2.00. He did this six days a week.

My father was known to his customers as Le Juif, the Jew. Usually one of the customer’s many kids would open the door and shout back at his mother, “Maman, le Juif et ici”. And maman would come to the door with the one dollar bill. It would be recorded on her card as a payment made. When the amount owed was low enough, she would ask for and get approval to shop some more.

Sometimes, the child would answer the door with, “My mother says she’s not home.” (In French, of course.) And my father would inevitably, say to the child (also in French), “Go ask your mother when she’ll be back!”

And then there were the phone calls. They came in to our home all hours of day and night. The phone calls were always requests for authorization to buy something.  Sometimes if they already owed too much money or were delinquent in paying, my father would have to turn down the request. But he had a soft heart, so most of the time he would give approval. Sometimes it was winter and the kids needed warm coats. Sometimes the husband was in jail and there was just no money to make payments. Always there was a story, a hardship, a plea. And always, my father would let them buy what they needed.

When I was old enough my father let me go ‘collecting’ with him on Saturdays. His motive was not so much because I could really help him, but rather that he wanted me to be aware of the existence of different socio-economic classes; to see how poor people live.  My earliest memory was of a mother with a whole slew of kids. The youngest was a new born in her arms, drinking milk out of a Pepsi bottle fitted with a nipple. I saw poverty and I saw hardship. 


I knew that we were very privileged.

Jobs, Jobs, Jobs – Part Five

On A Kibbutz in Israel 1968
In the late 60’s, lots of young people from Canada and the United States went to Israel to volunteer on a Kibbutz. I was one of them.

The job assigned to me was digging gladiola bulbs out of the earth (which were later frozen and shipped out of the country). Our work day started at 5:00 am when we got onto a flat bed tractor that took us out into the fields. We worked until 7:00 am, at which time we’d go back for a hearty Israeli breakfast in the communal dining room.  (More about the breakfast in a minute.) After breakfast we’d head back into the fields and dig those gladiola bulbs until very early afternoon, at which time our work day ended. By then the temperature was about 35 degrees Celsius and the sun was way too hot to work under.

And speaking of the hot sun.......  poor me.

After only a week on the job I got very sick with heat exhaustion. I had to stay out of the sun completely. Thus began part two of ‘working on the kibbutz’.

I was offered a choice — I could work in the kitchen or in the laundry. Those who know me won’t be surprised that I didn’t choose the kitchen! So, the laundry it was. My job? – ironing men’s dress shirts!!! They taught me how. They taught me well. To this day, I am a very good ironer!

Oh, yes, I promised to tell you about the Israeli breakfast.

We farmers were hungry folk, and the Israelis know how to put together the world’s best breakfast. The following is a list of the food offered to us every morning:

• Orange juice
• Freshly baked bread and butter and jam
• Sweet rolls
• Eggs
• Cow and Goat Cheeses
• Olives
• Avocado
• Several varieties of fish
• All kinds of fresh vegetables
• Tahina (a thick dip made with sesame seeds)
• Lebaneh (a homemade yogurt cheese)
• Hummus (a dip made of pureed chick peas)
• Baba Ghanouj (a dip made of roasted and pureed eggplant)
• Israeli Salad (a mixture of feta cheese with cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers and onions, with some parsley or coriander)
• Rugelach (small pastries made from cream cheese dough filled with jam, chocolate, honey, or nuts)
• And Turkish coffee

Absolutely wonderful.

More About Chess

More about chess

My father was the Quebec Chess Champion in 1948. He learned to play chess when he was 3 years old, and played all his life. In fact, he continued to play long after he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease.  Some of the old timer chess players used to come to visit and play a game of chess with him.  He could still beat them, even after he no longer knew who they were!!!  I was told that was a function of learning how to play chess at a very young age, and then playing his entire life.

If you’ll forgive the name dropping, some of the friends with whom my father played chess on a regular basis were Samuel Reshevsky, Maurice Fox, Lionel Joyner, Abe (Daniel) Yanofsky, and Lawrence Day.

Besides Bobby Fischer, International Grandmaster Boris Spassky also came to Montreal and stayed at our house.   If memory serves, in later years, my parents hosted Anatoly Karpov and Gary Kasparov.

And here’s something just for fun: http://www.anusha.com/breasts.htm

The Day Bobby Fischer Came to My House

The Day Bobby Fischer Came to My House

The year was 1962. My father, a former Quebec Chess Champion, was very active in the Canadian Chess Federation. The CCF was bringing 18 year old Grandmaster Chess Player Bobby Fischer to Montreal for a Demonstration Tournament. Bobby Fischer would stay at our house, of course, just as many other Grandmasters had, before and after.

It quickly became apparent that Bobby Fischer came with only T-shirts and torn jeans.  That wouldn’t do, so my father whisked him off to Canadian Outfitting Company Ltd on St. Lawrence Blvd., where he bought Bobby Fischer more appropriate tournament clothing – a suit, a dress shirt and a tie.  See picture below (Bobby is standing, playing Moishe Cohen.  My father is the one in the hat observing the game.)

Knowing that Bobby Fischer was Jewish, my mother asked him if he had been Bar Mitzvahed. His reaction was swift and furious; no, he had not.  End of topic. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bobby_Fischer

I meant to publish this one on Mother's Day!

My dear mother is 95 years old, and living life fully.  Ten years ago, I sent her a Mother's Day card with the following message in it.  It seems fitting to repeat it again here, now.

Dear Mom,

When I’m feeling sad or lonely, I call you and you cheer me up.

When I find myself in a dilemma, I call you and you help me figure out what to do.

When I’m delighting in an achievement, I call you and you celebrate with me.

When I just feel like talking, I call you and you listen.

But the time will come when I no longer have you.

And when I feel low, I will remember your words of encouragement.

And when I struggle with a decision, I will apply your wisdom.

And when I celebrate an achievement, I will know you would have been proud.

And when I need to talk to you, I will.

Happy Mother's Day!

Your loving daughter

2010 Doctor's Office in Montreal

I find that as I get older, the doctors I see get younger and younger. In fact, some of them are children. So you can imagine my surprise, last week, when I took my 95 year old mother to see her eye doctor and discovered that he’s the same age as she is. Or almost.

Here’s a photo of his waiting room.

 

Here’s a photo of his doctor’s chair.

Here’s one of his patient’s chair.

And finally, here's a photo of his secretary at her TYPEWRITER.

Jobs, Jobs, Jobs – Part Four

As a Special Education teacher I had many years of rewarding work with children with special needs. I’ll probably write about that some time, but for the moment I seem to be remembering other jobs.

One was working for Stokes Seeds in St. Catharines. (Thanks JoAnn, for reminding me.) Stokes hired casual workers each Spring as ‘pickers’ and ‘packers’. Most of Stokes’ business was catalogue orders of seed packages. The warehouse had wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling shelves full of packages of seeds. As a ‘picker’, my job was to grab an order and a basket, and RUN through the warehouse ‘picking’ the correct seed packages, putting them in the basket, and then dropping the basket off at the packing department. Grab another order, another basket, etc. It took practice to find the right seeds quickly; some days I was assigned to vegetables, other days to flowers. My shift was 3:00 pm – 11:00 pm.

I could tell you about my sore feet, but believe me, I was one of the fortunate workers who could afford the luxury of a good pair of walking shoes. Others were not so blessed. I saw women (it was apparently ‘women’s work’) with swollen, blistered feet, wearing slippers and flip-flops, the best they could do on minimum wage. I could tell you about my sore back, which at first recovered overnight, but soon did not recover at all. I was in pain (feet and back) throughout my shift. But so was everyone else!

One evening I arrived to find I’d been re-assigned. I was to work in packing! Ah, the luxury of it. Picture a long counter with a row of bar stools. As ‘packers’ we got to SIT! Besides the comfort of sitting, I really enjoyed the job of packing. I was fast, accurate, and apparently very good at organizing and packing the boxes and wrapping them tightly, ready to mail. The person in charge of the packing department told me so! But after three wonderful nights packing, I was re-assigned to ‘picking’.

Devastated, I asked the head of the packing department why I had been re-assigned. She explained that all the jobs rotate and that she has no say in who works in her department.

The next morning, I went to the Stokes Seeds head office and asked to speak to the Personnel Department. 


“May I please be permanently on packing?”  “You see, it’s about my feet....”

“Absolutely not.”

“... and the head of packing really likes my work; she wants me to work there full time.”

“No.”

“Can I tell you about my back?”

My words were falling on deaf ears. (Or am I supposed to say ‘hearing-impaired ears’?)

“This is how it’s done; if you don’t like it, quit.”

“And while I’m here” I said, “may I make a suggestion?”  “Instead of stocking the seed packages alphabetically by name, if you placed the most popular ones on the middle shelves, the picking would go faster and you would eliminate a lot of the bending and stretching needed to reach for the packages, thus reducing the stress on the back, and probably cutting down on sick time.”

“This is how it’s done; if you don’t like it, quit.”

I quit.

COOK BOOK IDEA

Most people love cheese.  There are so many dishes that can be enhanced by adding cheese.  It makes sense then, that someone ought to write a cookbook on the topic.  It won’t be me, but I would like to be the one to choose the title for the book.

“What Would Cheeses Do?

It’s delicious! It has only 90 calories, and costs only 30¢. What is it?

I’m so excited.  Remember Creamsicles?  I was introduced to them in the ‘70’s - Popsicle brand Creamsicles, very refreshing on a warm, summer day. You can still get them, but they cost $1.09 each and are sickeningly sweet.

Last summer in Ottawa, I was reintroduced to a version of the creamsicle that is so much better. It’s made by Chapman’s and sold locally at Zehrs in what they call their Club Pack. Works out to 30¢ each, only 90 calories, and absolutely delicious!  (Thank you Lorraine. Or not.)



Enjoy!

Jobs, Jobs, Jobs - Part Three

In the summer of 1964, I worked as a clerk in the Emergency Department at the Montreal Children’s Hospital. I was a university student at the time and this was a great job! What stands out for me is the day I had an opportuntiy to observe a medical procedure.

I became quite friendly with one of the doctors and expressed an interest in observing a medical procedure when possible. One morning he invited me in to watch while he attended to a child who had fallen and needed a few stitches to his chin. I found it very interesting! I watched as he gently calmed the crying child, froze the area with a little needle, cleaned the wound thoroughly, and then closed it with four stitches. He covered the stitches with a bandage and sent the little guy and his mother on their way. I thanked him for the opportunity; I told him that it was absolutely fascinating!

And then I fainted.  

The Grammar Police

I’ll take a break from talking about the jobs I’ve held to talking about a subject I love – the English language. I really enjoy reading things that are well-written, and listening to people who are well-spoken. Stephen Lewis is a favourite of mine. What a treat he is to listen to. Did you notice I just ended a sentence with a preposition? When I was in high school, my English teacher taught us to never do that. She made the point by saying, tongue-in-cheek, “A preposition is something you never end a sentence with”.

Over time I’ve adjusted to many changes in our use of language. Ending a sentence with a preposition is one of those changes. After all, language is dynamic, always changing, right? One just has to read Chaucer and Shakespeare to be reminded of that.

Nonetheless, as I read and listen I find I’m constantly editing. And it’s not only the obvious mistakes. For example, one of my pet peeves (and I can tell you I’m losing this battle), is the use of the phrase “try and find”.  “I’m going to try and find my keys.” The correct phrase is “try to find”. An example of the correct use of the word ‘and’ is “shot and killed”. Each action has to be able to stand on its own, in order to correctly link them with ‘and’.

Another error that makes me cringe is the incorrect use of the words ‘fewer’ and ‘less’. At the checkout stand, “8 items or less” is incorrect. ‘Fewer’ is the correct word to use with any countable noun. “She makes fewer errors now.” “He has fewer friends.” 


Use ‘fewer’ when the noun is countable, such as “I eat fewer apples than I used to”. Use “less” when the noun is uncountable, such as “I eat less fruit than I used to”. 
And then there’s the important distinction between the words ‘number’ and ‘amount’. But, enough!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RGWiTvYZR_w&feature=email (Thanks, Judy!)

Jobs, Jobs, Jobs - Part Two

I was just remembering my first non-babysitting job. I was fifteen and I got a summer job – at Kresge's! It was in the notions department. I sold thread and needles, that kind of thing. My day off was Thursday. One Thursday morning I got a call from my boss asking me to come in to work.  “But it’s my day off”, I said. He explained that a shipment of notions had just arrived and they needed me to unpack everything and get it on display.  My reaction? I was so excited. They needed me. ME!  I was in there in a flash. It was my first taste of having big, important work!

A little bit of history:
Sebastian S. Kresge first met Frank Woolworth when working as a travelling salesman and selling to all nineteen of Woolworth's stores at the time. In 1897 Kresge invested in two five and dime stores.

Jobs, Jobs, Jobs - Part One

Apparently, I’ve had more jobs in my life than most. Care to hear about one of those jobs?

It was Fall of 1968. I was studying for a Master’s Degree at The New School for Social Research in New York City, when my friend Joanie invited me to visit her in San Francisco. Joanie was a student at McGill University when she decided to go to San Francisco to study non-violence under Joan Baez & Ira Sandperl at the Institute for the Study of Non-Violence.  (It was the sixties, remember.)

I decided to spend my Christmas break with Joanie; so off I went to San Francisco.

Instead of staying in San Francisco the planned two and a half weeks, I ended up staying two and a half years. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I spent the first three weeks crashing on Joanie’s couch (do people still use the verb ‘to crash’?). Looking back, I realize I was pretty depressed. I didn’t want to go back to NYC to continue school, and SF really had its appeal.

I moved out of Joanie’s place into wonderful quarters - Douglass Street, large house at the top of a steep hill. (Of course, in SF everything is at the top of a steep hill.) The owner of the house lived in the basement and he rented all the rooms in the house.  Mine was the room at the front with a lovely bay window.

Now all I needed was a job.

I decided that there were two criteria for a job — it had to be really easy and it had to be walking distance from the house. So one morning I got up very early and started walking to have a look around. At just about at the right distance from home (a 20 minute walk) I came upon a large hospital. I went in and applied for a job.

The job title was, “Mail Delivery Clerk”. Perfect. I filled out the application form, carefully leaving out any mention of having attended university, or having a degree with a major in psychology and a minor in sociology.  I made no mention of the three months I spent pursuing a Master’s Degree in Psychology in NYC. They asked me what I've been doing since high school. Since I was 25 years old at the time, I expected that question and had prepared for it.

I lied. "My aunt died and I went to live on the farm to help my uncle out with his five kids.”

I got the job.

Every morning, I woke up very early and walked to the hospital. I was very happy. Along the way, I’d smile and nod at the local letter carrier – mailman, as he was then called – and watched the street lights turn themselves off, and passed the newspaper vendor as he opened his kiosk.

Work was fun, really fun. There was a designated route that I very quickly learned - pick up outgoing mail, drop off incoming mail, and move on.  It was easy, it was pleasant and I was enjoying myself. Very soon I was able to greet everyone by name as I quickly made my way through the hospital, pushing my stainless steel cart brimming with mail. I was expected to make two rounds per day, and I did so, without a problem.

Then one day I realized that the route set out for me was not the most efficient. I began making changes to it. Before long, to everyone’s delight, I had established a way of showing up at each office three times a day. Everyone was impressed, but to me, it was just simple logic.

Then something unexpected happened. At the end of one of my new, three-circuit days, I was told to report to the Personnel Office. Were they angry with me for making changes without approval? Was I about to be fired?

“It’s come to our attention that you are over-qualified for the job! We have a new job for you”, said the Director of Personnel. He went on to tell me that they had an opening as a Ward Secretary and thought I’d be excellent for the job. Is there a word for feeling flattered and devastated at the same time? Did I have to take the new job? The extra money was tempting, but the job description for Ward Secretary made it sound stressful and complex. Nonetheless, I accepted the new position.

Being Ward Secretary was interesting, and challenging, I must admit. But I no longer felt carefree. I wanted a ‘job’, and now they were giving me a ‘career’. I think they call that bait and switch. I was not happy. After four weeks, I quit.

"Summertime"

Summertime
Sam Cook

This one is for you, Sandi.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bbmuy2a3Ups&feature=email

What’s in a name?

What’s in a name?

I am fascinated by names, particularly first names.  I especially notice them when I read birth notices and obituaries.

Here’s one that tells the story of names through the generations:

“Bernard passed away peacefully in his sleep on January 9, 2010. Beloved husband of Constance. Son of the late Clarence & Inez. Brother of Hazel, Clara and George. Bernard will be dearly missed by his children, Michael, David and Sandra. He was a devoted grandfather to Ashley, Tyler, Ryan and Zachary, and greatgrandfather to Chase and Sienna.”

My ‘Hood Part Four

The Edgars
Margaret and her husband had two children when they moved to Rand Avenue. Over the next number of years they adopted three more. Their adopted children were of mixed race. Margaret was the founder of an organization called The Open Door Society, whose purpose was to encourage mixed-race adoptions. This was the 50’s, remember! 


Margaret and her husband didn’t go out much, but when they did, I babysat for the children. The thing I loved most about babysitting for them, was looking through ‘The Albums’, after the children had gone to bed. You see, Margaret made an album for each child, documenting their arrival into the family, and their early years. I was in awe of these people! I was 14 at the time and I made a decision -- that one day I would adopt a child.

My "Hood Part Three

Red Fisher 
A few doors down from us on Rand Avenue, were the Fishers.  The young dad, Red Fisher was a sports journalist with the now defunct, Montreal Star.  Even though he was only a few years into his career, the walls of his study were full of photographs of him with all the famous Montreal Canadiens hockey players.  As a teenager I was a huge Montreal Canadiens fan, so this really impressed me.

What impresses me now is that Red Fisher, who started his journalism career with The Star in 1954 as a hockey writer and went on to be the Sports Editor of The Montreal Gazette, is still at it today – 56 years later!  He was the recipient of a Lifetime Achievement Award from Sports Media Canada in 1999.  


Way-to-go, Red Fisher!

My "Hood Part Two

Gerald Batist 
Gerald was just a boy when we were neighbours on Rand Avenue.  A very nice boy.  A very nice family.

Gerald is now Dr. Gerald Batist, the Chairman of Oncology at McGill University, the Director of the McGill Center for Translational Research in Cancer, and the Director of the Seagal Cancer Center.

He runs a very active research laboratory, which examines the molecular pharmacology of carcinogenesis and of chemotherapy resistance, and novel approaches to gene-targeted pharmacotherapy.

We’re proud of you Gerald! http://www.mcgill.ca/translational-research-cancer/researcher-biographies/batist

My ‘Hood in Montreal

My 'hood: Part One
When I was 12 my family moved from our Barclay Street apartment to our first real house.  It was 1956.  They paid $19,500 for the brand new split-level home on Rand Avenue in Cote St. Luc, which was one of 20 identical homes built that year, ten on Rand Avenue and ten on Westminister.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONEYGU_7EqU&feature=related

But it’s my neighbours on Rand Avenue that I want to tell you about.

First, The Bermans:
Norman & Claire Berman lived next door to us, and I was their preferred babysitter for Jonathan, age 3, and Elyce, age 1.

Norman & Claire were a lot younger than my parents.  They were very good looking people, and they were rich.  Norman’s father, Joseph, was one of the founders of the Cadillac Fairview Company.  He didn’t approve when his son Norman bought a small airplane and took flying lessons.  Flying was Norman’s passion.

Around that time I was given my very first camera.  I decided to document the lives of Jonathan & Elyce.  I was only 12, but I was already interested in child development and family dynamics.  Since the Bermans had a very active social life, I had many opportunities to babysit Jonathan & Elyce, and thus began my first documentary.  I took lots of pictures and glued them in a scrapbook, and I wrote ‘commentary’ about each one.  Sometimes I had a chance to take pictures of the children with their parents.   I made notes of my impressions of every member of the family.  I decided to continue documenting their lives for ever.

But that was not to be.  One Sunday morning in 1961, Claire stayed home while Norman took Jonathan and Elyce for a plane ride.  Their plane crashed.  All three were killed instantly.

A Poem About Fish

I don't know how old I was when I wrote this poem, but I know I was very young.  :-)

FISH

I don't like fish

I don't like the way they look

I don't like the way they feel

I don't like the way they taste


So, please leave them in the water
and let them swim

I like the way they swim

They never even come up for air

The Ice Storm of 1961

February 1961 
Montreal was paralyzed by one of the worst ice storms in its history. Wind gusts reaching 130 km/hr at times coupled with 30mm of freezing rain caused heavily loaded utility wires to snap.  A week after the storm, parts of the city were still without electricity.  Damage was estimated at 40 million dollars.

I remember it well.  I was 17 years old and everything had shut right down - schools, businesses, transportation.  The radio, when we could get reception, described the hardship this was causing.   I decided I had to get out there and help.  Against the protestations of my mother, I bundled up in my ski clothes and ventured out.  I walked through the ice storm, carefully dodging fallen trees and electrical wires.  My destination was the civil defence headquarters, three miles away.

What possessed me to do that?  I was a girl, after all; and this was 1961.

I made it.  But, I was very disappointed when they told me I would not be allowed to work with the civil defence team; I hadn’t been trained, they said; I was too young, they said. Go home, they said.

I didn’t want to go home, I wanted to help.

And so, I spent the evening and that whole night making coffee and sandwiches, and serving the exhausted workers as they came in from ‘war’.  In the morning, the storm had calmed and someone drove me home.  

GUESS THEIR AGE

Three words that reveal the age of the storyteller:
So, she says, "_____".
So, she goes, "_____".
So, she’s like, "_____".

People. You Gotta Love Them!

People.  You gotta love them!
Here are some things heard or 'overheard'.

•Rita, who didn’t want her picture taken: “My pictures always end up looking just like me, only more so.”
•By an mother who’s teenage son was giving her ‘attitude’: “Shut up when your talking to me.”
•As the money was dispensed by the ATM machine: “I won, I won!"
•To the server at the drive-through window: “I’d like this ‘to go’.”
•and finally....how’s this for two questions in one sentence: "Can I help who's next?"

Listen and relax!

I'd like to share with you my other favourite sound. 
http://www.soundboard.com/sb/Train_Sound_Effects.aspx

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I have been collecting vintage children’s clothing for many years.  I’ve now decided to sell some items from my collection.  From time to time, I’ll feature an item on these pages; hopefully some will put a smile on your face.

This one is a boy’s winter jacket and matching hat in the style of Sherlock Holmes.  It is circa 1950.