Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!

My facebook feed brought me a little “joy” today. This popped up…

I’m big on the “joy” so I shared it. Others were amused. Who wouldn’t be? Haven’t we all wanted to be a Pirate at some point in our lives? For some, it was during our formative years. For others, it was after their first encounter with Johnny Depp as the swashbuckling pirate Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates Of The Caribbean. Men wanted to be him, woman just wanted him.

It’s a funny thing but I truly do feel a little bit like a Scallywag every time I get behind the wheel of our car. He-Who and I have both driven since we were old enough to legally (I can neither confirm nor deny that this may have been a little sooner). We have both always had our own vehicle. During the blight that was COVID it became obvious that there was no point in having two vehicles. After all, we were going nowhere. We were both working from home. I was paying way too much for a parking spot in Etobicoke and of course there was insurance, plates and basic maintenance. We ended up donating my vehicle to Kars4Kids, a registered Jewish charity dedicated to addressing the educational, emotional and spiritual needs of children and their families. We got a tax credit, fewer bills and maybe did a little good for some kids.

To be honest, that first year we barely noticed. There just weren’t a lot of places to go and if there was an outing we were usually together. We lived in a high rise in a big city. Our parking was underground so we didn’t even see the car for long periods. Last year we moved back to the area I call “home”, the Niagara Region. We are in a small village called Stevensville. Driving is our only option for most of our outings. Now we find ourselves having to schedule the use of the car. Neither one of us is happy to be the one left behind with no escape. It doesn’t matter that we have nothing planned or nowhere to go, if you are the one sitting at home you want that car in the driveway just so you know that you could go if you wanted to. So, now this Old Sea Dog feels like a Pirate hornswoggling the vessel. It won’t be long before I pull up in front of my friends house and shout, “Ahoy, ye Matey! All hands on deck” while poor He-Who will be watching out the window muttering, “Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!”.

Johnny Depp aside, the whole Pirate thing can be a lot of fun. I’m going to keep practicing and maybe I’ll be fluent by the time International Talk Like A Pirate Day rolls around on September 19/2023. Keeping in the “spirit” of things, a little grog aka rum might help with that one. Personally, in my case it will be scotch but that’s not very Piratey.  For the wee ones (if you have any around) I would suggest a wonderful story by Mike Allegra called Pirate & Penguin.  Mike writes terrific stories for kids and I have to say they bring me “joy” as well.

Avast, ye Mateys, being a Pirate can be fun for the whole family. Unless, of course you’re the one left behind muttering, “Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!” Shiver me timbers, I’ll be walking the plank if I keep this up.

Wednesday

It’s Wednesday.

It’s actually Wednesday June 21, 2023. Around the world people of many backgrounds, origins, faith, etc. are (in their own way) celebrating Summer Solstice, the official beginning of Summer and the longest day of the year.

Here in the Great White North, a.k.a. Canada, we are also celebrating National Indigenous Peoples Day. On June 21, for National Indigenous Peoples Day, we recognize and celebrate the history, heritage, resilience and diversity of First Nations, Inuit and Métis across Canada. And so we should, after how badly we botched things up with the Indigenous Peoples historically.

Wednesday also happens to be one of my favourite shows on Netflix. (Bear with me for a moment, I may have to make some stretches to make this all come together.) Jenna Ortega is brilliant as the lead character. As a big time fan of the original 1964 Addams Family TV series, I was skeptical. I certainly never felt any of the movies did the the original series justice. I couldn’t be happier to be wrong. I love the new show.

That being said, I think I could get behind a new movie with the cast that showed up in my facebook feed. A post from Reed Redbond (Dementia Von Grimm) has got to be one of the most worthy ideas yet. Reed Redbond is an extremely talented, creative artist hailing from the UK. You can find them on facebook & twitter. A quick warning, not all their posts are for everyone’s taste or sensibilities but there are some real gems there.  I have already shared the post on FB but I think it deserves to get as much attention as possible. Especially today. So here you go…

Reed Redbond: The Indigenous First Nation Native American Addams Family

Enjoy your Wednesday!

Unopposed

There are three things I enjoy doing that always make me smile, no matter how bad I am at them.

I love to sing at the top of my lungs along with (sometimes without) the radio. When I was a child I sang in choirs and even preformed a few solos. I don’t know when or how it happened, but I can no longer carry a tune. It is so bad that He Who seldom recognizes the song I’m trying to sing. He occasionally indulges me when I ask him if he wants me to sing a song for him. I suspect that this is the rare time he is grateful — that he is mostly deaf at this point.

Whistling has always been a passion of mine. There is nothing like listening to a strong clear tune being whistled. My ring tone for He Who is the whistling theme from Kill Bill. Unfortunately, Mae West let me down with her instructions to “just put your lips together and blow”. Usually, I just end up apologizing for spitting on whoever is within five feet of me.

Snapping your fingers is a lot of fun! You can snap to a tune, snap to get someone’s attention or snap in place of applause. I have always been pretty good at it and could snap until I got blisters on my fingers.  Until recently. While watching a promo for the Adams Family I automatically started to snap my fingers along with the theme song. It didn’t work. My fingers would not snap. More specifically my thumbs let me down. Yes, my opposable thumbs no longer oppose. Needless to say, I am opposed to this new development.

Opposable thumbs allow the digits to grasp and handle objects. Dropping things has become the norm for me. It’s been months since I could get the lid off the gigantic peanut butter jar (available only at Costco). It just seems that not being able to snap my fingers is carrying this aging thing a bit too far. Heck. I think this means I’m not even a primate any more! I guess a little opposition is a good thing.

 

My Muscle Memory Has Alzheimer

No one looked good in this thing.

Sports has never been my thing. I am not an athlete of any kind. I tried out for baseball once and when the ball came towards me I closed my eyes and ducked. In school we were forced to participate while wearing baggy, navy blue, one piece pantaloons.

I don’t skate or ski (please don’t tell my fellow Canadians). My television is allergic to  broadcasting football, basketball or hockey (again, let’s just keep that between you and me).  The only time I have been a spectator in a sport is if a relative was playing.

My Grand Nephew – My Favourite Jock

I didn’t own a bicycle but I borrowed them frequently. I loved to feel the wind on my face. I walked. A lot. In those days it was the only way to get to get from point A to point B.

In the 80’s “fitness” became very popular. Everyone was exercising with their favourite celebrities. Jane Fonda, Jamie Lee Curtis & Olivia Newton John made  jumping around and sweating quite fashionable. Seriously… spandex, tights and leg warmers became top fashion items. Gyms were being called studios and off the shoulder baggy sweatshirts were a staple in your wardrobe, although, I suspect the movie “Flashdance” had a lot to do with that.
My friend Sandy and I were right into all of it.  Her family owned a health food store and we kept on top of all the nutrition trends. A new gym was opening in Niagara Falls offering aerobics classes to women and body building to men. This new venture was owned and operated by John Cardillo – Champion Body Builder. It was his first but it wouldn’t be his last. He was kind of a local hero having conquered many of the greats in California and he had the belts to prove it.

John Cardillo – Champion Body Builder

Sandy and I thought it would be cool to join the men’s side.  John wouldn’t allow it. I don’t believe women’s body building was a thing yet anywhere. He protested and flatly refused. He explained that it wasn’t a pretty thing and that the men would be swearing and grunting and generally be disgusting as they went about their workouts.  We explained to him that neither of us was a delicate little flower and that we could handle it. Every day we would show up in the morning and every day we would end up working out with the women. Eventually we wore him down. The truth is he thought if he gave us a shot we would quit.  We didn’t.  So body building became a part of my life. One day would be spent working out with the ladies and the next with the men. I loved it. In fact the morning of my first wedding that’s were I was. At the gym. Someone said, “Aren’t you getting married soon?” I responded with, “yeah, in a couple of hours”. There was an audible gasp followed by, “what the hell are you doing here?” It just seemed that I had to be there if I was to get through the rest of the day. It had never occurred to me that I should be anywhere else. My family wasn’t impressed when I finally showed up. They thought I had run away. The chaos that ensued is another story.

One of my brothers, Ed, was retired military and lived in a high rise apartment. He did not use the elevator and “strongly” encouraged me (he made me) to do the same. I must really love my brother because I climbed those 20+ flights of stairs like Rocky Balboa every day to see him.

In 1992 I “battled” breast cancer. I lived alone at the beach. Surgery, chemo, radiation became my new routine. I had to stop driving as some of my meds made it illegal. I rode my bike everywhere and walked 5 miles a day on the track at the Y and walked the beach whenever I could.  A lot of things changed in my body including muscle mass. It doesn’t take long for it to become flabby.

I never really had a chance to get that flab under control as my cancer was followed by a car accident that left me with a back that would require three surgeries over the next few years. After each one I would start out walking the neighborhood with my walker. One of my sisters would stand at the end of the street and holler, “Run Forest, run!” at me. I would have to get as far as her to shut her up.

When I lived in Oshawa I found a beautiful system of paths which I have shared here in previous posts and continued to walk 5 miles a day. In Pickering I was able to get my 5 miles in by walking to the waterfront every morning. During the winter months walking at the local malls filled the gap. Then came the fall. Literally, I fell and did quite a bit of damage including a pretty scary head injury. Things would never quite be the same.

Our next move was to the 30th floor of a high rise in Etobicoke. Although it was beautiful apartment in a lovely building, the neighborhood was not the kind you went for walks in. It was scary. Cue the pandemic. (I feel there should be some dun, dun, dun, dunnn dramatic music when I say that). We were trapped on that 30th floor. The only time I left the building was for cancer treatment until that was put on hold as well. We had an approximately 3′ X 4′ balcony which was our source of fresh air and sunshine. Needless to say, like many experienced, there was again physical deterioration.  As soon as it was possible we moved back to our home area where we had family and friends and didn’t even consider anything that wasn’t ground level.

All of this, so you know I am not lazy, or don’t care and that I have always tried to keep fit. Every time I hit a barrier I would find away around, through or over. It would take time, patience and will power but eventually muscle memory would kick in and that would help.

So, I’m back to “walking” the neighbourhood. It’s a lovely neighborhood and very friendly. I started out with a walker and have graduated to a cane. My distance and speed are…I am being kind to myself here…slow and steady.  But I have to tell you, I don’t see me getting to my 5 miles a day. It appears my muscle memory is gone. There is no temporary amnesia going on here it is a full blown case of Alzheimer!

You Are My Sunshine

Few things invoke memories to the level that music can. The first couple of notes or bars can transport me back to happier times, sometimes sadder times, or just to a memory I don’t want to lose. This particular song will always bring me straight back to my Mom.

I suspect it is a familiar song to most and probably from your childhood. In my case I have surpassed the required number of years to be officially a “Senior” and my Mom passed more than 50 years ago. There are times when I find it difficult to remember things and I have siblings who will always tell me I have it wrong. I was young and I remember her with a little kid’s heart. I see her with a little kid’s eyes. I grasp at those memories and hang on as tight as I can for fear of losing them forever. I remember she was beautiful, I remember she had the voice of an angel and a laugh that could make you cry. She was adventurous at a time when a single mom with four kids was not sociably acceptable. She worked hard to give us everything she could. She was strong and battled cancer at a time when the only course of action was barbaric. She hung on as long as possible to try to make sure we would be ok. She could hug the hurt out of anyone. I remember the last time I saw my Mom was for my birthday in the hospital stairwell. In those days kids weren’t allowed inside. The nurses dressed her and wheeled her right to the door of the stairwell. They helped her stand and she insisted on pushing the door open and greeting me under her own steam. She hugged me, told me she loved me and gave me a birthday present. And then she was taken away. A little over a week later she was gone.

When I hear this song she is right there beside me singing it. I remember the hugs, the joy, and the love she gave me. I will always remember the love.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom, and thank you.

The Colour Purple

One of the first things I do every new year is look up the “Pantone Colour Of The Year”. When I am working on a project I will always try to incorporate that colour. It isn’t always easy. With each colour comes an explanation as to what that colour means. Usually it is lengthy and more than a little pretentious. People interpret colours in different ways. Some people think red is fiery, sexy and hot. Others consider it a warning of danger or an indication to stop what you are doing. Blue is supposed to be calming. I find it cold and standoffish. Yellow is associated with warmth, sunshine and happiness. It also symbolizes cowardice and betrayal. You get the idea. This year the Pantone Colour Of The Year is called “VeryPeri”.

“Very Peri displays a spritely, joyous attitude and dynamic presence that encourages courageous creativity and imaginative expression.”

That’s the short version. You can find the long version here.

Most people know that I am a fan of shades of purple/lilac. To me “VeryPeri” is a purple colour but they say it is blue. My other favourite colour is green, but not emerald or forest, I love a good olive green. You probably could have guessed my colour preferences just by looking at the top of this page, my logo, or my avatar.

There was a time when purple wasn’t all that popular. I didn’t really care. I love purple. When I was in my twenties I was walking by Le Château (a trendy clothing franchise that is now defunct) at the Pen Centre in St. Catharines, Ontario. From about 20 feet away I saw purple squished in one of the racks of winter coats. Curiosity got the better of me so I ventured inside and found this beautiful (in my eyes) purple wool coat lined with a shimmering purple satin. It was $50, a small fortune for me at the time. As soon as I put it on, I had to have it. I wore that coat with everything. It worked with jeans, it worked with dresses. It work over a t-shirt and it worked over six layers of sweaters. It served me well for many years and I was always sad when I had to put it away for the summer. I loved my Big Purple Coat.

When one of my sisters was nearing the end of her pregnancy she was freezing with the winter weather and did not want to invest in a maternity coat to wear for only a couple of weeks. I offered her my Big Purple Coat for the duration. She wasn’t thrilled, but when she put it on she and her big belly were warmly wrapped and comfortable. My Big Purple Coat was returned but it wasn’t long before a friend borrowed it to keep warm during her pregnancy.  After that it became the Big Purple Pregnancy Coat. Friends, family and even my boss used that coat when they were pregnant.  It got passed around more than a bottle of rum at a pirate’s convention. I can’t even tell you who had it last. It always perplexed me when someone would look at me funny and hesitate before they would accept my treasure to keep them warm. I loved that coat and always felt special whenever I wore it.

Recently, I shared these thoughts with someone who had actually borrowed my Big Purple Coat. After all, purple is the colour most often associated with rarity, royalty, magic and mystery. Her reply left me speechless.

“That may be so, but it was also the colour of Barney, the big purple dinosaur. You looked like Barney.”

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Let’s Try That Again

There’s no way of getting around it. The last couple of years have kicked our collective butts. One might say, “to hell and back”. It’s entirely possible I’m the one that would say that. OK, yes. I am the one. Things had deteriorated so badly by the last day of 2021 I found myself holding my breath waiting for it to be over. We made it through the morning of, but by late after noon we all had heard about losing Betty White. It felt like a kick to the butt, stomach and face. It was a big loss for humanity. B Mo The Prince pretty much summed it up in with this…

@bmotheprince

I’m sick. Rest in ALL the Power Betty White. 2021 can eff right off… 🥺🥺🥺#RIPBettyWhite #BettyWhite #Comedy #ComedyVideos

♬ original sound – Brian Moller | B Mo the Prince

It felt a little like joy, laughter and light had been sucked right out of us. As the day went on I kept looking over my shoulder for some other bad news to catch up. Then it occurred to me. Had this happened on the first day of 2022 it would have been a foreshadowing of what lay ahead for the rest of the year. Definitely a year I wouldn’t want to actively participate in. In my head I started thinking…

Betty White was always very positive… By all accounts she was not afraid to meet her maker and was looking forward to being reunited with the love of her life and husband, Allan Ludden… Perhaps she chose to give us this final gift… To exit stage left at the end of a very bad year and leave us with nothing but a bright shining New Year ahead…

As I mulled over the possibilities (yes, that’s how I mull), a post popped up from my Blogger Buddy, Elyse. As soon as I saw it, I knew it to be true.

All day, January 1st, 2022, I waited to see what would happen. The earth did not implode and take us with it. It was a very quiet day. On this second day of this new year I have decided to give it a chance and hope that joy, laughter and light will become more dominant in our lives. So…I will try again…

The Legend

Have you ever had the honour of seeing the Golden Bear? Legend has it that the Golden Bear had no equal. The Golden Bear is believed to be a symbol of strength, wisdom and good fortune.

Here is my story of my encounter with the Golden Bear. Although he didn’t look like this one, in my humble opinion he has no equal and definitely is a symbol of strength, wisdom and good fortune.

Back in the ’70s…yes, I do remember parts of them but some dates are a little foggy so I will just say mid ’70s I went off to college for the first time. I had enrolled in the Professional Photography Program at Sheridan College in Oakville, Ontario. I moved to Oakville early in the spring so that I could get sorted and find work before the school year started in September. I found a place to live behind the Towers Plaza (it isn’t there anymore). For the next several months I worked three jobs. Mornings I was a chambermaid at the Holiday Inn (it isn’t there anymore), afternoons I was a cashier at Dominion (it isn’t there anymore). In the evenings I babysat (those kids are long gone). Eventually I settled into the mad race between jobs. As anyone will tell you being a chambermaid is not very glamorous and there are times when things get a little…oh, those are stories for another day. However, occasionally rarely you found a room that was actually a pleasure to clean. This room, or perhaps I should call it a “den” was occupied by a nice young fellow who was a “permanent” resident  for a lengthy period of time. One day he asked if I would mind if he stayed in his room while I made the bed and cleaned the facilities. I didn’t see it as a problem. You can tell a lot about someone from cleaning their room and his lack of mess and general politeness was good enough for me. After that, he would stay in his room while I worked and he would chat about what he was doing there, far from home and his family. He had the most amazing drawings and plans all laid out and he would show them to me and explain. He was a wonderful man and I looked forward to that part of my work day.

At one point I went home to Niagara to visit my family for a couple of days. Most of my family were golfers. I am not. Dad loved the game and always enjoyed playing with my brothers even though they were all better than him. One of my sisters was really good. She could beat them all and could have gone pro but in the end she preferred the 19th hole to the other 18. My strategy was to watch golf with him on TV. In reality I watched him watch golf. I didn’t have a clue. This visit was going to be different. I was going to talk “golf” with him.

Dad and I watching golf in the ’70s.

“Hey, Dad…”

“Uh, huh.”

“They’re building a new golf course in Oakville…”

“Uh, huh.”

“It’s supposed to be the permanent site of the Canadian Open…”

“Uh, huh.”

“and they’re making it crowd-friendly so you can actually go and watch them play…”

“Uh, huh.”

“It’s to be called Glen Abbey.”

“Uh, huh.”

“It looks really cool.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Yeah, I know the designer and he showed me the drawings and the plans…”

“What do you mean you know the designer?”

“Yeah, his name is Jack and he’s really a nice guy and he showed me the drawings…”

“Jack?”

“Yeah, Jack.”

“Any chance he looks like that guy?”

Dad pointed to the golf game on TV and looked at me. My gaze followed his finger and sure enough there was Jack on TV. My Dad was incredulous. He was more shocked at the fact that I didn’t know who Jack Nicklaus was than that I knew Jack. The rest of the weekend was pretty much him looking at me and laughing and shaking his head.

The next time I rapped on Jack’s door and said “housekeeping” he let me in and I gave him a swat on the shoulder. “You could have told me who you were!” I explained that my Dad had outed him, much to my embarrassment. He laughed and all he said was, “I thought it was kind of cool you didn’t know who I was.” I guess celebrity can run thin some times.

Jack Nicklaus & Dick Grimm survey the land before Glen Abbey was completed

Many years later (about 30), I was invited by the Toronto Star to golf at Glen Abbey. At this point I was well aware of the caliber of course it was and had seen it on TV. I now lived in the “The Abbey” as they called it and had driven by it many times. I certainly knew that it was the first solo design of the legendary Golden Bear — golfer Jack Nicklaus. I offered my spot to one of my higher-ups (wow, was I good for brownie points on that one) but explained that I would really like to join them afterward for dinner in the Club House as I had never seen Glen Abbey from the inside. I told them my story and we all agreed to meet later. When I arrived someone from Glen Abbey greeted me and whisked me away in a golf cart for a private tour of the course. My colleagues had shared my story and arranged for me to see it. It was wonderful to remember all those years ago those lines on those big sheets of paper and see them here come to life.

Glen Abbey

More recently I found myself signing petitions to save Glen Abbey. One of Canada’s most famous golf courses and  home to Golf Canada and the Canadian Golf Hall of Fame. It has also hosted 30 Canadian Open Championships! It was slated for demolition by its current owners. In 2017 they proposed transforming the 80-hectare golf course into a subdivision with office buildings. Oakville council unanimously rejected this proposal and designated it a heritage site. Finally, after years of back and forth between the town and the company, on July 9, 2021, Steve Clark, the Minister of Municipal Affairs and Housing, announced that Glen Abbey will be preserved and continue to operate as a golf course, and the company withdrew its development application.

A few years back Jack’s face showed up on my screen. He was in tears. Oh no, what could have happened to this lovely man? Then I read what it was about. He had just witnessed what he called his “#1 Masters moment” when his grandson Gary aced the final hole of the 2018 Par 3 Contest and it brought him to tears. Yep. He is still one of the nicest guys I have ever met, and “The Golden Bear Legend” lives on.

Promo NoMo

The promotion game can be a tricky one. No one really appreciates the intricacies until it goes horribly wrong. I have spent a good part of my life working in promotion of one kind or another. Television, Radio, Print, Billboards, Publishers, etc. You name it and I have promoted in it or for it. Some are big and well know places. Others, not so much, but they realized the need for good promotion.

In fact, those are the ones that I took my name from. One of the fellows who brought me some of these clients use to refer to me as “SPP”. One day I finally asked him why he called me that. He chuckled and explained, that it didn’t matter how little or how bad the material was he brought me to work with I was always able to make something good out of it. He went on to explain that SPP stood for Silk Purse Productions, like the old saying of “making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear”.
He got it.

Now, I am not going to brag…ok, maybe just a little. I’m pretty good at it. I’ve won International Awards for Promotion in New York City (twice). I have trained and mentored people in the field who have gone on to do big things. Unfortunately, now that the internet exists a lot of people think that all they need is on-line social media accounts for promotion. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, to name just a few, are all incredibly useful tools for promotion but you still have to have some skill to navigate the ins and outs of promotion. Even a little common sense can help.

Recently I came across a small company that totally blew me away in how poorly they handled their promotion and customer service. I won’t name them. I didn’t name any of the big companies I spoke of above. Consider this a mini case study.

The pandemic has been very hard on a lot of businesses, especially the small family owned businesses. Some have not survived, others have actually flourished. He-Who and I tend to eat out a lot. When we like a place we are loyal customers, we write good reviews and we promote the place to friends, family and readers.  No one was looking forward to being able to eat inside again more than we were. When it finally happened we made a point of visiting one of our favourite places 125 km from where we live. We had visited during lock-down and were able to go inside and order but had to eat in the car. We aren’t really great at eating in the car.  When we got there this time we found there was no access to get inside. They had put in windows to order from outside and there were picnic tables outside for eating. We were not best pleased and I confess a little confused. We ordered and ended up eating in the car. Unfortunately, this was the first time that I can say the food was not good. More of it made it to the garbage than to our tummies. We were really disappointed.

When we returned home I went to see if there was a reason they were not letting us in. There was a post.

There were a couple of red flags here…

1)There should have been a better way to let people know

2) “We are too busy with lineups (daily) to be able to follow safety guidelines for COVID.” Ummmmm, there are still plenty of “guidelines” to follow even for just take-out. There were lots of lineups when they were busy before COVID, this implies to me that their cleaning of tables etc. was not being done because they were too busy. (Anyone else feeling a little queasy?)

3) I’m not sure I want to know that their sanity is in question while preparing food I am going to eat.

As I felt my food coming back up on me I wrote a note just to let them know we were disappointed. The response was…let’s see what you think.

I came out of my office and read this to He-Who. He was…not pleased (I’m trying to keep this PG). I confess, I had to calm down before I responded.

That was the end of that conversation. He-Who and I both had the same thought. We had been frequenting a place in another town. Family owned and operated. A husband and wife team that were killing themselves to keep customers happy throughout the pandemic. No excuses, no bad food, no poor service. When they were allowed they put tables on the sidewalk. When they were allowed to serve indoors I am happy to say their excellent customer service had them at capacity all day, as loyal customers kept coming. We both decided that we would rather give them our business and that we would not return to the other place.

This morning I got a private message from the offending place.

This person should not be handling the customer service or the promotion. To tell a client that they “mentally can’t handle it” is beyond my comprehension. But wait, there’s more. The following is what put me over the edge …

Never in all my years…I know I sound old, but seriously…never have I ever heard anyone use menopause as an excuse for them not being able to respond to a customer in a proper manner. This person has sent feminism back at least 40 years. I am torn between laughing my butt off and disgust.

The lack of professionalism from the business was astounding. They need help. I almost felt sorry for them, briefly. Very briefly. Had they handled this differently from the beginning I might have even offered to help them. As it is, my cousin saw the public posting and asked me on there where this place was located. I gave him directions and then added, “however, I can not recommend them at this time”.  

I’m not sure anyone can make a silk purse out of this sow’s ear.

Oh… Canada, Again

In June of 2017 I wrote this…

“There’s a lot of hoopla going on in Canada right now. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy good hoopla especially about this country I know and love. I am a proud Canadian. Born and bred. I have always been grateful that I was fortunate enough to be born in Canada. Everyone loves Canadians. By reputation we are friendly, polite, clean and relatively quiet. The kind of neighbour everybody wants. We do, however, stand on our moral high ground and make judgements about other more despicable countries. Unfortunately, just like every other neighbour we have our share of dirty little secrets behind closed doors.”

The “hoopla” was about Canada celebrating its 150th birthday. At the time I had mixed feelings about it. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. In 1967 Canada celebrated its Centennial year. It was one of the best years of my life. I have nothing but fond memories of my great nation celebrating being 100. I was a child. My Mother was still alive. In fact, it was the last great year with my Mom. The next couple of years would be filled with hospitals, chemo and radiation, only to lose her in 1969. 

Centennial year was filled with celebrations and endless activities across the country (I went on to tell you all about them here).  We didn’t miss any of them when they were in our area. 

On a personal note, I was part of a choir that performed “100 Years in Song” and I was one of the children chosen to sing with The Pied Piper of Canada, when he came to town. 

Bobby Gimby appearing as The Pied Piper during Canada’s Centennial celebrations in 1967. (courtesy Harper Stevens, Wikimedia Commons)

I went on to write,

“Many years later, when I went back to college as a 30+ year old, I was assigned along with my much younger classmates to do some PR work for a local museum. As we went through the museum there was a display from Centennial Year. My first reaction was one of fond memories. Then I saw the photo of me with the “Pied Piper”. My next reaction was, “Oh, my gosh! I’m so old I’m in a museum!” Then my classmates began asking me what it was all about. They didn’t know anything about Centennial Year. I was stunned that something that had been so important to me had faded in history.”

My best friend in college was Gilbert. He lives in Florida now but I still consider him one of my best friends. Gilbert was a little closer to my age than the rest of the class. As I lamented to him about this time in my life being forgotten, he pointed out that it wasn’t necessarily a wonderful year for everyone in Canada. Gilbert is one of the First Nation people. His talking to me about it was probably the first time that I, personally, became aware of the difference of opinion. In the years since then, a lot of things that we as Canadians can’t possibly be proud of have become more publicly discussed. Our treatment of the First Nations, probably most horrifically concerning the Indian Residential School System, is a black mark against this country I love. In 1967 Chief Dan George very eloquently spoke his mind. His “Lament for Confederation” is one of the most heart wrenching, eye opening pieces I have ever listened to.

The thing is that at the time, I was a kid caught up in the excitement. I didn’t know about our dirty secrets. Now I do. Now I know how these things have affected friends and family that I care about. Is it any wonder that I am confused about how I should feel about all the celebrating? 

Now here we are. It’s June 2021, just four years later. We as a planet have just experienced one of the worse 15 months period we could have imagined. We as a country appear to be emerging from the grip of COVID-19. We should be celebrating as a nation.

But we can’t.

How naïve of me to think that I had heard the worse. Gord Downie of the Tragically Hip, with his dying breaths, tried to make us see in his “Secret Path” journey (well worth the time to watch).

The Secret Path is a powerful visual representation of the life of Chanie Wenjack. “The film is divided into ten chapters, each a song from Downie’s musical retelling of Chanie’s story – from his escape from the Cecilia Jeffrey Indian Residential School, to his subsequent and heartbreaking death from hunger and exposure to the harsh weather.” Downie left us with his Gord Downie & Chanie Wenjack Fund which “aims to build cultural understanding and create a path toward reconciliation between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples.” 

On May 27, 2021 the headlines on TV, Print, Radio and Internet were pretty much all the same…

Remains of 215 children found buried at former B.C. residential school

I don’t care what race, colour, creed, age or gender you are you can not turn away from the horror that unfolded from there. Support came from all walks of life. Some simply in the form of this sticker on their Facebook page.

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Some demonstrations included displays of children’s shoes.

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Others have been poignant messages.

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Then the tally started…

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Today we are reeling from the latest headline.

751 Unmarked Graves Found at Another Residential School for Indigenous Children

The University of Alberta has offered a free course called Indigenous Canada from the Faculty of Native Studies that explores Indigenous histories and contemporary issues in Canada from an Indigenous perspective. I enrolled and have completed four of the 12 modules offered. My theory is it’s better to know the truth of our history than to find out the same way the rest of the world is finding out about us, in the headlines. So far I’m not impressed with our forefathers and their behavior. That moral high ground I spoke of does not exist and right now we seem to fit the despicable list. As our dirty secrets reveal themselves our reputation has definitely lost its luster.

I still love Canada and will always love Canada. I am still grateful this is where I was born. However, celebrating right now doesn’t seem appropriate and the only flag waving I can imagine is this one.

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