A dispatch lost and forgotten - until just now

Spring comes to the wilds of North Middlesex (being a dispatch languishing in the dusty files of this writer's computer):

Recently, I am happy to say, we welcomed spring to the wilds of North Middlesex; however, as with so many positive things in life, there are dark sides:

People are tearing up their lawns. Three in our neighbourhood alone have been denuded. This vicious treatment left me puzzled until I realized it has to do with weed control.

Ever since chemical herbicides were banned (except for agricultural use, of course), our lawns have been going to wrack and ruin.  And the ones that aren’t weed-choked are viewed with great suspicion. We suspect under-cover chemical weed control, but it is hard to prove. Even with the best in root extraction tools, no one could possibly keep up with the proliferation of unwanted invasive greenery, especially dandelions.

Certainly no one could accuse Greg and me of the illicit use of Round-up. One of my neighbours, whose outspokenness I usually admire, said our lawn looked better before we built the house when the lot was vacant.  Viewing from the perspective of her kitchen table I had to agree. It is a wasteland of weeds: creeping Charlie, plantain, and worst of all, dandelions.

What to do … what to do! Home-made dandelion jam made its first appearance at the recent Hort  Soc plant sale and silent auction, but realistically there is only a limited demand for floral jams.

Drastic problems call for drastic solutions, hence the lawn scalping. I first became aware of this phenomenon when I saw the neighbour down the street using what appeared to be a coal shovel to scoop up pieces of his lawn and heave them in to the back of a pick-up truck.

Having removed sod to enlarge or create gardens, I was initially awe-struck by his astounding strength. But apparently, there is a tool you can use to slice up your lawn horizontally. Then you can remove the bits. After it is bald, presumably you re-sod or re-seed. Only time (and any pessimistic gardener) can tell for how long this method will be effective.

It will be like the mosquitoes. Again this year, the larva were sprayed with the latest in larvicide just before three days of torrential downpours washed it all away. Mosquitoes now abound like dandelions.

I was a little surprised to learn that this spraying is done from a helicopter. But then, there is a lot around here which surprises me. Anyhow the helicopter was parked in the cornfield field behind Tim Horton’s, presumably so its operators could get a coffee.  Helicopters look like dragonflies, so from a weird shamanistic point of view, perhaps their use is appropriate, if not especially effective. Real dragonflies might be a better idea.

On the political scene, the plans for the new town hall and public library have been greeted with almost universal disapprobation. A new one-story city hall will be built behind the old three-story city hall, which incidentally used to be the post office. The century-old building needs major structural work. Also it needs an elevator, which could cost roughly $150,000.

Our esteemed city fathers and mothers concluded building a new city hall on one floor would save the cost of an elevator. Detractors say the proposed design looks like a strip mall and local roofing experts, of whom there seem to be a surprising number for a town of 1,600, say a flat roof is a recipe for disaster.

Plans were afoot to demolish the old city hall, but that will cost at least $100,000, so the hope now is that some enterprising soul, from London of course, will buy it, convert it to apartments, and add an elevator.

On a happier note, a couple placed an ad in the Parkhill Gazette a couple of weeks ago thanking the local fire department for their help in putting out a truck fire in their driveway. I can vouch for the effectiveness of their prompt arrival. During warm-ups at exercise class, I spotted the burnt remains of only the vehicle beside a house across from the Leisure Club. The initial skepticism of some as to whether those were “really ashes” was countered by another, possibly less short-sighted, participant, a church warden who had followed the sirens down the street thinking the Anglican church might be on fire.

Finally this-just-in: I can end these dispatches on a really high note. In front-page news, the Gazette reported one of our local doctors helped save the life of a Toronto police constable who collapsed while running in the Toronto marathon. Our doctor was on the sidelines watching for participating family members when the medical excitement began. With no photos of the actual event available, our local hero and an elderly patient, who joined his practice 20 years ago as a youngster of 80, were pictured on the inside pages of the Gazette, thereby implicitly attesting to his medical efficacy over the long term as well.

Life is what happens to you …

Here are some reflections from earlier this month.

Do you remember It’s a Wonderful Life? George Bailey sees one thing after another in his life turn out differently from what he hoped and expected. I expect the reason this old movie still resonates with so many people is that what poor George experiences is not at all exceptional.

There are always the big picture things which don’t work out as planned: marriages don’t last; people we love die too soon; being physically spry ends; families don’t turn out quite the way we expect; retirement plans go awry.

Somehow we adjust, and life goes on. Oddly, or maybe not so oddly, it’s the little things that are the hardest to be sanguine about missing when life throws a curve ball our way.

... when you're busy doing other things

Earlier this year, my 94-year-old mother fell and broke her leg. She suffered through a four-day wait for surgery because of a high white blood cell count, which was later diagnosed as C. difficile, had atelectasis for days after the surgery, had an infection in the incision the antibiotics for which pitched her back into C. difficile, endured swelling in her legs and feet and received a new diagnosis of dysphagia, which means she can no longer eat regular food but must have only pureed food and thickened liquids.

She has an amazingly strong heart in both senses of the word and made it to the Rehab hospital only to have a recurrence of the C. difficile, which detoured her from rehab for 10 days. 

I am Mum's primary care-giver and organizer 

I hold Mum's Power of Attorney, so I am responsible for her health and financial care. This is different from simply caring for her her or about her more informally. One night not so long ago, wondering why I felt so  stressed (or more accurately why I wanted to smash everythng is sight with a hammer), I spent a few minutes doing a sort of care giver's job description. Here it is:

Attend to Mum’s  bedside care while she is too weak to do ANYTHING for herself (adjust her pillows, the blankets, the curtains, the bed, help her eat, push the button for the nurse, give her foot rubs, comb her hair, moisten the inside of her mouth when it is dry , help her brush her teeth etc. );

Provide emotional care and encouragement as well as explanations for the various procedures, with frequent repetition of the same story, as Mum is now forgetful;

Reaffirm with Mum her wishes re resuscitation;

Try to figure out what  constitutes a “heroic measure”  beyond the obvious things like ventilators and feeding  tubes;

Provide greetings to her from family and frineds, thank them for their cards and letters, and put them up on the wall, so Mum can see them in the various rooms she’s in;

Answer friends’ and family members’ requests for information in a timely way by e-mail, phone or Facebook;

Put out brushfires amongst family members as needed;

Advocate for Mum with the healthcare professionals (emergency room people, her surgeon, social workers, internal medicine team, speech therapists, physiotherapists, nurses, healthcare aids, porters, x-ray techs) in three different hospitals over two months;

Make sure no one (including healthcare workers who should be able to read a chart) feeds mum outside food or water through a straw or anything non-pureed or not thickened;

Explain to numerous people how to feed Mum;

Explain over and over again to everyone who treats her how best to talk to a person who can’t hear well but is still capable of understanding;

Make sure her hearing aids/glasses and other possessions do not get lost during the many moves from hospital to hospital and in and out of isolation rooms;

Manage her finances and pay her bills;

Keep the personnel at her retirement home up-to-date re developments;

Chat optimistically with her fellow retirement home residents about her state of health;

Water the plants, sort the mail and do her laundry at her apartment;

Find and tour nursing homes in case there is no bed available in long-term care in her retirement home;

Sort her belongings and clear out her apartment making sure she will have things that are homey for her in long-term care;

Collect and box up other things to give to family members according to her clearly listed wishes;

Persuade other family members to come and get the things she wants them to have;

There’s likely more, but it escapes me for the moment.

 What are those little things I miss?

These tasks have been my rule of life since Feb. 18. I am happy to help my mother; she was so good to me when I needed her help over the years. Also, she is a remarkably cheerful and stoic patient with a great sense of humour. In noting ruefully early on how much she depended on us, she said, “You’re just at my beck and call.” Then turning to me, she said, “You’re Beck” and to Greg, “You’re Call.”

However, even though I have no negative feelings about caring for Mum, I do miss the little things I do for myself, and that is what makes me a bit desperate. I remember relaxing and

Doing the Saturday Globe and Mail crossword puzzle,

Spending time with Ancestry.com,

Raking the yard,

Writing in my journal,

Cooking in my own kitchen,

Showering in my own bathroom,

Getting my hair cut,

Getting healthcare for myself,

Seeing friends,

Going to church,

Singing in the community choir,

Going to exercise class,

Walking to the post office,

Reading for my course in Spiritual Direction,

Writing stories for the grandkids  … and so on and on

The worst is just when you think things have returned to normal or are at least predictable …  bam … you’re on the train or in the car going back to Toronto leaving behind messages re unexpected absences and appointments to be re-booked.

Greg comes too, and my daughter has filled in so many gaps by visiting very regularly.  Other family members visit when they can.

The early elderly and the very old walk together

But the main burden is on my shoulders. And I cannot but wonder will Mum get better (using that term realistically), where will she go after rehab, when will she go, and what if there is no room in a decent nursing home? I rehearse facing her death everytime the phone from the hospital rings.

And I am not the only one going through this care routine. Everywhere in the hospitals and clinics we see the early elderly, who 40 years ago, I would have thought were over the hill, caring for the very elderly.

Various people tell me to take care of myself, and I am following their advice although I feel guilty about not being at Mum’s bedside every day. A professional who should have known better but meant well, asked what I was doing for fun. Well, fun isn’t top on the agenda just now.  But getting used to taking one day at a time definitely is. And I have not actually reached for the hammer yet.

Finding my inner Sybarite

Coming home from Toronto on Via Rail last Friday, I waited too late to get one of the cheaper seats to London. I discovered, for only $4 more than a now-costly economy class fare, I could up-grade to business.  A spirit of adventure overtook me: I booked my first business class passage to London (Ontario, that is).

The adventure begins

One of my favourite spaces is the concourse at Union Station.

The ticket agent directed me across Union Station to the refurbished Panorama Lounge where a rather snooty clerk curtly directed me to sit “over there.”  Instead, with spa-like music wafting into my ears,  I wandered around to take a look. The space is much loftier than the old Panorama Lounge, which used to be on the departures floor with no panorama of anything. After the restoration of Union Station, when the dust settles and the hoardings come down, there will be a panoramic view of Front St., harried pedestrians, and the Royal York Hotel.



Mmmmm good, but still in the fridge at home ...

 

 

I helped myself to an apple — from the Okanagan Valley, if the boxes stored by the beverage machines were any indication. I also tucked a small complimentary container of tomato juice into my purse, in case I became thirsty later.

During the 90 minutes until train time, I answered all my e-mails. But before I knew it, my train was called. It was quite a walk from the lounge to Track 20 and then I had the dubious pleasure of walking the entire length of the train to the car right behind the engine. As the conductor at the top of the escalator joked, “Go right to the front … you might just as well drive to London.” 

Some initial deflations

When I boarded, I was a bit let down. The seats were just like the ones in economy class except they were dark green. However, I settled into a window seat — actually by the partition between the windows, which, unlike the lower class accommodation, were curtained, thereby obscuring what remained of the view.

No sooner had I arranged myself when a couple of stripling lads came by, paused where I was, and suggested I was in their seat. Apparently the 11B on my ticket referred to where I was to sit. I collected myself, my coat and my bags and moved three seats back, soaking up the condescension of my fellow passengers.

 



Too many numbers. ...where was the usher, I mean, conductor when I needed him/her!



But things quickly improve

I resolved to become both non-descript and observant (which for me is not hard). I pored over the Globe and Mail crossword puzzle. A lot of clinking behind me suggested bottles. Bottles suggested booze. It was the arrival of the refreshment cart. I ordered a white wine but only after noticing no money changed hands between the bored young woman across the aisle and the server — I wasn’t in coach class anymore!

No sooner had I sipped a nice, though not altogether chilled, white wine than someone appeared with a choice of snacks. I chose the mix; my seatmate, the pretzels. He was enjoying the first of several glasses of red wine. I was quite content with my one glass, as a little alcohol goes a long way with me, and the armrest table didn’t lend itself to my falling under it in boozy disarray.

Then someone arrived bearing a menu offering at least four entrée possibilities. Cautious, I chose chicken; my seat-mate, the last serving of a shrimp concoction. He also had another glass of wine.

I awaited developments, but not for long. The snooty girl across the aisle spilled her wine and asked if she could have my serviette; only she called it a napkin. I gave it to her, and she inquired as to the availability of my seat-mate’s. He handed his over, and she dabbed at her shirt and changed seats.

Delectables float down from above

Suddenly a rectangular plastic package was deposited on my little table; I thought at first it was a very thin chocolate bar, but no, it was a lemon-scented, heated, moistened, terry cloth hand towel.

I wiped the newsprint off my fingers. Before I knew it, a plastic container, holding sushi and what looked like coconut cream pie, came from above. I demurred, “I thought I ordered chicken,” but my travelling companion saved me from embarrassment by saying the chicken would come later.

He told me to beware of the ginger: it was hot. I navigated around and through the ginger and enjoyed the sushi. My seat mate had another red wine and took a bite of his coconut cream pie. I didn’t embarrass him by suggesting it was likely dessert, but served prematurely.

Our entrées arrived. The server took them from the cart with an instrument that clipped onto the side of the heated plate; it reminded me of the handle for Corning ware dishes that enabled them to become pans rather than casseroles. I have had one in a drawer for over 40 years because I don’t trust it. However, the Via Rail clip-on handle worked like a charm, and dinner was served. Tasty!

Did I want tea or coffee?  I chose tea and handed my china cup to the server, so the lurching train did not result in hot liquid being accidentally poured into my lap. Very acceptable tea.

Conversation ensues

It seemed churlish to be rescuing a young wine drinker, eating a nice meal and drinking tea from a china cup and not engaging my seat-mate in conversation. He had of course long since put away his Globe and Mail as well. He was originally from Quebec and had moved to London to marry —just like Greg with me.

Anyhow, we chatted about various things I can’t remember too much about. I do remember he had fetching chestnut brown eyes. That is what only one glass of wine does to me. It probably also caused me to explain in excruciating detail how the sleeping berths in trains going to the West Coast are positioned differently from those going to the East Coast and how that affects sleep. I also expatiated on how long you are given to have a pay-as-you go shower on the B. C. inland ferry.

He said something about how much he had enjoyed going to Amsterdam and Paris.

I enjoyed my coconut cream pie.

What a grand meal, and no, I hadn’t yet seen Django Unchained? Had he seen Life of Pi?

Then from over the back of the seat in front, someone appeared bearing a tray on which were small glasses half full of an amber liquid. Ah, would I like cognac? Well, yes, that would be very ice, thank you. My seat-mate said he didn’t usually mix drinks and continued with his next glass of red wine.

My goodness, cognac reminds me of a cold night skating on an outdoors rink and then coming in to get warm by a large fire.

No sooner had I shared this thought, than what should appear but a large tray with two kinds of chocolates; likely they were truffles. I chose one and savoured it.

Yes, I wanted to see Lincoln too.

My goodness, time flies

I also looked out of the window, as we seemed to have arrived at a rather garishly painted station, which turned out to be called Woodstock. I remembered I had intended to phone Greg around Kitchener, so he could leave in time to arrive in London when the train did. No answer, but I noticed a message: he’d phoned 10 minutes before and was already on his way.

Well, that was nice too.

I sipped my cognac slowly all the way into London. Then I joined the other business class passengers saying buoyant farewells to the young Via Rail conductors, who smiled — somewhat over indulgently, I thought.    Never mind, I can’t recommend business-class travel highly enough. 

Shaking more branches on the family tree

Until a recent family crisis which I may write about later, I have continued to pursue ancestors. On my mother’s side, I discovered someone had methodically put together a family tree of those Tremaynes whose roots sank into the fertile earth around Constantine, Cornwall all the way back to 1240.



Constantine is about five miles southwest of Falmouth.

At about that point, Peter (Perys) Tremayne, possibly a Knight Templar, produced two sons, John and Peter. My relative is John and his descendants are undoubtedly buried in this graveyard:



St. Constantine's was built in the 15th century on the remains of a Celtic monastery.

John married Margery, whose mother was Claricia Peverell and hereby hangs another tale.  Apparently, Claricia (and Margery, for that matter) were related to William the Conqueror.

It seems William married not only Matilda, daughter of a Norman baron, but had also linked himself previously in a secret marriage  to one Maud Ingelrica,  a Saxon princess. According to one genealogist, she was one of the “most celebrated beauties of her day.”  Born in 1032, the fair Ingelrica, was the daughter of the noble Saxon Ingelc, himself an “unrecorded son” of Aethelred the Unready, who seems rather well-named in these dubious circumstances, but he was unprepared (or, as other translators suggest,“ill-advised”) for other reasons as well, I'm sure.

Anyhow, William the Conqueror and Maud apparently had a son William. However, Maud  later married Ranulph Peverell who gave his surname to William. William the Conqueror, the real father, apparently wanted to spare his son the misery of being taunted ,as he had been, for illegitimacy. He was known as Bastard by his detractors, for his father Robert I, Duke of Normandy, was not married to his mother.  Goodness, the things you find out!

William the C., embroidered in the Bayeux tapestry, is lifting his
helmet to show he is alive after the Battle of Hastings (Source: Wikipedia).

As an aside, it is also intriguing that the Wikipedia entry about William the Conqueror ends by asserting clearly that in no way shape or form was William ever an unfaithful husband. A millennium later, these things still heat up people’s collars.

The Bastard/Conqueror gave his natural son William so many lands that, in the Domesday Book, he was recorded as having 162 manors, making him one of the major landholders in England. It probably helped that his adopted father had fought on the right side in the Battle of Hastings:

Horses and riders in disarray in the Battle of Hastings (1066) 
are depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry (Source: Wikipedia).

William, known as the Elder, to distinguish him from his son, the Younger, not to mention his half-brother, William Rufus, and his father, William the Conqueror, was a bit of a bounder. One source says he had “three wives and many concubines.” One of his wives produced William the Younger who was six generations removed from Claricia Peverell whose daughter married my Tremayne ancestor.

And 27 generations later (calculated by Ancestry.com, not me) I am here to write about it! Wow!

Embarrassments then and now

So much has been happening recently. Today, his Holiness the Pope resigned.  I resigned myself to donatng three books to the care and keeping of the Diabetes Association — but for pick-up tomorrow in case I change my mind. I also sent consolatory greetings to my daughter-in-law after she posted a note on Facebook about the death of one of their family dogs. However, it was an anniversary remembrance of their pet, who, I failed to recall, died a year ago. That reminds me of the time I asked after my son’s cat who had left this feline realm many months before.  I knew that but had forgotten. So embarrassing.  Maybe I should resign too.

Nevertheless, there are some events that crystallize things for me as a sniff of smelling salts awakens a swooning person. I was pleased to hear that the bones of poor Richard the Third were identified as his. His mortal remains will now be given a proper burial, and I hope the Sarum Rite is used. There is a precedent; it was used in 1984 for the funeral mass for the crew of the Margaret Rose, which sank in 1545 in the Solent off Portsmouth, England and lay buried in mud there for over 400 years.

Anyhow, what amazed me was that the clue to his former majesty’s identity was found in DNA belonging to a female descendant  (and not, as one excited CBC announcer claimed, an ancestor) of his from London, Ontario 17 generations on.

And in my own small way, I have made equally surprising finds. I have been working on the family tree using Ancestry.com and other sources I have serendipitously found via Google. 

At one point I thought I was related to an Englishman transported to Australia for stealing cloth, then marrying after his seven-year sentence was up and fathering a quiverful of children there. He also seemed to have returned to England, married and fathered several children there as well. Descent from a bigamist thief was a slightly embarrassing notoriety. Fortunately, I do not have to worry about it.

Someone put incorrect information into their tree; it was copied by many others until a bright light puzzled why, before the days of jet travel, John Noble was fathering a child a year in Australia as well as doing his part populating Mother England.

Same name and death date on the tombstone, but it was in an Australian cemetery, not an English one (first clue).  Wrong date and place of birth, it soon transpired, and I was left with an unblemished ancestor who lived all his 74 years in Fylingsdale, Yorkshire.

However, and this is the cliff-hanger, there was another find: more to come, once I prune some overhanging branches from the family tree.

Me and my bursa — strolling down the avenue

I have been having various adventures in the healthcare system recently. Some of them have involved my delicate lady parts, so I have eschewed writing about that, as I do want to remain relatively prim.

My hip, however, is a different story. It has been bothering me for years as a result of mishap at an office picnic held by the insurance brokerage where I worked many years ago.  I was playing volleyball, called out that I would get the ball, leaped up and was knocked to the ground by a much taller team-member who either didn’t hear my call or didn’t care. Rumour had it she was angling for one of the romantic attention of one of partners, and I have since thought, nastily, that she was just showing off for his benefit. Whatever her motive that day, her on-going ploys did not end well — for her, but that is another story.

However, she certainly got my attention. My hip hasn’t been the same since. I did not get proper medical care at the time, figuring I was too busy and the pain would just go away. It didn’t. I now have serious arthritis in that hip, but oddly it is not the cause of my pain and limping. It is my hip bursa – something I did not even know I had.

So welcome to bursa world. And yes, it is derived from the same Latin word which gives us burse (the little case which carries the chalice linen to and from the altar at the Eucharist services) and bursar, not to mention bursary:  you can look those up yourself in the unlikely event that you need to. It seems, however, to have nothing to do with a town of the same spelling located in northwestern Turkey.

Bursa means little sac or purse and is a cushiony fluid-filled item between the tendon, muscles and bones around a joint.  There must be lots here and there in the human body, but the one I am concentrated on is on the point of my hip, site of that ancient collision: the trochanteric bursa.

chttp://www.sportsinjuryclinic.net/sport-injuries/hip-groin-pain/hip-bursitis

I became a fan of bursae when both my family doctor and the orthopedic surgeon he referred me to concluded independently that I had bursitis. My pain did not resemble hip pain: No referred pain to the groin, but lots on the surface of the hip joint.

Thank goodness, I would not have to undergo my much-researched hip replacement.  Although everyone I have talked to says their hip replacement was just the thing, I have had my doubts. As a massage therapist I did not return to said to me enthusiastically during our one and only session together, “When I was in training, I was allowed to watch a hip replacement operation, and it’s just like de-boning a chicken.”

Since coming to Parkhill, I have discovered a wonderful deep tissue massage therapist. Because of the pain, my muscles have become twisted and taut, and I limp when I walk. She has pummeled the adhesions in those muscles to a fare thee well and has encouraged me to do exercises to stretch those muscles out.

I hate to admit I have not done them as faithfully as I know I should chiefly because they require being on the floor a good deal of the time. The bedroom rug is always a bit linty to lie on and hard to arise from. I’ve been too lazy to get my yoga mat from wherever it is in the basement.

In any event, during my annual health review (apparently we don’t get annual physicals anymore), my family doctor and I discussed bursitis, and he gave me a sheet of exercises, several of which I discovered I was already doing.

There was one, however, which I had not done and which immediately attracted me because I did not have to get down on the floor to do it. I looked at the sketch; it showed someone hanging their bad leg over the edge of a bench.

 



Even if not in doubt read the directions; I know this now.

 

The bed would do just fine. I hung it over for the recommended 35 to 45 seconds. Easy peasy, I thought until I decided it was time to stand up.

Riveting red-hot pain coursed through my leg from my hip to my ankle. Greg chose that moment to ask me about going to the post office. I gasped and said I really couldn’t answer just now. I was at an angle of 45 degrees over the bed on my one good leg with my other leg suspended in immobile agony. I pondered having to go through the rest of my life in this state: both boring and utterly tortuous. Greg made an attempt to rub the worst pains. That helped a bit. After what seemed like an eternity, I notice the pain was slowly subsiding. I was able to return my right leg to the floor and stand up.

I must have torn every tiny little muscle fibre down my entire leg.

Only then was I up to re-reading the instructions. Apparently, you should do this first on the floor with the bad leg drooped over the good leg, giving a drop of inches, not feet.  Then graduate to what I did in one fell swoop.

But wonder of wonders, I was able to walk more freely. I did not limp as much. Later during my walk at the community centre, I was able to walk over the imaginary log – with both legs one after the other!! What a breakthrough!

Also try not to fall off the bed - or bench. (pictures by Greg)

I would not recommend plunging into any new exercise without fully reading the directions. Trying out and asking questions afterwards, my preferred way of learning, is not always a good idea. However, in this case, I am happy to say it has had amazing unexpected results so far. No pain no gain, indeed! It has all worked out in the end. And I have new motivation to keep up my floor exercises — as well as to vacuum more frequently. Plusses all around.

A new discovery in the world of staples

I received some nice presents for Christmas. Mind you, Greg and I don’t go overboard with the gift-giving, as we have so much stuff already. Where we do go overboard is in the food-eating, but that’s another story.

 

One of my favourite presents this year — until extremely recent developments — was a stapler. It’s a Swingline with a rather aerodynamic profile and a nice heft. Greg gave it to me because he thought I might like one of my own. Before I clarified this with him, I thought it was so I would not keep using his.




And it even has a low staple indicator.
 

My new office friend takes regular-sized staples.  This fact was essential, both to my stapling habits and to writing this blog, until only a few moments ago when I made a stunning discovery about my existing stapler. As a result, I have had to change the whole tenor of this blog, as you shall see ...

Yes, I still have my first and (up to now) only stapler. Greg said I must be one of the few people in the world who remembers getting their first stapler.

It is a small Apsco which I bought in the 1960s at the Oxford Book Store located in Wellington Square before Wellington Square was tarted up and renamed Galleria, in the forlorn hope that it would be an upscale shopping mecca. However, Galleria now contains an insurance company, a Rainbow Cinema, a few dollar stores and an annex for the local community college with an extensive food court. But that is beside the point now, as any planned analogy with my old stapler no longer holds true (Writing is a difficult art).

 

My  Apsco reminds me of a cricket - very eager.

 

My little orange stapler, by contrast is still relatively perky. It is in more or less in working order although it doesn’t stay closed. Made by a company called Isabergs Verkstads‏ located in Hestra, Sweden (which I shall have to find on the map), it is a model A 10.  According to the imprint on the finger rest, Apsco in “Toronto Ont. Can.” distributed it here. It could continue to function were it not for the fact that no one makes staples for it anymore. Or so I thought until, after squinting to see where it was made, I came across these stunning words along the staple-holder part: “loads standard staples.”

What a surprise that was! Years ago in the mid-90s when it was getting low on staples, I went back to the Oxford Book store (at its Richmond St. location as the Wellington Square/Galleria incarnation had bitten the dust) to find more. I was told there were none for such a tiny stapler. Both the clerk and I had these wee staplers, and together we bemoaned the apparent lack of the wherewithal to continue their useful existence.

Here the plot thickens – so much so that you might want to go get lunch, watch a re-run of As the World Turns or listen to somebody boring saying something pointless about the fiscal cliff.

Still with me? Then move the clock forward 10 or 12 years and find me at the check-out counter of the Parkhill Home Hardware store (before it also closed). Behold boxes,  each containing 5,000 standard-sized staples at the  unbelievable price of only one dollar. I bought three. 15,000 staples and only one stapler in which to use them … until today. With trembling hands I put those standard staples into my little Apsco. They fitted. I tested them on a sheet of paper. They work!

Suddenly we became a three-stapler family:

Greg's is an Ofrex Anglia II made in Great Britain.

 

I am not going to take the new stapler back, for it promises to staple up to 20 sheets. I don’t want to overtax my little Apsco; I’ll use it for up to five.

What has this episode taught me? The world is full of surprises. One should never jump to conclusions. Nostalgia is a good thing especially if it preserves what only appeared to be a useless little item.

Happy 2013!