Lady of a certain age

For Blackfly Gazette August 22/18

NOTES FROM THE SCOTCH COLONY

Estimating someone’s age? Not easy

                                    by Robert LaFrance

I can remember phone numbers from 1988 and licence plate numbers of half the county residents - but not their names. I am a math person. I know how I determine someone’s age, or at least make a good guess at it, but others go about it differently.

(Part of the following column is from one I wrote about fifteen years ago.)

            “How old is your brother?” someone may ask me. I would immediately say that he was born in 1939, so he will be 79 this year, the poor old codger. I, on the other hand, am just a kid (born in 1948) and have already made 70 this year. A non-math person would have to go over everyone’s ages to finally arrive at another person’s age, and would use the same method for everyone. It’s not scientific, but sometimes they arrive at the correct answer.

            Here is an example of that other method: two of my acquaintances, Cherily and Glenda, both ‘of a certain age’ as they say, had heard that their acquaintance Shirley Boomist (not her real name) had died and were trying to figure out how old she had been. It was as good as a circus. In a sad way of course. Condolences.

            “Well, Shirley must have been around cousin Janny’s age,” said Glenda, “because they were in school together, she told me once. The school had grades one to six, so they may not have been THAT close in age but they were within five years of each other – or am I thinking of her sister Jane?”

            “No, I think Jane came after her,” Cherily pointed out, “because remember when they had that birthday party for Jane she said that Shirley was her big sister, and I know Glenda is the same age as Harry Carmody. Remember him? He had that convertible Ford car back when we went to school and he wrecked it in Muniac when he swerved to miss that moose that turned into a mouse when he sobered up.”

            “Yeah, that was quite a car, but I liked our old Monarch. It would hold seven people you know, but of course that was in the days before seat belts.”

            This conversation reminded me of a certain Tilley area road that, legend has it, was designed by an engineer who was following a snake through the woods. “So,” I said, “what about Shirley’s birthday?”

            “She started getting her pension when I was working at May Green’s,” said Cherily, “so she’s not as old as the hills, but she was getting right up there.”

            “No spring chicken,” agreed Glenda. “She was long in the tooth, but not over the hill. I would say she was around seventy when my nephew William was born and he’s in grade ten – I think, but didn’t he skip that grade back in elementary school because he knew more than the teacher?”

            “That wouldn’t have been hard,” said Cherily. “I don’t know how she ever got a teacher’s licence. She was one of the Jansons family from New Denmark, or is it Crombie? Maybe Bairdsville or Lerwick. Anyway, back to Shirley’s age, I think she was in the same grade as Mary Ann Goodine, because they went to Caribou together to buy their graduation dresses…”

            “But wasn’t Shirley’s dress for her cousin Marita’s wedding and Mary Ann’s dress for her own graduation, except she didn’t pass her chemistry exam and had to wait a year to wear it?” said Glenda.

            “I think you’re right there. I remember she was some het up about that, because she was all set to marry Iggy Collard after the graduation and Iggy took up with that girl from Wapske and moved to Meech Lake. What a brood of kids they have now! He’s not getting any younger either, is he?”

            “No spring chicken. He’s getting there.”

            I still wanted to know Shirley’s age. I’m like that. “Any ideas yet?” I said.

            “Well, she was not what I would call ancient,” began Glenda, “but she was in the late winter of life…”

            “Her declining years,” added Cherily.

            Since I like knowing stuff and not guessing. I looked on the Internet and found the local funeral home. On their website was information on the funeral of a Shirley Bamford from Portage. I phoned Shirley Boomist at the number listed in the phone book. She was fine.

            “Fine except for when the weather is really muggy, like today,” she said. “Then I feel like I did after I fell over that culvert back…oh, let me see, I think it was the year your brother Lawrence wrecked your father’s Volkwaggen Deluxe. He was quite a good  driver usually, but that day he must have been distracted. So to speak.”
                                      END-

Gas 39.9 cents/gal in 1972

For Blackfly Gazette August 8/18

NOTES FROM THE SCOTCH COLONY

Ontario to Tilley for $1.50 (not counting beer)

                        by Robert LaFrance

            August already. I can’t believe it. There must be some mistake. Only last week I was looking out at my orchard and waiting for the snow to melt.

            Ah well, we must accept what we can’t change, and things are changing rapidly. For example, if you do text messaging you are aware that you no long have to use capital letters. Send a letter to Aunt Melanie over in Minto and you may tap out: “we plan to go to the lake this afternoon along with the putin family and some oligarchs from st petersburg. aunt melanie you would like vladimar and his pet mouse Donald j t.”

            Another thing that has changed greatly in the past decade or two is that most of us carry a water bottle around. Most of them are bought stores as if our tap water, though perfectly safe and healthy, is a combination of sulphuric acid and Strontium 90. This is an example of merchandising by some pretty brilliant folks. They have managed to persuade people that their ‘spring’ water is better than our well water that is clean and tasty and is even filtered by a $1100 UV device. Back in 1990 a water test revealed that there was “the potential of a trace” of fecal coliforms in it. That’s poop as we know.

            Then there is the booming pet food industry. Probably it was the bottled water sales people who first told the public that they mustn’t give table scraps to their dogs because scraps will give our canine friends Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever or something worse – measles maybe? Also, dogs and cats should be kept inside or the world will end.

            Accordingly, because dogs and cats are now allowed to sleep on living room furniture, they tend to leave a certain aroma, but all is not lost. You just have to buy a can of Lysol and spray it everywhere to get rid of the pet smell. Nothing healthier than having every surface of one’s house covered in a chemical spray. Another commercial suggests that teenage boys may stink even worse than dogs and cats, so his room should also be soaked with Lysol to maintain that ‘fresh and clean smell’.

                                                *****************

            Indeed, most things have changed since I was a kid. If anyone had told me in 1961 that someday I would be able to carry my phone around in my pocket and even take photos with it I would have told them to lay off the Paarl brandy before lunch.

            My younger daughter recently moved back to Canada after almost two years in Asia, but while she was there I could take a photo with my mobile phone and send it to her mobile phone within a minute. Compare that to the mail delivery in the 1700s when my ancestors in what is now Quebec city, Province of Quebec, would send a letter back home to Paris, France, in the spring and if they got a reply at all it probably wouldn’t be until the fall. If Champlain had had email and could have received a warning that the English were coming in 1759, we would all be speaking French now. Oh, wait a minute, we are all speaking French aren’t we? Although my accent has been compared to aardvarks mating in a metal barrel.

                                                ********************

            The cost of gasoline today is horrendous, but we seem to be taking it in stride. Buying gas in spite of the high cost is similar to smokers’ continuing to buy tobacco products even though they are aware that smoking causes lung cancer and, as a double whammy, cigarettes cost a small (maybe not so small) fortune these days. When I quit smoking on February 10, 1973, I was paying about 60 cents for 25 cigarettes. Now that same number of smokes costs as much as $12 unless you come across a wrecked cigarette truck along Highway 105, just south of Riverbank, NB.

            Yesterday I gassed up our Corolla (I was aghast!) and had to mortgage our house just to half fill the tank. The gasoline cost $1.309 a litre. It doesn’t even help to change it to metric. If I had been buying by the gallon the price would have been four cents shy of $6.00 a gallon. Picture that.

            I lived in Ontario from 1967 to 1972 and in January of that year I sold my 1966 Falcon Futura sports (sporty?) car before I killed myself on the Queen E Highway between Burlington and Toronto. I remember the last time I filled that car with gas at a small gas station along Highway 20 near Stoney Creek, east of Hamilton. It cost 39.9 cents a gallon. Somebody has made a mighty profit since those heady days when one could drive from the Hamilton area to Tilley, NB, for a dollar and a half, not counting the beer one might buy on arrival in Tilley.
                                                       END

Trump is Putin's (female dog) July 25/18

For Blackfly Gazette July 25/18

NOTES FROM THE SCOTCH COLONY

Tobique Narrows Dam road driveable now?

                        by Robert LaFrance

            It seems to me that Tobique Narrows dam roadway (Highway 105) has been either closed or mightily inconvenient for something like 18 years. I could be wrong.

            For the past five years or so it has either been closed, down to one lane, half-closed with a ‘Bailey Bridge’ type detour, or accessible after waiting six or seven minutes at a traffic light. And I think there’s even more work to be done on it down the road, so to speak.

            All this road work and rebuilding of the dam’s underpinnings started because during an inspection workers noted that it was crumbling underneath and should be closed that afternoon. Heavy trucks were immediately banned (translation: only about 73% of trucks still went over the damn road – I mean dam road) and the roadway was closed soon afterward.

            People from Tobique First Nation, Tilley and Rowena, if they wanted to go to Perth-Andover, had to go via Arthurette or Brooks Bridge, unless that bridge’s scary deck persuaded them to go via Grand Falls. Not that they didn’t enjoy a nice tour of the countryside, but many would have no doubt preferred a more direct route. Also, several people commented to me that they didn’t feel completely safe following a 40,000 pound tractor-trailer across Brooks Bridge when the load limit was – and is – something like one fifth of that.

            As far as I know, these days Tobique Narrows Dam roadway is open both directions, without traffic lights and everybody is rather pleased – until it’s closed again next year, next week, or tomorrow.

            Born in 1948, I can just barely remember when that damn (dam, excuse me) was installed with its curious turn at the north end, just in case drivers needed a challenge. My father, Fred LaFrance, hauled gravel to help build the dam and even bought a new dump truck, a 1952 International, to do the job. Of course when the Liberal government yielded to a Conservative one in 1952 he, being a Liberal, lost his job, but he was philosophical about it. “%$#(*&^%$#,” I remember his saying philosophically.

            A pre-schooler at the time, I was there when Canadian Army demolition experts (the best kind) blew up the bridge that we used to cross to get to town. Sitting beside me well back from the explosion, my Uncle Tom, told me it was going to be loud. I saw the old bridge get blasted in all directions and could see he had been wrong – it was silent. I took my hands away from my ears. Then the sound wave arrived. I went, as the phrase goes, ass over teakettle into the nearby bushes. Next time my Uncle Tom (1902-1966) tells me to hold my hands over my ears and keep them there I will listen more carefully. If I can hear him.

                                                ************

            Going from 1953 explosions to today’s computer problems (I couldn’t figure out a way to make that transition), I received a phone call this morning at 7:06 and it was somebody concerned about my computer’s health.

            “Hello, is this Monsewer LaFrance?” said a voice whose accent reminded me of my years in India. “This is the Windows Technical Department. I am calling about a problem with your computer. We have detected a virus that could result in serious trouble when you go online.” Click.

            Now for a little background explanation. For several Robbie Burns Night shows the legendary actress and comedienne Mavis Smith, who lives just down the road, did a sketch on the subject of telemarketers. Her phone would ring and it would be ‘Computer Services’ or some such ersatz foolishness. Or it would be someone from Nigeria telling her she had just inherited $50 million, except that she needed to send $487 to get the paperwork done.

            The voice on the phone would go into its spiel for most of a minute; Mavis would say a few things that almost sounded as if she were buying it. Perhaps the voice would suggest there was a problem with Windows and then Mavis would ask if they thought it was serious and the person would assure her that if it wasn’t fixed immediately all of eastern Canada would sink into the Atlantic.

            Finally Mavis might say something like: “My windows are fine; my grandson  cleans and washes them twice a year.” Then there would a long pause before the voice said:

            “What kind of a computer do you have Mrs. Smith?”

            Mavis would answer: “Oh, I don’t have a computer.” How I pity the poor telemarketer who calls her, even today although she has retired from the stage.

                                                *****************

            I can’t seem to get through a column without saying something about Donald Trump. After his recent meeting in Helsinki with Russian President Vladimar Putin I have settled on a name for Trump: Putin’s (female dog). I would say ‘bitch’ but this is a family newspaper.                                         

                                                                END

Bob speechifing

NOTES FROM THE SCOTCH COLONY

I am an exercise maven…not

                        by Robert LaFrance

            In spite of the blistering hot days last week, I will take summer over winter, and if you ask me again you will get the same answer.

            My late friend Mike MacAfee of Plaster Rock spent a lot of time trying to get me out cross-country skiing, but he had to admit failure. If I woke up one morning and wanted to strap boards on my feet and fling myself through the woods like a partridge I would immediately turn myself in to the nearest building where they take care of people like that – Alcool NB.

            I don’t mind walking for long distances – sometimes almost around the house – but the idea (or ideas) of skiing, swimming, jogging or standing in a fitness centre while running in one place is, as Grampy used to say, “about like sticking pins in your elbow to cure a broken earlobe”. That was before he heard of acupuncture, if he ever did. He died in 1976 at the age of 94.9 years and went all that time without jogging. Or acupuncture. A daily ounce of Paarl brandy was his only medication.

            One day last month I was going around the walking trail in the River Valley Civic Centre and had almost completed a total of one circuit when an earthquake happened.

            Most people don’t believe there really was an earthquake in Perth-Andover, but I was a witness. I had been listening to music from my mobile phone when the announcer broke in to say there had been an earthquake in the Phillipines. I was sorry for its victims of course, but it didn’t affect me personally, or so I thought.

            Continuing around that brutal course of the walking trail, I came across a punching bag that was hanging under the bleachers – and it was swinging back and forth!

            No one else was around to have started that swinging so I knew right away I was in a major earthquake. Dashing down the trail and out the doorway, I made for my car and hot-footed it up to Alcool NB. I felt better once I had gone home and saw the dog who appeared normal, as normal as she gets anyway.

            Although the government has denied that there was an earthquake that day, I didn’t put much stock in that and to this day I have refused any and all exercise. Beer and french fries, that’s my diet now. You gotta look after Number One.

                                                ******************

            For the first and last time, two weeks ago I was the guest speaker at a public event celebrating journalism and how it is we who keep the government on its toes, although if any government were to get onto its toes, the world would probably collapse.

            As someone who has written in newspapers for close to four decades, I was one victim of this public event I referred to, but little did they know that just because someone can make sentences appear on a word processor it doesn’t follow that they can speak in public. They soon found out when I stumbled through my 2-page (triple-spaced) collection of mutterings and mumblings. I don’t think I have ever seen people so hopelessly confused since our former Prime Minister Stephen Harper made his famous speech referring to himself as an environmentalist and then opened up downtown Toronto to strip mining.

            Back to the real point of this comment, my ‘speech’, what amazed me most of all – even more than the main course that was eel fried with avocado – was the way Kincardine Mayor Clydge Moorix introduced me. I was ‘a medal winning columnist’ and an ‘internationally renowned journalist’. That got some people, including me, scratching their heads.

            After my alleged speech, I went to Clydge and asked WTF he had been talking about.

            “You must remember that medal your Uncle George gave you for raising those Manitoba Rambler hens?” he said. I allowed as to how I did vaguely remember that praise and wondered what it had to do with my being a journalist. “You mentioned it in a column didn’t you?” he asked. Yes, I did remember that. “There you go,” he continued. “You are a medal winner.”

            “What about that internationally renowned business?” I wondered.

            “You had a few columns in the Fort Fairfield Review back in the 1970s, didn’t you? And remember that little old lady at the IGA over there? She said it was wonderful and funny, a breath of fresh air?” I didn’t remember those words exactly, more like: “so you’re the one who wrote about (male cow manure)?”

            So there I was, being introduced as a medal winning columnist and internationally renowned journalist. It felt real good but it didn’t make my speech any better.
                                                               -end-