Wednesday, 28 June 2017

Is today Wensday? (May 24)



DIARY

Phony fakes and other revelations

                        by Robert LaFrance

            Good morning, afternoon and evening. Here are some major comments about this year’s occurrences. Make of them what you will:
            So many things are not as they appear and so many words are mispronounced. Let’s look at the days of the week. The one in the middle of every week, the one pronounced ‘Wensday’ or ‘Wensdee’ is an example of mispronounced words that we all utter. I am guilty as the rest of the population, though I’m perfect in everything else. How about the day before Sunday – Sair-dee? That’s how I usually pronounce it. And the second month of the year – Febuary? Yeah, there are supposed to be two r’s there.
            Last week I wanted to take a look at some flooding – as long as it’s not around here – so I drove down to Majorville whose name had often been mentioned on the radio news. I looked everywhere and the closest I saw was a place called Maugerville.
            In my never-ending quest for new and interesting books, I ran across a German  one about a young (red-haired) girl who went to rural Bavaria to live with an elderly couple there and help them on their farm. Perhaps you’ve heard of ‘Anne of Green Goebbels’? It wasn’t until later that Flug, who knows about these things, informed me that Joseph Goebbels was a Nazi murderer. Who knew? I’m sure his employer wasn’t too pleased about that.
            I am sure you have seen the recent headlines about a criminal who stole thousands of dollars from a Widows and Orphans Fund and then decided to give herself up to the police. People here were puzzled when she went into the Colony Police detachment and took a shower before confessing her felonies. Later on a reporter asked her about it and she said she wanted to make a clean breast of it. She was a bit confused, what with the cannabis sativa and all.
            The Americans seem to be on every newscast these days and I suppose that’s just a continuation of what has occurred in the past century, when Canadian news media took the easy and cheap way out and just reported on American stories, most of them bogus. Wyatt Earp and John Wayne are both American Male Cow Manure. The point I am  getting at is that so many things in Canada retain their American names. Come on now: Canadians can’t bake beans? They have to be baked in Boston? New York Style cheesecake can’t be that much different than Minto cheesecake, and Idaho potatoes are just potatoes. It is to laugh and be depressed. In fact, I think I’ll go out on the porch and sip on a Manhattan.
            Do you watch any detective shows on television? I watch a few, and in almost every show, the cop refers to a suspect as the last person to see the dead guy alive. Nobody seems to consider that only the murderer himself or herself can be the last one to see the victim alive. In other words, that detective is getting a little ahead of himself or herself.
            Last evening I read that a certain Shirley Gonereah had been named ‘A Fellow of Dartmouth College’ (here we go again, in the USA) but than they realized she wasn’t a fellow at all, but a person of the female persuasion. Isn’t it time that we fixed up that little flaw in the English language? Come on, guys and gals, let’s put on our thinking caps.
            Two days ago someone in government, and I’m not going to mention New Brunswick’s Minister of Something-or-other Roger Melanson, referred to something as being ‘a new innovation’. In all my 69 years on this planet, I have never heard of an old innovation.
            I may have asked this question – like after every rain – but why do earthworms try to cross the roads and streets after a rain? When I go out walking on or near our estate after a multi-hour downpour, I find hundreds of the little worms on the road, and the odd thing is, some are going to the left and some to the right. One day I picked up a few dozen and put them in a nearby field, only to find them returning ‘en masse’ back where they came from. You can’t help earthworms who won’t help themselves, as my mother, looking right at me, used to say.
            What is a tinderbox anyway?
            A phrase that has been making the rounds for the past decade or more is ‘unintended consequences’. This is a code phrase for: “Wow! Did I ever screw up!”
               Another phrase we hear a lot, especially from government (non) communication staff members is that something has ‘grown exponentially’. I can tell you now, that person would not have been talking about my patience with bafflegab.
                                       -end-

At 69, my mind wanders (May 17)



DIARY

Keep (or start) that cash coming in

                        by Robert LaFrance

            It has come to my attention that I have forgotten to inform my readers in advance of my birthday.
            Any other year I would have mentioned in early May that my birthday was coming up, and that would have given folks a chance to go out and get me a nice gift, preferably cash. Preferably a lot of cash.
            Alas, this year I neglected to do so and will have to be satisfied with your best wishes, such as they are. This column appears (as they say) in the Victoria Star on May 17, but my 69th birthday – actually anniversary of my birthday since we can only have one birthday – was May 11.
            On that day in 1948, I was born in a log cabin – well, it could have been a log cabin – at what is now 210 Churchland Road (north) Tilley. No hospitals back then and even if there had been it would have cost $100 or close to it. No medicare in 1948, but my mother was a retired RN and was her own obstetrician.
            One more note on financial gifts you want to send my way: ‘cash’ has the same number of letters as ‘best’.
                                                ***********************
            People in the rest of Canada think that we Maritimers are always going out on our fishing boats and saying things like “three points abaft the starboard beam, matey!” but we here in Victoria County, New Brunswick, are not exactly Jacques Cartier (who I believe sold diamonds on the side when he wasn’t ‘discovering’ new countries. Hint: Somebody was already here when he arrived).
            I was in my teens before I saw salt water, and it looked a lot like fresh water. A sailor I am not, but I do have a certain resemblance to Popeye the Sailor Man except I don’t like cooked spinach.
            Where was I going with this? At age 69 my ‘mind’ tends to wander.
            Now I remember. I recently went out sailing on the lake created by Mactaquac hydro dam. I was the guest of a certain radio personality, now retired, and was accompanied by my friend Flug, who had said he was a good sailor and therefore didn’t have to take any mal-de-mer pills before going to sea on the St. John River. I didn’t think to ask him where he had gotten his sailing experience. He said that it had occurred in 1981 when he rode the Barney Baker ferry in Medford.
            I should have been suspicious when he told me this; the last time that ferry was in operation was in the 1950s. People could go from Medford to Morrell Siding in minutes.
            Back to the present, the sailboat’s owner – we will call him Buford Johnston so he doesn’t get legions of fans storming his boat – cast off the line and called to the experienced sailor Flug to ‘weigh anchor’. Flug looked bewildered at first, and then went to work, pulling the heavy anchor up on deck, and then letting it fall back into the water.
            In the best seafaring tradition, Flug shouted: “Aye, captain, I would estimate the anchor to weigh about two hundred pounds.”
            The lights were on, but nobody was home.
                                                ***********************
            Johnny de Forte is in trouble again with his wife Zelda, who is a bagpiper.
            He is on a mental par with Flug, in other words as smart as the rest of us, but one neglected part of his education was any sweeping knowledge of that Scottish wind (and how!) instrument that Zelda had only recently begun to practise.
            How shall I put this? Johnny tends to sip away on lemonade – terrible habit! – when he watches TV so sometimes he doesn’t grasp all the facts and nuances being presented. So when a firefighter in full uniform came on the screen and suggested that May was a great time to “clean your pipes” before the summer, Johnny leapt into action.
            In a bit of a fog which is not that unusual, he decided he would do Zelda a favour while she was away at a ‘joy through tofu’ conference and take apart her pipes for a good cleaning. As Queen Victoria said the day someone made a joke in her presence, Zelda “was not amused” even if I, a bagpipe widower from way back, was.
                                                **************************
            A final note, this one on spring generally. Yesterday I was walking across the grocery store parking lot up uptown when a gent in a Gremlin hailed me. “Enjoying your column, Bob,” he said. Please remember that this man drives a Gremlin. Indicating the rain that continued to fall although we’d endured a week of it already, he said: “You know, I would rather see it snow.” My murder trial is set for July.
                                              -end-

Sunday, 7 May 2017

Spring cleaning is fun??? (May 10)


My mother ‘the doctor’ and spring cleaning

                        by Robert LaFrance

            It’s hard to believe, but once in a while a television show depicts something true. On Thursday evening I must have been hard up for entertainment and tuned in to a BBC program about rural England in the 1940s and 1950s. One of the characters was my mother.
            Well, not really my mother, but the person was enough like my mother to give me pause, as they say.
            Marjorie Wanda (Schriver) LaFrance was born in August 1906 and died in May 1961. Back in 1948, after having my brother Lawrence in 1939 and my sister Joan in 1941, she was the proud mother of me. You may be saying that ‘third time conquers’ but in between me and Joan was my brother David (1944-1947).
            The TV show I was talking about featured a rural woman named Joan who was a retired registered nurse, but who was in reality the medical doctor for the whole community of Stansleigh, England, which sounded an awful lot like (north) Tilley, NB, in the 1950s. There my mother, a trained RN who had left the profession to raise a family, was the resident doctor.
            As I was growing up in that decade (if I ever did grow up), there was what amounted to a steady stream of ill and injured neighbours and friends of the family who came to see my mother in the hope that she could alleviate their suffering. She usually could.
            I saw people limping in or being carried in with injuries ranging from bucksaw gashes, broken bones from being hit by a tree, birdshot wounds or some dread disease that prompted Mum to send us out of the house. Any intestinal problem was dealt with by an enema and broken bones were set then and there or sent to Andover or Perth where two medical doctors lived, Doctor MacIntosh and Dr. Earle.
            People ask me why I have such a strong stomach and I tell them it had something to do with my childhood, when I was likely to come home from Block X School to find a bloody patient on blankets on the kitchen floor and Mum patching him up for a trip downtown if he could find a way. Ambulances, taxis and Medicare were all in short supply back then, so it was a stressful time for the victim.
            Mum died when I was twelve. She didn’t leave any medical files so historians could write about the Nurse-Doctor of Churchland Road, but I surely remember how much she did for her patients. She was a midwife, GP, pharmacist and surgeon.
                                                ***********************
            As one can imagine, our house was often quite a mess when an injured party left, and that makes a good segue to my next topic, which is spring cleaning.
            Is there such a thing as spring cleaning any more? When I was a kid (there I go again with nostalgia!) I remember all the wives would start talking about SPRING CLEANING as soon as April Fools Day (Poisson d’Avril) came along. When those women said those words, they weren’t kidding.
            It was like a tremendous religious ceremony, spring cleaning was. The ‘housewives’ planned for weeks, gathering up cardboard boxes to lug out the detritus of winter and take it to the dump at the edge of the woods, or burn it in a field. The wives and mothers – and often the poor schoolchild who couldn’t escape and I’m not mentioning any names – had to gather up cleaning materials and get ready for the frenzy.
            Once the weather got warm, the wives found ways of washing huge and heavy blankets that had been in the house all winter. We took our blankets down to Pelkey Brook where a nice deep swimming hole was just the spot for laundering and rinsing the blankets. Once they were on the clothesline or hanging on a fence, it was time for the real spring cleaning to begin.
            Picture how much soot and dust would be on all the flat surfaces inside the house. All winter long the cookstove and any heaters or furnaces had been depositing dust all over the house. Spring cleaning was revenge against all the days when the house had been closed up. The cookstove would be moved into the summer kitchen because otherwise the main kitchen would reach steel foundry temperatures in the summer. My cousin Elizabeth didn’t have a summer kitchen, so she got her poor downtrodden (much as I am today) husband Ralph to move the cookstove out into the yard.
            I recently read a book called ‘Harness in the Parlour’ by Audrey Armstrong. It described the tribulations of pioneer men and women. Referring to spring cleaning, she wrote: “Despite the hard work involved, pioneer women welcomed spring cleaning. It gave them a chance to shrug off winter doldrums, and to literally work out their frustrations…it was dreaded by men but thoroughly enjoyed by women.”
            Funny, I don’t remember my mother being giddy with joy at the idea or the job.
                                                   -end-

The obsession with statistics (May 3)


The lower end of high-end technology

                        by Robert LaFrance

            There is a downside to modern technology – in fact, there are many downsides (which we used to call disadvantages) to modern technology; I found yet another one just this morning.
            Since we are quite wealthy, we have two cars, a 2009 Toyota Yaris and a 2014 Toyota Corolla. Luxury on wheels in both cases.
            My wife and I each drive both vehicles, although one of us does not drive both at the same time. When I drive the Corolla, I find that the backup camera, when I have remembered to clean the crud off it, is a valuable tool for, well, backing up.
            This morning, thinking I was heading for town, I jumped into the Yaris and started backing it up. I couldn’t understand why the image on the backup camera wasn’t changing. I kept backing up anyway. It had to change sooner or later, right?
            Too late I realized that I had been looking at the car’s radio, which is situated at the same place in the Yaris as the backup camera in the Corolla. Did you know that 2002 Chev pickup trucks can really put a crimp in one’s plans, if one backs out in front of one? Well, it can.
                                    ***********************
            I rarely watch hockey, even in Stanley Cup Playoff time, but when I do I am amazed at the absolute frenzy sports announcers go into about statistics. It’s the same with soccer, my favourite sport, but let’s stick to hockey for now.
            “Vinnie, we have to keep our eye on Leaf winger Olaf Pingous,” said announcer Edgar Sunderland during one game. “Did you know that this year he hasn’t scored a slapshot goal between minute 21 and minute 29 in any game that takes place in a city whose name has more than four vowels?”
            “I hear you, Edgar. And how about that Detroit goalie, Al Drumbeat? I just looked into the lists of ‘firsts’ and found that he was the first left-handed NHL player to score 20 goals before the 40th game of a season ending in the digit ‘8’. That would be 1988, when he was playing for the Mighty Ducks.”
            They went on and on, outlining other statistics and major milestones (even though we are supposed to use the metric system) in various players’ careers. I’ll leave you with one more:
            In the year 2007, Jerry Feinstin Jr. of the Toronto Maple Leafs, later the Dream Team of 2016-17, scored a goal in minute 18 of the first, second and third periods. A hat trick to dream of. The Leafs were playing the Detroit Red Wings, whose announcer, Goergio Fennault, also pointed out that Feinstin was the first player without a beard who ever wore pink skates while eating a Tim Horton’s chili dog between the second and third periods. A defenseman name Chuck Heppner had done a similar thing in 1997, but between the first and second periods.
                                                **********************
            I do a lot of reading, as the faithful and long-suffering consumer of this column knows, and one book I read at least four times a year is ‘Rural Musings’ by a New  Brunswick gent, now deceased, named Rolf Munroe from Taymouth. He also wrote a column by that  name from 1959 to 1963 in the Daily Gleaner.
            He had the country life down pat. The first chapter is entitled ‘Country Grapevine’ and hankered back to the days when – long before email, Facebook, cellphones, and even private telephone lines for everyone – the news got out somehow. Probably more quickly and more accurately than it does today.
            “The deepest routes of the grapevine stem from the fact that country communities, or most of them, have no police force, no fire department, no resident doctor or local hospital. When disaster strikes in the country, it is the victim’s neighbours who come to the rescue…” Of course he was talking about communities much farther away from these services than most of us are today. Munroe said that somehow the word spread faster in those days than it does today, and he died long before Snapchat and Twitter.
            He described how snake (cedar) fences were constructed, how, in those days before texting and GPS, children actually made paths through the woods without using their thumbs, how important railways were for local travel, and how impossible it was to put stovepipes together once that had been taken apart. He said that in those days houses had parlours, or ‘front rooms’ rarely used except for funerals, and kerosene lamps and lanterns, which he said were becoming obsolete.
            I highly recommend you read this great book, but I have to argue with him about the obsolescence of kerosene lamps and lanterns. Here in this estate, anticipating power outages, we own four kerosene lamps and two kerosene lanterns, plus lots of candles. We can’t all be right all the time.
                                                -end-