Tiny railways on a tiny island amuse us on a summer afternoon

Our friend John has left Ty'n y maes and a great silence has descended upon the little house in the fields. This is what happens when an extrovert departs leaving two Internet-surfing introverts behind. 

 

Yesterday, we toured our part of the Island and dropped in to the PEI Miniature Railway in Elmira, PEI.

 

 

Riding on it was a throwback to our childhood when we rode a similar one in Springbank Park, London, Ont. No, we are not in this picture:

 

Off we go into the woods:



 

During our ride we saw murals depicting scenes from the local village. Here is one of them:

 

 

We also toured the PEI Railway museum. The exterior must have been very like the station platform on which Anne Shirley waited all by herself for Matthew Cuthbert:

 



 

 

A huge railway layout and collection - one of the largest in Canada was housed in another building. Built by a professional engineer, a Mr. Beecham if my memory serves, it is in the shape of PEI, hence the rather jagged layout:

 

Lovely wild roses enhance the grounds:

 

Because we had brought chocolate  cookies and grapes with us for a snack, we declined the offer of ice cream advertised on that billboard and left to go on further sight seeing.



Stay tuned for more reports.

Wallowing in a world of waste

 

Coming to Prince Edward island as summer residents, not tourists, has involved a learning curve as moving to any new place always does.  Understanding the waste management system here on the island has been and still is a special challenge. Islanders have had years to accustom themselves to the rules and bins and are proud that they recycle so much waste.

Of course we want to fit in and do the right thing. We phoned Island Waste Management Corporation and for $95 they delivered all we needed to start our own domestic waste program.

Our kit included  the waste calendar:

We also received the Waste Watch Sorting Guide:

We have two huge bins on wheels. The green one is for recycling compostables, and the black one is for true waste:

The third container is small and is for collecting compost. It sits under our sink in the kitchen:



 

The contents of the small green pail are removed periodically by Greg (he is the designated household waste manager) and thrown into the large green compost container outdoors. Beside the green compost pail is the kitchen garbage container - rarely used!

 

Meanwhile, other recycling finds its way, thanks to Greg,  into one of two blue bags. This one is for paper and coffee carriers and egg cartons:





 



 

 

The other blue bag (#2)  is for glass, plastics and metals. It looks much the same, so I don't have a picture of it. Plastic bags go in that recycling bag, as you must not wrap waste in anything; waste goes into the black bin naked as it were. Bag #2 also contains milk cartons, cans, glass jars and surprisingly broken Christmas tree lights and things like toasters - and our coffeemaker, which itself is toast.

 

Waste includes potato chip and other snack bags, broken mirrors, frozen juice cans, old clothes, and other odds and ends that are neither recyclable nor ... Household Hazardous Waste. HHW is taken by the homeowners to special depots dotting the Island.

 

Meanwhile, into the compost container go what you might expect: vegetable material and coffee grounds, the odd lobster shell or fish remnant but also cereal boxes, tissues and twigs.

 

You are advised to rinse out the green bin with water and vinegar occasionally, the wisdom for which becomes obvious very quickly in hot weather.

 

Cardboard must be broken down and wrapped with string into manageable bundles. This pile awaits Greg's ministrations:

 

 

 

It is an on-going challenge to determine what goes where. Various kinds of extraneous products challenge my sorting abilities:

 

 



 

Here we see a glass jar, a metal lid, the handle of a broken plastic beach shovel, broken apart clothespins, a cardboard box and the inside of  a rice cracker box:



 
Some items are obvious - other less so. In fact I was so mystified by the clothespins, that I put them back together again and re-used them.

Finally garbage day arrived.

Actually, as you can see by the style of truck, it was recycling day at least for the two kinds of blue plastic bags and the cardboard. The compost goes out another day and the waste some other time. I  must go and check the calendar on the refrigerator or ask Greg for the umpteenth time, something I am reluctant to do, as I really need to learn this for myself.

The term "rehab" sometimes conjures up a dreary setting or at least a Days of Wine and Roses scenario. But of course, not all rehab is like that. My mother just spent the better part of two months at Bridgepoint Hospital in Toronto. She began her stay at the old Bridgepoint after she was deemed ready for rehabilitation from a broken leg. A bout of C. difficile caused her to have to bounce (as it were) back to an acute care hospital, so she missed the long awaited move from the old Bridgepoint to the new facility on April 14.

What a change awaited her. Once the weather and her health improved, we went exploring.This is the entrance to the roof garden on the 10th floor. It was in the process of being completed when I was up there with her last week:

 

 

The roof garden, a xeriscape, has been planted with various kinds of sedum, over which bees were buzzing: 

 

 

 

There is a spectacular view of downtown Toronto through the plate glass:

 



 

 

Tables of some sort - maybe destined to be raised planters - had just been painted:

 

 

 

The door we came out of is at the foot of this amazing mirrored wall:

 

 

The old Don Jail - at least part of it- has been restored and refurbished to be the administrative wing of the new Bridgepoint:

 

 

Quite a difference from the parkette just around the corner:

 

 



How much does the environment affect the outcome for those using it - patients on the one hand and prisoners on the other? 



 

 

 

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!