"Does this dress make me look fat?" (March 23)

DIARY

Loaded questions and answers

                        by Robert LaFrance

            A question to husbands: Did you wife ever say to you: “Are you planning to go to town dressed like that?” Like the question “Does this dress make me look fat?”, it is one that can never be – or SHOULD never be – answered. Just saying. So don’t try.

            I am going to try and get through this column without mentioning the certain race that’s going on south of our border, but it doesn’t look good. When I was growing up I heard all about a certain British guy named Colonel Blimp, and it does look as if he has emigrated, but that’s enough on that subject.

            A CBC Radio news story recently caught my ear. The announcer spoke about a municipal government employee in Cadiz, southern Spain. Joaqim Garcia’s co-workers at the water company wanted to give him a long-service award but couldn’t find him. It turned out he hadn’t been at work for at least six years, but had continued on the payroll at about $41,000 a year (direct deposit). No one had noticed.

            When the journalist had found him at his home instead of in his office down the hall in the city-owned building, he said there had been nothing to do, so he simply went home to do it. The labour department sued him but were only able to collect about $30,000. The CBC journalist, Lauren Fryer, ended the news spot with these words: “He has since retired.” True story. Go ahead and Google it. It’s taking EI to a grand new level.

            Just looking at my notebook and seeing a few scribbled words about the rampant  wimpism now afoot. What I’m saying is that people today are a bunch of wimps, but I’m not going to blither on about wearing only a t-shirt and shorts as I walked ten miles to school in –40º weather.

            On Tuesday, Feb. 9, I was listening to the radio, probably CBC, and heard a man describing the weather that was going on around him. Seems to me he was located at St. Stephen or Kedgwick, one a them places. “It’s blistering cold here,” he told the announcer, “and if the wind starts up it will be vicious.” The announcer asked just how cold it was and the man said: “Minus nine Celsius.”

            Were my ears telling me the truth? I checked my car thermometer. Sure enough it was –9ºC. “Are you kidding me?” I asked the radio. I remembered walking to school while wearing only a t-shirt and shorts in –40º weather. Oh wait…I said I wouldn’t do that. Anyway, long story short, I got out of the car to check how cold it really was on the flesh. I’m thinking now I should have stopped first.

            It occurs to me as I am approaching my dotage (getting older than the hills) that I haven’t received anywhere near enough awards, certificates, and things like that. When I say I haven’t received anywhere near enough of that stuff, I mean I haven’t received any, except for a certificate for serving (and I mean serving) on the District 31 School Board from 1986-1989.

            Remembering those heady days, I also remember that it was not long after my stint that the province – in its wisdom as the saying goes – added two small schools to the district, called it District 13 for luck, and added about 25 employees in the school district office in Perth. It was one of the few times that the number of school district employees exceeded the number of students they were supposed to administer. Another interesting point I noticed back then was that when Murray Andrews retired, the district replaced him with three employees.

            I am sure you noticed that, as in the case of various viral and bacterial infections, bureaucracies, especially government ones, do tend to grow like bad weeds. Very bad weeds.

            Carrying on with the idea expressed a few paragraphs back, I think that I could be mollified (bought off) in the matter of my not receiving awards if I were named to the Senate.

            Prime Minister Trudeau, cheerful after his recent soujourn in Washington, must be about ready to name some new senators, for which I now eagerly throw my hat into the ring. I have all the qualifications (totally without scruples, etc.) and am eagerly awaiting the moving truck that will transfer my belongings, mainly electronic devices and lemonade, to my new residence along Sussex Drive in Ottawa. I have already put in a bid on a house whose previous tenant has moved back to Calgary.
                                               -end-

Learning to cook again (March 16)

DIARY

Gourmet cooking, Scotch Colony style

                        by Robert LaFrance

            Since my wife spent the whole March Break visiting our daughter in Calgary – and didn’t show me how to cook or even where the stove was – I had to learn the culinary art all over again.

            Proving once again that her main aim in life is to pick on me, she not only didn’t show me where the stove was, but she also didn’t show me (1) how to wash the dirty dishes, (2) where to put them once I did wash them, (3) how to wash clothes before they turned green and crumbled on my very shoulders, or (4) where she hid the vacuum cleaner.

            Therefore, when she returned home after she and our son (who lives in Woodstock) painted Calgary all colours of the prism, she was somewhat taken aback at the sight that greeted her in our kitchen.

            “Mein gott!” she said. I knew she had taken German in university, but that was the first time I had heard her use it on the run, as it were. She seemed to be a little upset at the number and amount of dirty dishes that were sitting on the counter near the kitchen sinks. “You have outdone yourself, Bob,” she screeched, as she switched back to English.

            I had to agree. The Cirque de Soleil people couldn’t have done a better job at balancing those china dishes atop about fifteen layers of bowls and saucers. The upside of that was that she could see that I (restaurants) had prepared nutritious meals. Halfway up the stack was the remains of a poutine, a ‘food’ item that had never before come into this house.

            Long story short (as they say), she started at the dishes before she had even unpacked her luggage. Only two and a half hours later she was finished except for the pots and pans, and then she went into the laundry room. I quickly made an exit. Seconds later I fancied the building was shaking. There was a mighty roar and I retreated further into the woods. Guess I’ll stay here until Spring.

Speaking of Spring (notice the capital or upper case letters) the Irish know how to celebrate it.

In truth, the Irish know how to celebrate anything and everything. March 17 being St. Patrick’s Day, it is situated at just the right location in the calendar to celebrate the advent (so to speak) of Spring. Those of us of Irish ancestry - I have four great-grandparents born in Ireland - appreciate a good celebration too.

Comedian Steve Patterson, himself half Irish ancestry, has quite a few comments about the wily Irish. He said they don’t even know how to tell time. His friend was supposed to meet him at ‘half two’ which in Ireland (and probably England) means 2:30. He thought ‘half two’ meant, logically enough, one, and so he arrived at 1:00 pm. By the time 2:30 came around he had drunk five pints of Guinness stout and was comatose.

Speaking of excess, I was listening to one of the commercial radio stations in Maine (not my idea, I was in a waiting room) and learned that Canada’s favourite spoiled brat, Justin Bieber, was about to attend a State Dinner in the White House. The word ‘gobsmacked’ would not quite cover my reaction, nor my further reaction when the radio announcer added that he and President O’Bama (clearly another Irish descendant) would be discussing ‘The softwood lumber issue’. What would Justin Bieber know about lumber, other than what’s between his ears? I breathed more easily later when I learned that President O’Bama’s visitor would not be Justin Bieber but Justin Trudeau.

            Last week I visited an office in Woodstock and was talking to my friend Mario who, by the way, doesn’t have a brother contrary to what many people seem to think. He was saying that the women in his office pick on him all day long, merciless in their attacks.

            SallyAnn and Betty, who had heard his comments, told me that if I was going to be in ‘the whine cellar’ for any length of time, perhaps I would bring them up a bottle of Chateau Arthurette 1998. Ignoring them, my friend Mario pointed to a picture on a wall. It was a farmer behind his horse that was pulling a one-furrow plough. “That’s how hard I work without any respect,” moaned Mario.

            “You see the view that farmer gets?” said SallyAnn. “That’s the view we get here all day – no offense, Mario.” 

                                           -end-

Millions from my Nigerian relative (March 9)

DIARY

Various observations from the hills of Kincardine

                        by Robert LaFrance

            The grocery store I frequent has had their garden seed out for weeks. In fact, I know the exact day they brought them out – the day of the big storm of snow and freezing rain. There oughta be a law against stores producing such harbingers of spring until April is half over. Every time I go there – which is every day – I leave in tears as I yearn for the day when I can plant some peas and lettuce.

               Remember the days when everyone who had email could look forward several times a week to a letter from Nigeria? We would be told that a long-lost relative had died without a will and we were in line for a share of $17 million if only we would send $198 in administration fees to a certain barrister in Lagos. This morning’s mail brought me a serious letter from the African country of Togo. Apparently I have inherited $2,628,456 from a relative I didn’t know I had. It’s nice to see some geographic variety.

            I stopped at a huge grocery store in Fredericton because I was hungry for a sandwich. I asked a young chap who was listening to his iPad through ear buds where the canned tuna was kept. He took out one bud and asked me to repeat what I had said. “Oh, you mean tunaFISH,” he emphasized. I was thus corrected. On the way home I asked myself if I should have bought tunaHORSE or tunaCAT.

            The legalization of marijuana is continuing, some would say “at a snail’s pace” and others would say “like a rocketship”. I have been wondering if Canadians should set up a series of small communities – let’s call them the Republics of Mariwonna – where marijuana can be grown like canola or potatoes. These would preferably be islands where the prevailing winds would periodically waft the smoke from their test kitchens right over my front porch. Just for quality control you understand.

            Looking over the work quality and work rates of two particular provincial government departments, I am wondering if those who apply for supervisory jobs there fill out a special job application in each case. Question: Are you hidebould and ignorant, never willing to make a decision? Question: Are you willing to continue to reward sloth with permanent contracts while your best workers leave for other pastures without any attempt on your part to keep them? (I couldn’t go any further with this. The joke was too close to the truth.)

            The rain-snow-freezing rain cycle in late February has demolished Highway 105 between Bath and (the former) Muniac Park and I learned today from budget estimates that only a third of that, starting at Bath, will be rebuilt this summer and the rest will be ‘cold-patched’ to get rid of the worst of the potholes which are vast. I shall keep my eye on that job and report back to you. Although Highway 105 should be a great tourist road, it won’t be until the road is passable by something better than a dog cart. The summer of 2018 should see that stretch of road fixed to the same quality as the road between Kilburn and lower Perth was last summer.

            I’m writing this in the midst of the U.S. primary political races and I continue to be gobsmacked by how much influence Poland had on those contests. “The Poles put Hillary Clinton ahead by a margin of 3-2” said one headline and in another media outlet it was said that “The poles indicate…” One wouldn’t think that one relatively insignificant country in eastern Europe would wield that much power, or at least that its emigrant citizens – the diaspora as the word goes – would be the ones to say that Bernie or Ted would lose the South Carolina primare. You don’t hear that Canada or Belize is that important to those contests that some commentators call ‘horse races’ but I suggest, from the candidates I’ve seen, that if a horse is involved, it is the back end only. As Grampy would say: “The south end of a northbould horse”.

            My daily newspaper has recently printed a few stories about the government’s wanting to have libraries open seven days a week for various numbers of hours each day. My question is: did you or your cousin Clem ever request that libraries remain open on Sunday? The winter hours have the Perth-Andover Library, for example, open Thursday evening until 8:00 and open all day Saturday, lots of times for working people to get there. They are closed Mondays. The cost of the 7-day-a-week opening would be $900,000 a year, the government says. Translation: $2 million. It makes no sense.

            Last observation: When I start my 2014 Toyota Corolla and put it into gear, a sign comes on the backup camera screen: “Drive safely and obey traffic rules. Watching this screen while driving (remember, the car is in gear) can result in accident…Read safety instructions in your owner’s manual.” Reading all that gives one plenty of time to go into the ditch.

                                                           -end-

The Oland case - very appealing (March 2)

DIARY

Not good morning, Vietnam, but good morning Alert!

                        by Robert LaFrance

            The city of Halifax just declared the Donair to be their Official Food, that that gave me an idea: how about if all the good folks of the Scotch Colony got together and voted on a similar idea (actually, the same idea) for here.

            I know the boys at the club would be delighted, and would stand as one when it came to voting for…you guessed it…hops. Others would vote for the rare flower found behind the Perfessor’s outhouse.

I can see it all now: the Perfessor would be sitting on the throne and reading a Playboy magazine when all of a sudden a gaggle of flower ladies would stop by for a look at the flower, and I’m not referring to any part of the Perfessor’s anatomy.

            It seemed like a good idea when I thought of it.

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

            This past week or so the major news story seemed to be the one about Dennis Oland and whether he should be freed on bail – denied by the judge – or should have his murder conviction overturned altogether.

            He was found guilty by a jury on Dec. 19 and later sentenced to ‘life’ (as the lawbooks say) and all was quiet for a while until that sunk in, then his battery of lawyers (no minimum wage folks there!) started thinking about appealing, and decided it shall be so. The appeal will take place in the fall. A bit unusual that, but I’d be the last one to suggest that the family money made this possible.

            Minutes later these same lawyers, who weren’t that successful in keeping him out of jail in the first place even though it seemed like a slam-dunk, applied for bail while he was waiting for his appeal. It’s an appealing case to be sure.

            Clearly there’s an organized campaign – Facebook and otherwise - to get his conviction overturned. I must say I was surprised at the guilty verdict but that doesn’t mean I think he was not guilty. There just wasn’t enough proof presented.

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

            On the February 20 episode of The Debaters, the CBC Radio comedy show that features comedians…well, debating, the contestants were arguing about whether the phone book should continue to be printed.

            I say YES. In fact, I think that publication should not only continue, but should be expanded to include cellphones, shoe sizes and music preferences. Oh wait! I’ve just described Facebook and Linkedin.

            Although it is called a LAND line, it doesn’t touch the land unless there’s a gale that blows over a hydro pole. I was on the phone one day last week and my cousin’s voice suddenly became very deep. Looking out my living room window, I could see that down by the church a hydro pole (the phone line is on the bottom) was almost touching the ‘land’, but soon swung back so my cousin’s voice was now normal. Too bad he’s not.

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

            About four years ago I decided to indulge my love of local history and started a Facebook page called ‘Old Photos of Victoria County’. I was astonished this morning to see that the group now has 3551 members who share my interest.

            Although the name refers to Victoria County, it mostly deals with the area that includes Perth-Andover, Tilley, Arthurette and places I know best. Rowena, Plaster Rock and the upper Tobique, Grand Falls and Carlingford have their own own Facebook pages. I especially enjoy the ‘History of Rowena’ group because Mary Jean Boone has a great collection of local history and family photos. Also, I want to boast right now that it was I who persuaded her to share these with Facebook viewers who can now see all the great photos from Rowena.

            One of the earliest contributors to my own group was Sewell Shaw of Andover. I never met anyone who remembered so much local history. He came to Perth about 1928 and it seems he remembered every detail of every building on the Perth side. He was one of the fundraisers for the Perth arena, since burned down, and his father owned the Perth Hotel, torn down this winter right next to Carolyn’s Takeout. He was there when the provincial government put in Beechwood Dam (1957) and before that when they moved all the buildings off the Perth riverbank. Another guy who remembers all about Perth was Joe Farquhar.

            A couple of quick notes: As one of the small number of people who had been born at home, I was interested to learn that on May 11, 1948, Dr. Steven Rabatich of Plaster Rock came down to Tilley to see me first, and that my sister (age 7) and my brother (age 9) were hustled across the road to eat scrambled eggs made with milk. Not much detail, but interesting to me.

            A final note: I often mention spending 54 weeks in a row at Alert, NWT in the 1970s. This time of year reminds me that on March 4 the sun, gone since October 9, peeps over the mountains for a few minutes at what is now Alert, Nunavut.
                                               -end-