Travels with myself (part two)

 I pass security

The big day came. The Detroit airport was not too busy, and the line-up at security not very long. The guards seemed cheery, although a cynic behind me suggested the presence of their supervisor might account for their unexpected joie de vivre.  I looped my cane over my arm, fished my passport and boarding pass out of my purse, replaced my purse strap over my shoulder from where it had fallen and resumed dragging my carry-on bag. I was the only one to use the little framework thing provided to check carry-on bag dimensions. No problem so far.  I realized I might be holding up the line, so I let several people go by. They seemed unaccountably pleased.

After exchanging good morning pleasantries with a female guard, I leaned in just a bit and confided that I had titanium in my big toe and also a breast prosthesis. She said they had just the thing for “people like you” and pointed in the general direction of a large plastic enclosure, towards what I took to be a full-body scanner. “The thing that says video something or other?”  I queried (I dislike indefinite pointing ― it got me in trouble once before in a similar situation thirty years ago, but that is another story ). “Yes,”  she said.

But first, there were all those bins. Everything had seemed so cut and dried on the web-sites, but here I wasn’t sure where to begin. I told a couple of business travellers to go ahead, as I was not familiar with the routine; they suggested I just follow what they were doing. That was nice. They had their quart-sized plastic bags at the ready.  I took mine out of my purse and lacking that special little dish shown in the video, I just placed it in a bin. They put their cell phones in their bin, and so did I in mine.   They removed their shoes. I removed mine. They took off their belts. I didn’t have to do this, but at this point a security officer came over and asked if he could help. That was nice too.

He suggested I could put my winter coat in a bin. I did that. He suggested adding my scarf. Done. Then he asked if I had anything in my pants pockets and I was pleased to say I had no pockets.  He seemed relieved and said he could take my cane now and would I need his arm. I thought that was pretty gallant but refused and then thought maybe he’ll think I don’t really have arthritis in my hip. Well, too late now.  I hoisted my carry-on bag into another bin, thinking I looked much too able-bodied. 

Then it was off to the scanner. After the bins, it seemed ridiculously easy.  Feet on the yellow foot symbols on the floor and arms in the air. But no, hands had to be like the ones in the picture. Mine were, I thought. Oh thumbs down.  All right then.

I passed security. I was a little put out that no one had shown the slightest interest in my carefully labelled medications, but you can’t have everything always go your way.

I retrieved my cane, my bag of 3-1-1 containers, my phone, my carry-on bag, my shoes, my scarf and my purse and hobbled over to a bench to put myself back together.  I noticed a sign pointing to the “airport non-denominational  quiet room” and almost decided to go there, but thought I should find my flight first. It left in three hours – obviously no time to waste.

Travels with myself (part one)

 The Big Pack

Recently I flew to North Carolina for 12 days’ vacation. I don’t fly often. The previous time was in 2004. But despite some people's apparent amusement, it’s no exaggeration that as a result of my preparations for this trip, I became an exemplary traveller.

I began my quest for travel information on the Delta Airline site and discovered the many rules for happy flying.  Or at least flying that would make the security people happy. This involved a lengthy  detour to the Transport Security Administration (TSA) site. I decided to take just a large purse and one carry-on bag: hence, no checked luggage to worry about.

First of all, the carry-on bag had to be the right size. Mine was fine ― at least in two of its dimensions. The depth was just centimetres off, but I pressed on anyway.  I paid close attention to the image of the bad messy bag, with electronics packed all higgledy piggledy, and the good tidy one. I resolved that no electric cords of mine would entangle the x-ray process and packed my phone charger carefully.

Then I watched videos. The first featured a “traveller with special needs” (he apparently had prescription drugs). The second showed a “female business traveller,” which I watched even though I was travelling for pleasure (at least in the long run). She was shown carefully removing a small plastic bag of tubes and bottles from her purse and putting it in a dish provided for that very purpose.

Next I learned about these gels and liquids: bottles, not to be over 3.4 ounces in volume, had to be placed in one, clear, quart-sized, zip-lock, plastic bag. Difficult to determine in metric, as numerous web-sites devoted solely to this topic attested.  Greg bought me a box of foot-square bags before I realized they were too big. Finally my neighbour came to the rescue with the right size:  a box of 6.5 by 7.5 inch plastic zip-lock bags from the Dollar Store. She gave me several.  My  toiletries fitted nicely.  

Medications posed another challenge; fortunately, daily dose containers are allowed. I bought two weeks’ worth, filled them with my cranberry, probiotics, calcium, glucosamine, diuretic,  fish oil in a gel cap (!), Gravol,  and  Imodium (on the advice of the pharmacist’s wife “as you could be miles from a drugstore”).  Then I included an extra day in case of an airport delay. I felt I was covered coming and going, as it were, and put them in a second quart-sized plastic bag.  As a special nod to the TSA, I also listed the name of every medication. It felt good.

My passport was fine; I’d be home a week or so before the six-month time limit after which it could not be used unless renewed.  I designated a special pocket in my purse for it where I checked it frequently.

My cane could travel with me; it was not a weapon but an assistive device.

 I was allowed my breast prosthesis, but if I didn’t want to tell security about it out loud, I could pass them a note. This seemed too much like what a bank robber might do, and I wasn’t sure if they would be able to both read and understand  the meaning of “prosthesis” in time.  So I decided to brazen it forth when the time came. I was curious as to why the gel in a breast prosthesis was allowed past the guards but not a 4 oz. bottle of shampoo but decided not to raise that issue at the airport.

Next were shoes: Velcro fasteners were recommended for their easy removal but thankfully I am neither so old nor so young as to have a pair of shoes with Velcro, so I ignored that. I did check to be sure there was nothing which could be construed as gel in the soles of my shoes.  In fact, I changed insoles just in case.

Next, as requested, I emptied all my coat pockets. I found several old wrapped candies, transfers, ticket stubs and Kleenexes as well as my gloves, which I absentmindedly put back.

Finally I decided to wear a pair of pants with no pockets or belt loops so that I would not accidentally have something in my pockets and then also have to take off my belt. It just seemed easier that way.

I am pleased to say that five days before departure, I was all ready to go.

Sculptor Shares Passion for Wood Carving

(This is a report I wrote as one of the directors of the Parkhill Area Horticultural Society)

If you are intrigued by chainsaw tree carving, then you would have enjoyed the March 21 meeting of the Parkhill Area Horticultural Society (PAHS).  Robbin Wenzoski, who carved the Royal Oak in Coronation Park, spoke enthusiastically of his love for carving.

Robbin Wenzoski and friends

Valerie Thomson introduced Mr. Wenzoski, who was born in Golden, B.C. and worked in construction, timber framing and logging there before moving to Ontario. He started to carve in 2003. His first piece, entitled Synaptic Twist, took 1,100 hours to create — with a mallet and chisel. Afterwards, said his wife Laura, he had “no fingerprints left.” In 2006, he was persuaded to use a small chain saw and “couldn’t believe the detail, how far you could go with it.” He recalled his first carvings: an elephant and a small clown. Since then, he has carved 37 tree trunks in London alone and has received commissions in Orangeville, Brampton and at the Holland Bloorview Kids Rehabilitation Hospital, a children’s rehab centre in Toronto.

A sculpture done using epoxy

He enjoys the excitement of doing live carving shows but also does a lot of work in his studio. One of his most unusual commissions was a replica of a lioness from King Tut’s tomb, which now serves as a mantelpiece in the Egyptian-themed living room of one of his clients. To keep up with demand, he maintains an inventory of old-growth tree stumps in his yard at Muirhead, Ontario — one is an impressive eight-foot diameter log from a lot in Strathroy.

For the crowd of nearly 40 people at the Horticulture Society meeting, he passed along some of the things he has learned over the years: He noted that tree trunks sculptured while still in the soil will eventually rot at the base and will need to be cut off, placed on a concrete base and supported by 18” iron pipe. He now leaves no bark any tree he carves, as it attracts destructive insects.  His favourite wood is the “rich, dark wood” of the black walnut, with Coronation Park’s Royal Oak running a close second. His least favourite?  Poplar — because “radial checks [small cracks in the grain] are a problem.”

Robbin's sculpture of the Royal Oak

His passion to teach others to carve finds an outlet at the Haliburton School of the Arts where, each summer, he provides a course on chainsaw carving. Class size is limited to 12, and much of the focus is on safety, including the use of steel-toed boots, chaps, safety eyewear, ear plugs and anti-vibration gloves. Mr. Wenzoski’s only injury involving a chain saw occurred when he was 13 years old and accidentally fell on one he was carrying while jumping off a vehicle.

Carvapalooza, a five-day carving extravaganza is another expression of Mr. Wenzoski’s passion to teach his art. Now in its fourth year, the event attracts carvers from all over the world and has grown from 17 carvers the first year to 33 last year. They produced 148 pieces which were auctioned off to help carvers defray their travel costs. The participants learn new carving and saw sharpening techniques, as well as how to relate to the public and increase sales.  

Most visiting carvers ­— some from as far away as Peru, Bulgaria and Tasmania — are billeted in the community. Laura Wenzoski and her friends “do all the cooking,” but the meals are eaten at the local Legion, one of 16 sponsors of the event.  This year’s Carvapalooza will take place from April 11 to 15 at the Wenzoski’s property in Muirhead, Ontario, located south of the 401 about 20 minutes west of Rodney. The general public can see live carving over the five days and bid on the final products on April 15.

Laura Wenzoski chats with a PAHS director

In other PAHS business, Janet Johnstone read a letter she had received from a secretary to Her Majesty the Queen in response to one she wrote describing the Royal Oak carving and its commemoration of the Royal Wedding. Janet was also thanked for the congratulations she included for the Queen on the occasion of her Diamond Jubilee.

Gary Chittick announced a mystery bus tour scheduled for June 9, and Ann Wilson encouraged those present to buy books from the PAHS library and to put in their order for spring and summer bulbs.

So many bargains!

The next meeting, on the benefits of houseplants, will be on April 18; the plant sale and auction is slated for May 16. In the meantime, be sure to follow PAHS on Facebook and go to the web-site as well at http://www.pahs.gardenontario.org/.

Buy your membership today!

Inconvenience in the Wilds of North Middlesex:

Here in North Middlesex, we seem obsessed with inconvenience. Take the the future of our high school; a city bigwig’s suggestion that E-learning might help the enrolment problem found few backers. Better to be inconvenienced by having your children go all the way to London apparently.  Wind turbine farms have generated more than the expected electricity: some local residents have lain down on the road to inconvenience truck drivers delivering the turbine blades. On another front, even though, as our newspaper solemnly reported, “January is a time of no mosquito issues,” concerned citizens reviewed plans to render life as inconvenient as possible for next year’s crop. Well, who can quarrel with that!

Nevertheless, for me, living in a small village means things are handy: You can go to the library and be home again in 10 minutes — and that includes checking out the books the librarian called you about when she realized that Hotmail failed to send the automated message.

Recently, one of the wardens hurriedly left church just as Communion was starting. I didn’t quite catch her explanation, but apparently she was coming back. I was last in line and tried to delay — in both kinds   — in case she returned in time, but she just missed.  However, she did partake of the final hymn and the dismissal. She had just put her house up for sale.  A Sunday morning showing was scheduled, so she had to dash home to put her cat in the car.

And things are made handy: Take the bright yellow port-a-potty behind the sign on Main St. advertising the Parkhill Area Horticultural Society (aka the Hort).  Apparently, the municipality asked the company to remove it during the last postal strike for reasons I am not clear about, but it has reappeared — like a winter aconite in a snowy garden.

A letter to the editor in the Parkhill Gazette reminded readers that our local sanitation company donated it not just for families tobogganing on the hill beside the post office but for all visitors to the town. It gets serviced weekly, has a hand sanitizer dispenser, and is available for use “no matter what time of the day or night.”

There are other washrooms, but they are at the Leisure Club, a distant stroll on the other side of Coronation Park (past the famed Royal Oak, carved to commemorate William and Kate's wedding) and, inconveniently, they don’t open until May.

Speaking of trees, had you attended the general meeting of the Hort, you would have learned something handy about landscaping. The owner of the local nursery advised against spending hundreds of dollars on a formal landscape design. Just bring your house measurements to their garden store, and she’ll draw an outline of your house and yard in the gravel driveway and place plants in it until the desired effect is reached.   Then you can spend that money on plants rather than paper!

Also, everyone knows about the convenience of mulch for the garden especially when it provides nitrogen for the soil. A lively and somewhat unexpected discussion ensued as to the nitrogen-providing benefits of human urine. Apparently, it is very handy for re-invigorating compost heaps, and if you can get urine from a male of the species, it can be used to ward off unwanted critters. This surprising information raised a few titters amongst the mostly female audience. Practically speaking, we could use some around our neck of the woods as we have been shocked by a threesome of semi-feral cats, enlivened prematurely  by the mild weather no doubt, engaging in unmentionable activity on our lawn.

But alas, there is a downside to convenience. We have been subjected to more than our share of door-to-door inquiries especially about natural gas contracts and subscriptions to the London Free Press, neither of which we want.   We accept solicitations from the Heart and Stroke Foundation, however, as their representative is also our neighbour and has used his Bobcat to clear snow from the foot of our driveway  (before we got our own beast — whereupon, as you will recall, it stopped snowing).

Anyway, the other day I was meandering around the kitchen in my dressing gown when the doorbell rang. It was only 10:00 in the morning, so much too early for the Mr. Heart and Stroke. I shrank down beside the sink until I was sure whoever it was had gone. To add insult to injury, there was another knock on the door several hours later. By this time I was properly clothed but still not convivial.  I am an introvert so for me, answering the door is like answering the phone: if it’s important, they’ll call back. 

And sure enough they did.  As I was making dinner, another knock on the door. I said to Greg who’d arrived home a few minutes before, “For goodness sake, that’s the third time today! Can’t they get the point!”  He said rather firmly, “I think you’d better answer it.” This startled me, as his attitude to unasked-for social interruptions is much like mine.  But I did as I was bidden, looked out and saw a grey van parked in the driveway. Turning to come back up the porch steps, there was the driver. He was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. 

Yes, it was the chap from Frontier Flowers delivering my Valentine’s bouquet.

Here in North Middlesex, we seem obsessed with inconvenience. Take the the future of our high school; a city bigwig’s suggestion that E-learning might help the enrolment problem found few backers. Better to be inconvenienced by having your children go all the way to London apparently.  Wind turbine farms have generated more than the expected electricity: some local residents have lain down on the road to inconvenience truck drivers delivering the turbine blades. On another front, even though, as our newspaper solemnly reported, “January is a time of no mosquito issues,” concerned citizens reviewed plans to render life as inconvenient as possible for next year’s crop. Well, who can quarrel with that!

Nevertheless, for me, living in a small village means things are handy: You can go to the library and be home again in 10 minutes — and that includes checking out the books the librarian called you about when she realized that Hotmail failed to send the automated message.

Recently, one of the wardens hurriedly left church just as Communion was starting. I didn’t quite catch her explanation, but apparently she was coming back. I was last in line and tried to delay — in both parts   — in case she returned in time, but she just missed.  However, she did partake of the final hymn and the dismissal. She had just put her house up for sale.  A Sunday morning showing was scheduled, so she had to dash home to put her cat in the car.

And things are made handy: Take the bright yellow port-a-potty behind the sign on Main St advertising the Parkhill Area Horticultural Society (aka the Hort).  Apparently, the municipality asked the company to remove it during the last postal strike for reasons I am not clear about, but it has reappeared — like a winter aconite in a snowy garden.

A letter to the editor in the Parkhill Gazette reminded readers that our local sanitation company donated it not just for families tobogganing on the hill beside the post office but for all visitors to the town. It gets serviced weekly, has a hand sanitizer dispenser, and is available for use “no matter what time of the day or night.”

There are other washrooms, but they are at the Leisure Club, a distant stroll on the other side of Coronation Park (past the famed Royal Oak) and, inconveniently, they don’t open until May.

Speaking of trees, had you attended the general meeting of the Hort., you would have learned something handy about landscaping. The owner of the local nursery advised against spending hundreds of dollars on a formal landscape design. Just bring your house measurements to their garden store, and she’ll draw an outline of your house and yard in the gravel driveway and place plants in it until the desired effect is reached.   Then you can spend that money on plants rather than paper!

Also, everyone knows about the convenience of mulch for the garden especially when it provides nitrogen for the soil. A lively and somewhat unexpected discussion ensued as to the nitrogen-providing benefits of human urine. Apparently, it is very handy for re-invigorating compost heaps, and if you can get urine from a male of the species, it can be used to ward off unwanted critters. This surprising information raised a few titters amongst the mostly female audience. Practically speaking, we could use some around our neck of the woods as we have been shocked by a threesome of semi-feral cats, enlivened prematurely  by the mild weather no doubt, engaging in unmentionable activity on our lawn.

But alas, there is a downside to convenience. We have been subjected to more than our share of door-to-door inquiries especially about natural gas contracts and subscriptions to the London Free Press, neither of which we want.   We accept solicitations from the Heart and Stroke Foundation, however, as their representative is also our neighbour and has used his Bobcat to clear snow from the foot of our driveway  (before we got our own beast — whereupon, as you will recall, it stopped snowing).

Anyway, the other day I was meandering around the kitchen in my dressing gown when the doorbell rang. It was only 10:00 in the morning, so much too early for the Mr. Heart and Stroke. I shrank down beside the sink until I was sure whoever it was had gone. To add insult to injury, there was another knock on the door several hours later. By this time I was properly clothed but still not convivial.  I am an introvert so for me, answering the door is like answering the phone: if it’s important, they’ll call back. 

And sure enough they did.  As I was making dinner, another knock on the door. I said to Greg who’d arrived home a few minutes before, “For goodness sake, that’s the third time today! Can’t they get the point!”  He said rather firmly, “I think you’d better answer it.” This startled me, as his attitude to unasked-for social interruptions is much like mine.  But I did as I was bidden, looked out and saw a grey van parked in the driveway. Turning to come back up the porch steps, there was the driver. He was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. 

Yes, it was the chap from Frontier Flowers delivering my Valentine’s bouquet.

Here in North Middlesex, we seem obsessed with inconvenience. Take the the future of our high school; a city bigwig’s suggestion that E-learning might help the enrolment problem found few backers. Better to be inconvenienced by having your children go all the way to London apparently.  Wind turbine farms have generated more than the expected electricity: some local residents have lain down on the road to inconvenience truck drivers delivering the turbine blades. On another front, even though, as our newspaper solemnly reported, “January is a time of no mosquito issues,” concerned citizens reviewed plans to render life as inconvenient as possible for next year’s crop. Well, who can quarrel with that!

Nevertheless, for me, living in a small village means things are handy: You can go to the library and be home again in 10 minutes — and that includes checking out the books the librarian called you about when she realized that Hotmail failed to send the automated message.

Recently, one of the wardens hurriedly left church just as Communion was starting. I didn’t quite catch her explanation, but apparently she was coming back. I was last in line and tried to delay — in both parts   — in case she returned in time, but she just missed.  However, she did partake of the final hymn and the dismissal. She had just put her house up for sale.  A Sunday morning showing was scheduled, so she had to dash home to put her cat in the car.

And things are made handy: Take the bright yellow port-a-potty behind the sign on Main St advertising the Parkhill Area Horticultural Society (aka the Hort).  Apparently, the municipality asked the company to remove it during the last postal strike for reasons I am not clear about, but it has reappeared — like a winter aconite in a snowy garden.

A letter to the editor in the Parkhill Gazette reminded readers that our local sanitation company donated it not just for families tobogganing on the hill beside the post office but for all visitors to the town. It gets serviced weekly, has a hand sanitizer dispenser, and is available for use “no matter what time of the day or night.”

There are other washrooms, but they are at the Leisure Club, a distant stroll on the other side of Coronation Park (past the famed Royal Oak) and, inconveniently, they don’t open until May.

Speaking of trees, had you attended the general meeting of the Hort., you would have learned something handy about landscaping. The owner of the local nursery advised against spending hundreds of dollars on a formal landscape design. Just bring your house measurements to their garden store, and she’ll draw an outline of your house and yard in the gravel driveway and place plants in it until the desired effect is reached.   Then you can spend that money on plants rather than paper!

Also, everyone knows about the convenience of mulch for the garden especially when it provides nitrogen for the soil. A lively and somewhat unexpected discussion ensued as to the nitrogen-providing benefits of human urine. Apparently, it is very handy for re-invigorating compost heaps, and if you can get urine from a male of the species, it can be used to ward off unwanted critters. This surprising information raised a few titters amongst the mostly female audience. Practically speaking, we could use some around our neck of the woods as we have been shocked by a threesome of semi-feral cats, enlivened prematurely  by the mild weather no doubt, engaging in unmentionable activity on our lawn.

But alas, there is a downside to convenience. We have been subjected to more than our share of door-to-door inquiries especially about natural gas contracts and subscriptions to the London Free Press, neither of which we want.   We accept solicitations from the Heart and Stroke Foundation, however, as their representative is also our neighbour and has used his Bobcat to clear snow from the foot of our driveway  (before we got our own beast — whereupon, as you will recall, it stopped snowing).

Anyway, the other day I was meandering around the kitchen in my dressing gown when the doorbell rang. It was only 10:00 in the morning, so much too early for the Mr. Heart and Stroke. I shrank down beside the sink until I was sure whoever it was had gone. To add insult to injury, there was another knock on the door several hours later. By this time I was properly clothed but still not convivial.  I am an introvert so for me, answering the door is like answering the phone: if it’s important, they’ll call back. 

And sure enough they did.  As I was making dinner, another knock on the door. I said to Greg who’d arrived home a few minutes before, “For goodness sake, that’s the third time today! Can’t they get the point!”  He said rather firmly, “I think you’d better answer it.” This startled me, as his attitude to unasked-for social interruptions is much like mine.  But I did as I was bidden, looked out and saw a grey van parked in the driveway. Turning to come back up the porch steps, there was the driver. He was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. 

Yes, it was the chap from Frontier Flowers delivering my Valentine’s bouquet.

“Joke, Joke, Joke” - a commentary on "Most"

I was at a retreat recently. The theme was finding “God in the Dark” and we watched three films, the first of which was the award-winning Czech-language film,  Most trans. The Bridge  (2003).   The other two were As it Is in Heaven and Billy Elliot both of which and especially As It Is in Heaven, I really enjoyed. In each film the mother is absent, but that is probably a tale for a different day.

In any event, Most, annoyed me immensely. In this reaction, I was in a very distinct minority!  And I am still trying to figure out why it got under my skin instead of into my heart.  But that latter phrase, dripping with schmaltzy religiosity,  is probably a clue.

You can watch it on you-tube at  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JSXqVb8Kc4  .

While you are at it, watch an older version, The Bridge, aka The Sacrifice  (1978) on which it was likely based:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-JZ6Nc5UsY

The 1978 film short was produced and directed by Robert Hatch with screenplay by Skip Clark;  both are members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In this film, the allegorical meaning predominates   and the ending is significantly different from Most. So I didn’t find it quite so reprehensible… not quite… although all that soft-spoken father-talk about a five-year old (!) needing to be responsible for Mum is a bit creepy.

Similarly in Most, the son is depicted in a role of greater responsibility than an eight-year-old should have to bear: his concern over his father’s sadness is touching, but his father doesn’t exercise the parental judgment he should.    The characters in this short (33-minte) film were both poignantly realistic and often amusing in all their faults and failings. The little boy seemed especially attuned to them. What I saw was a loving father and son enjoying silly jokes and being together.

 I am a clueless concrete thinker, so the immediate reaction of my fellow retreat participants that the film was an allegory of God the Father sacrificing his son surprised me. 

Nevertheless, in an interview in Encompass (October 2005), a newsletter published by the conservative  American Anglican Council, Most  Director Bobby Garabedian was quoted as saying he wanted to make Hollywood films  and “ in the art, to let the voice of God speak.”  He added he wanted to “provoke debate and questions.”

I had a lot of questions: why did the father take his son to a workplace which could be dangerous and then leave him by himself fishing?  He indulged the son, but also indulged his own loneliness and sadness by allowing him to come to the bridge. 

How could the heroin addict possibly know what had happened?

How many eight year old boys have to die before addicts give up their addictions? Or put another way, would a heroin addict really have the empathy needed to care about the anguish she saw on the father’s face?

The father let his son die so the trainload of people we had gotten to know remarkably well and therefore cared about, might live. But is this, despite John 3:16, what is meant by sacrifice?  

How often do we put our children in a position where we sacrifice them for the greater good – a sacrifice that we might have avoided or accepted ourselves?

But the thing which rankles most (no pun intended) is the ending of the film.  The father talks about creating a new life for himself with a new job  in a new city with new people. Then he sees the former addict, now amazingly a happy cured mother. The toddler smiles beatifically at him whereupon he throws back his head and his arms to the sky in joy. Sorry, anyone who has lost a child would not feel that way. The sense of the film suggests they should and does those labouring under both grief and guilt a huge disservice. It was sentimental goo.

Also it says nothing about the idea of willing sacrifice.  I’m not a big fan of the idea that God or anyone should sacrifice someone else than themselves.  Of course, you could argue that God being three in one could in fact do this, but I’m not about to wade into those doctrinal waters. The only willing sacrifice I saw in the film was the little boy trying to move the lever to set the bridge in motion. Not the father  who seemed to dither in the station house not knowing what to do, but the son who rapidly and  instinctively did the right thing and died as a result. His was the willing sacrifice!

There I’ve unburdened myself! Whew, feels much better. 

Blow, blow thou bitter wind

Another dispatch from the Wilds of North Middlesex — likely #10

 

Like many Canadians, even those in faraway Prince Edward Island, renowned for its winter storms, we have had an unusually mild winter so far.   In fact, some bulbs are up, and a winter aconite was on the verge of blooming a few days ago before the mercury fell again. It’s the yellow dot near the centre of this photo :

I expect many people attribute the balminess to climate change, but I know the real cause. We decided, after several years of snow shovelling and drifts as tall as I am (not that much of an exaggeration), that it was time to get a snow blower.  Since then it has snowed —feebly — twice.  

Unlike Greg, who eschews comparison shopping, I have learned a lot about snow blowers.  My enthusiasm for on-line investigation likely warmed since there was no snow to shovel, which I actually enjoy doing in moderation, and it was raining, which dampened my eagerness for taking a walk.  See raindrops in this accompanying, somewhat dreary, photo :

According to Wikipedia, snow blowers are a Canadian invention first devised in the 1870s.   For some reason, they are now called snow throwers, and they come in one- and two- stage models.   You have to both pick up and then throw the snow; a one-stage does that in one operation, whereas in the mightier  two- stage type, one mechanism draws the snow into the augur and then another blows it out the handy chute.   We bought the latter variety; I call it the Beast.

It is a wise idea to familiarize yourself with its operating ins and outs (no pun intended). This includes how to start the Beast. In this regard, Greg had a small role to play in the ongoing history of Cub Cadets in North Middlesex. The day after we bought it in early December about an inch of snow fell.  Greg hastened out to throw snow. Nothing happened except for ever saltier language , not befitting that of a man of the cloth nor my gentle readers.  I suggested the motor /engine thing might be flooded, but I was ahead of the curve. 

A quick trip back to Parkhill Outdoor Products, and problem solved. You need to prime it first.  News travels fast here, and Greg’s adventure has already entered local lore:  Over coffee at my neighbour’s later in the week, her son-in-law, a truck driver and buddy of the salesman since high school, asked if we had had any more trouble getting it to start. 

Not a good idea, we quickly learned to blow the snow too far and have it land on your neighbour’s driveway.  Your irritated neighbour may soon land on your front porch. Also, it should come as no surprise that wearing a floaty accessory like a scarf is discouraged.  No one want to channel  poor Isadora Duncan.

 And that’s not all.

Things like garden hoses, rolled-up newspapers and forgotten small  toys may lurk under a pristine blanket of snow waiting to  jam the works. Not a wise idea to unblock the augur while the machine is turned on even if it is not actually running.   The misadventure of a local doctor entered the annals of local of history many years ago.   He tried to take a jammed-up newspaper out of the scoop at the front and lost two fingers in the process.  Even though this happened in Ailsa Craig, it is still used as a cautionary tale around here.

My re-entry into normal January activities pales by comparison. Low mobility exercise class resumed a couple of weeks ago.  As we bent and stretched to the usual pre-holiday tunes.  I was rather sorry not to be doing front roly-polies and climbing over the imaginary log to Ave Maria and O Holy Night, but there is always next year.

Speaking of January, I have resolved to make better use of my skates. After trying them out over Christmas at the rink at city hall in Toronto, I decided, once we got home, to go to the holiday community skate over at the arena. 

Toronto has a reputation in these parts for big-city lawlessness. In fact, someone at cantata practice insisted to me that the murder rate in Toronto was higher than that in Detroit, but she was from Sarnia, so I expect I should cut her some slack.  Anyhow, at the rink in Toronto, skaters travelled in the same direction, did not roughhouse, did not play throwing games with hats, did not carry  their toddlers on their shoulders, nor did they pound down the ice like Moose Vasko.  I expect it was because most of the Mega-city skaters were either arthritic (like yours truly) or still learning. Note number of skaters with both feet on ice:

But herein hockey country, it was a different story and a hair-raising experience for me.  Even though Tim Horton’s sponsored the free-for-all  (in every sense of the term), I am going to pay $2 and attend the moms and tots and seniors sessions from now on. There is a two-year-old who plods straight across the rink on the blue line, but I think I can dodge him.