Tuesday, 6 March 2018

The singer named Prince (Jan 24/18)


Colour my world, just don’t use ‘Caliente’

                        by Robert LaFrance

            I have to say it: I’m all excited about a new colour that the paint company Pantone has come up with. In the company’s announcement it referred to ‘Ultra-Violet’ as its Colour of the Year pick for 2018.
            Of course they called it their ‘Color of the Year’ pick because they’re an American company and had to spell the word ‘colour’ incorrectly, but we all get the point. As I said, exciting news.
            Remember the singer Prince? Of course we all do, but I’ll be blessed if I can remember two songs he made famous. The reason I mention him is that purple or perhaps ultra violet was his ‘signature colour’, whatever that might mean.
            My purpose in mentioning this is to point out that there are now officially 2,344,722 paint colours in the world. Flug can prove this because his wife Zelda looked over every one of them because deciding on ‘peach’ for their living room walls.
            Here’s how Pantone described a group of several paint colours: “Collectively, the colours selected mostly run deep, with rich almost jewel-like tones, and skim through every mood, from energetic to meditative. While some feel classic, others channel minimalism and mystery.”
            My late grandfather Muff LaFrance (1881-1976) would have had something to say about the worship of interior house paint. “Bob, a lot of people don’t have enough to do.”
            The company Benjamin Moore has also decided on a new colour to lead us into the rest of 2018. Its choice is “a strong, charismatic shade of red called ‘Caliente’ that  feels akin to red velvet…‘Caliente’ is the ideal red for a room, as its warm, brown undertones make it a perfect choice for interiors; it’s seductive yet energetic.”
            Grampy, please come back and have a talk with these people.
                                                **********************
            Changing the subject, don’t you just love it when there’s a big television news item about a new wonder drug that will almost certainly cure everything from hives to depression to broken bones? The story might go on about even more conditions that will be cured, and then at the end of the story the reporter/announcer says it won’t be available to the public until the year 2024 because now they have to actually test it.
            People have been clambering to try and understand the controversy here in New Brunswick about the ‘not-for-profit’ company called Medavie taking over the running of Extra-Mural Nursing. I have to say I am against it, mainly because former NB Premier Bernard Lord runs Medavie and anything he runs I would prefer to steer clear of. When he was premier for seven long years (1999-2006) we here on Manse Hill Road despaired of ever getting as much as two pails of chip-seal on our road. My friend the late Dennis Campbell, who was a Tory and knew the premier and his government well, told me that the chances of getting our road paved while Lord was premier were somewhere between zero and none because Lord perceived everyone out here as Tories (I don’t have any political affiliation.)
            And by the way, what’s the difference between a ‘not-for-profit’ company (Medavie) and a ‘non-profit’ company? It sounds as if they are identical, but because Bernard Lord is concerned I wonder.
                                                **********************
            How many of the readers of this column have a computer? By this time I would say quite a few, like 90%. Isn’t it interesting how hardware companies like Windows and Apple still can’t get it right?
            In the past two weeks my computer has received out of the ether a total of 23 updates and ‘security fixes’. It didn’t used to be like that back when we drove our Chevvies to the levies in the 1950s, did it? When companies like Ford made a car like the Model T that came out before 1910, that was it, no updates or fixes, right? Totally reliable?
            Wrong. I just finished reading an essay by a man called E. B. White who had bought a Model T Ford in the early 1920s. He said that when you bought one, it was just the basic shell. Here are some of the things you had to add if you wanted it to keep running: “For nine cents you bought a fanbelt guide to keep the belt from slipping off the pulley; you bought a special oil to prevent chattering, a tire patching outfit, a sun visor, a steering wheel brace, a set of anti-rattling pieces to bolt here and there, shock absorbers (this is extra, remember) and more and more gadgets. You started the car with a crank, unless you were made of money and could afford a self-starter.
            Next time you sit down at your computer and curse because it needed another update, remember the Model T. And your computer is not likely to leave you sunk in a mudhole on the so-called highway.
                                             -end-

Feed some homeless instead (Jan. 17)


Let it snow, let it snow – NOT!

                        by Robert LaFrance

            I was astonished – as I often am – by what I saw out my living room window yesterday afternoon, just as the aroma of highly spiced spaghetti sauce was wafting around inside this house.
Two persons rode by on bicycles. The road wasn’t quite glare ice, but it was on its way in that direction. Occasionally one bike would spin out and the rider would go flying. Were they crazy or what? I went down to the road, wanting to size them up before they started down the steep east side of Manse Hill.
“Hi ho,” I said intelligently. “None of my business, but why are you folks out riding your bicycles when the road is so slippery I have to be careful with my Corolla that has top-of-the-line snow tires?”
One of the cyclists took off his helmet and I recognized Barley Gibbers. “We went by here last summer and you came down to talk to us, don’t you remember?” I said I did. “Well, what we’re doing today is recycling.”
                                                ***********************
            One of last week’s snowstorms dropped about 40 centimetres of snow here at our estate; you may possibly have noticed this yourself, if you live in this county or in nearby Maine. Then two days later Environment Canada (my old crowd) predicted we would receive “5 to 10 centimetres” the next day.
            That doesn’t sound like much, if you say it fast, but the trouble is that Environment Canada has a kind of code known only to weather people, an entity that I used to be. When they say “5 to 10 centimetres” that is Codespeak for “30 centimetres or more, and probably more – you’re on your own”. If you don’t believe me, keep checking the EC website (https://weather.gc.ca) and if the forecast for here suggests we are about to get “5 to 10 centimetres”, reach for a plane ticket to somewhere far south, like Maugerville, or even Brazil. You might consider Singapore, where my second elder daughter lives. Average temperature there is 30ÂșC. That’s ABOVE zero Celsius.
            Back to the plight of us/we who live in New Brunswick, Canada, and wouldn’t want it any other way, it fell to me to clean off our porch roof with shovel and scoop. When I got out of bed about 7:30 I wondered why it was still dark out and the knowledge soon filtered into the old grey matter that a snowdrift covered almost the entire bedroom window. It behooved me to get up and shovel.
            I went onto the porch and got a small scoop and a small shovel, then brought them to the upstairs bathroom. (“Where else?” you are asking.) After shoveling my way out of that window and onto the porch roof, I was able to remove two-thirds of the snow before my get-up-and-go got up and went. At least the roof wasn’t likely to cave in. Truth to tell, something I try and avoid, there wasn’t much danger of that anyway because the snow was not of the super-heavy variety as it was after one storm about ten years ago, but that’s another story for another day.
                                                ***********************
            When I visited my friend Flug on Monday evening, he was watching a CBC-TV program called “The Outsiders Among Us”. It was about homeless people in various Canadian cities.
            The women who used to be called ‘bag ladies’ when I lived in cities (1967-1976) have a scary existence, if you can call that existing. The men, who were usually alone rather than hanging around with others in their situation, were no more inspiring. The camera followed several homeless people in Edmonton, Toronto and other places and it was amazing to see them crawling into their cardboard shelters for the night or picked up by the police and taken to homeless shelters for the night. The next morning they would be turned out again to fend for themselves, but at least they had had a meal at the shelter.
            Flug and I watched silently, sipping on water instead of our usual lemonade. The program pointed out that a few million dollars in donations from those lucky enough to have roofs over their heads could provide food and lodging for these people and get many of them some much needed medical care.
            Once the program was over, we just looked at each other and we were each thinking the same thing, I am sure: “Tomorrow I go up and donate food and money to the food bank.”
            I’m not sure if this was planned, but a TV program soon afterward described how pet owners lavished expensive food, shelter and medical care on their pets. One cat, found in the woods, had a $1500 operation before it died two days later. Not to pass judgment or anything, but that $1500 would have bought a lot of hot soup for homeless humans.
                                        -end-

Wednesday, 10 January 2018

Triskaidekaphobia (Jan 10/18)



A long-standing superstition

                        by Robert LaFrance

            My old Aunt July, born in the back woods of Moose Mountain (is there a front woods?) in 1926, just after the first World War, just before the not-so-great Depression hit, and just before Hitler started gearing up for try #2, is rather superstitious.
            If she finds she has 13 teaspoons in her silverware drawer, out goes the offending 13th, as far out in the woods as she can throw it. That sometimes causes a problem, because Aunt July’s vision is not the best and she has been known to bounce silverware off the dog Boomer’s nose or, worse, has been known to throw away what she THOUGHT was the 13th spoon, if you know what I mean. That’s when she calls me.
            FYI – The fear of the number thirteen is called triskaidekaphobia. I looked it up in an actual dictionary.
            The reason I mention auntie’s being a superstitious person is that on New Year’s Day she has the happiest lady in the Scotch Colony, because Edgar Stinson visited her. To go back a bit for an explanation, Aunt July believes that if ‘a tall dark man’ is the first one to visit her in the new year, she will have good luck all year. We all remember the year that Gary McNab, who is short and blond haired, arrived about 8:30 am January 1st, and she wouldn’t let him in although he had driven all the way from Birch Ridge to deliver two dozen eggs. She wouldn’t let him pass the doorway and even produced a .410 shotgun to emphasize it.
            So this year, when Edgar stopped by at 9:43 am, she invited him in with Alacrity. That’s his Border Collie. To gauge just how pleased Aunt July was, I just have to mention that auntie has NEVER allowed a dog in her house. Ever.
            A further explanation: Edgar Stinson is actually a grey-haired gent, and, without his hair dye and his elevator shoes, is five foot three, counting his toque. This story COULD have turned out badly, but Edgar lives in Minto and left for there on January 2nd after making a total of $450 being paid by relatives like me for visiting their elderly and superstitious living ancestors.
                                                **********************
Seguing to another subject, the cold weather, I am impressed by the number of times I hear a radio or television announcer warn all of us to “dress in layers”. What in the name of Blue Northern Corncobs does that mean?
I thought about this for several seconds and came to the conclusion that these announcers must be a lot smarter than I am, but on the other hand: is there any way NOT to dress in layers?
First of all, let’s examine the meaning of the phrase. I looked to Doctor Google, a guy or gal I find on my computer and here’s what he/she says: “Layered clothing is a term describing a way of dressing using many garments that are worn on top of each other. Some of the layers have different, largely non-overlapping, functions. Using more or fewer layers, or replacing one layer but not others, allows for flexible clothing to match the needs of each situation.”
My sainted grandfather used to say: “I’ll just leave that with you, Bob.” That’s what I’ll do here. I always appreciated that Grampie never called me Bobby, although many (including my sister) still do. Bryce Bishop, proprietor of Mr. B’s restaurant in Perth-Andover, has another nickname for me, but you’ll have to ask him. This is a family newspaper.
                                    **********************
Thinking about winter even more, I stumbled upon some information about the long-defunct (if you’ll excuse my language) Rhinoceros Party of which I was a member for almost seven years under the name of Tilley Dog.
It was a political party whose main platform promise was that it would never honour a campaign promise, clearly a group of folks at whose feet Donald Trump must have sat.
It promised to ban winter and, to lure Alberta voters, it promised to tear down the Rocky Mountains so Albertans could also enjoy Pacific Ocean sunsets. On the language issue, always a touchy political one, they were adamant about maintaining English and French as official languages across our nation, but wanted to add a third – illiteracy.
Rhinoceros Party president Jacques Ferron had a larger ambition than the rank-and-file (that’s me) of the party. He wanted to annex the United States and therefore raise the national average temperature, but if the party had still existed in 2016 – it had dissolved in 1993) he would have had another plan in mind. He would still have wanted to annex the United States, but his objective would have been to raise the collective IQ of the continental U.S. (while lowering ours).
                                                          -end-

No resolutions (Jan 3, 2018)



You misjudge my age – I’m 39

                        by Robert LaFrance

            About an hour and a half ago I was walking down our front driveway when I heard a metallic noise behind me. It was two brass monkeys, and were they ever in distress!
            It has truly been cold enough to freeze the ears, or whatever, off a brass monkey and I had the proof lying on my driveway.
            As an old Arctic hand, I should be able to handle the cold a lot more easily than I have been. I look out the window from my heat-pump heated living room and see very few examples of humanity out there.
            What’s going on anyway? I looked over meteorological records for the past ten years and in each of those years this time of year was, compared to now, like Puerto Rico except for the hurricane damage. I don’t want to wish my life away, but holy freud, when is April going to get here?
                                                ***********************
            On to another story, one of my favourites, and this was one I heard from my late father-in-law Lloyd Morton. The names have been changed to protect my bank account from lawsuits.
            One day in the 1940s or perhaps 1950s, Lloyd stopped at a house in Bon Accord and was chatting with a farmer named McJinson who told him that the day before he had harvested his oats and barley and ended up with 25 bags of oats and 10 bags of barley. “But,” said McJinson, “when you and I went to town yesterday somebody helped themself to 10 bags of oats. I think I know who it was too, but I am not going to mention the theft to anyone.” Lloyd swore (as much as he ever swore) not to say a word either.
            In early December there was a bit of a get-together at Burns Hall. Lloyd and McJinson were standing in a circle with two other farmers named Mondeer and Atkinson. They covered all sorts of subjects, and after a while they got talking about last fall’s harvest. “Did you ever find out who stole your oats?” said Mondeer.
            “I just did,” McJinson told him.
                                                *************************
            I have mentioned before in these pages how much I admire the Perth Elks for all the many decades of community service it has done since the early 1950s when it was formed. I talked for hours over the years with the late Sewell Shaw who died last year just missing his 100th birthday and if you want an example of someone with a prodigious memory, Sewell was he. Look on my Facebook page ‘Old Photos of Victoria County’ (over 4040 members) for lots more history of the village.
            Walking recently on the Perth (east) side of Perth-Andover, I took note as I have dozens of times before of the places where businesses flourished back then. About two decades ago Sewell did an interview with the late Vaughan DeMerchant about the village of Perth – as it was then called until 1966 when it merged with Andover – and what buildings were there.
            The majority of people now living in the area would not remember seeing a whole line of businesses located on the river bank as well as the other side of Perth Main Street and the back streets. “There were eleven grocery store on the Perth side of the river at one time,” Sewell told me once. Along that riverbank there was a newspaper printing shop, a Chinese restaurant, a drug store, two harness shops, two or three grocery stores – name something, no brothels please.
Our family used to come from Tilley to Perth on Saturday, either during the day or, less likely, in the early evening and shop for necessities. The only vehicle we had in the early 1950s was a 1952 International truck with a gravel hauling body that father used when working on Tobique Narrows Dam. One day he forgot to put it in gear and we all landed down in the river which was about a foot deep. I don’t know how we got out but here I am.
Amid all this sort of thing Perth Elks was going strong but I had never heard of it until I joined in 1978. Since then I’ve learned that the Elks gives thousand of dollars every year to needy people, like those who have just lost their home to fire, or who can’t afford to buy a hearing aid for their child. The meeting held about three weeks ago saw the club give $200 to the SVHS graduating class and lend their kitchen to the class for two fundraising meals. I was accidentally at both of them and stuffed my face.
The reason I mention all this is to say thanks to Perth Elks, a service club I have been a member of for many decades, although not since 1953. Come on! I’m only 39!
                                        -end-