I really need to start listening to those sober, second thoughts.

To the rest of you: My promises may one day get me killed. 

Yesterday I fulfilled a promise to Younger and took her back to the Elora Gorge Conservation Area for a day of Tubing down the Grand River Gorge.We had gone there last year and had a wonderful time, and younger begged me to promise her that we would do it again.  "Sure," I said, casually tossing away opportunity to have an ambulatory retirement.

 I had tried a few times earlier to fulfil said promise, but the weather has not been cooperating.  Last year was a drought, and the water level was too low shortly after our first trip.  This year has been very rainy, and the water has been quite high.  In fact, a teenage boy died not far from where we were tubing yesterday when he and some friends tried to tube upriver from the conservation area right after a freak storm.  But the water levels were now down to acceptable levels and the ministry deemed the conditions to be safer for tubing.  I say "safer", not "safe" because, before you are permitted to tube the gorge, you must sign an agreement that you understand all the dangers involved and will not sue anybody if you should lose life, limb or mobility.  That should have been what those in the palm to the forehead business call "your first clue". 

Inner tubing is a simple affair.  To properly inner tube, one merely needs a tube and some water, preferably, but not necessarily of the flowing variety.  It is a good idea to have some safety gear: a life jacket and a helmet.  It was also required of us that we wear some kind of footwear to protect our feet against rocks. There is no steering equipment on the tube,  and the human is for the most part along for the ride.  A sense of fear, or at least mortality, is not required for tubing on open calm water.  It is positively a hindrance on white water, and best dispensed with before one sets out into the water.

As we walked to the point where we launched the tubes with our precious selves aboard, younger begged me to promise her that we would do more than one run down the river.

"Can we do two, at least?" she asked. 

"No problem," said I.

"What about three?"

"If we have the time."

When we got to the launch point we were confronted by a set of rapids much wilder than I remembered from last year, which was, as I said, a drought.  There was roughly twice as much water flowing yesterday as there was one year ago.  (Incidentally, to put numbers on the matter, the flow yesterday was said on the website to be 4.9 cubic metres per second.  Tubing is closed in the Conservation Area when the flow exceeds 8 cubic metres.  The flow after the storm that killed the boy was above 80.)  After the increased rapids, the first thing we saw there was a man with a funny accent shouting at the Conservation Area worker that the launch point was too dangerous and that people should be told to launch further down, in calmer water.  He begged me not to take my daughter and launch in this spot.  This would be "my second clue".  But he had a funny accent, and like most people with funny accents, he was obviously insane and not at all familiar with our Canadian ways, so I politely told him that my daughter and I had done this before and were in no danger.

I was half right.  Younger is skinny for her age, and weighs in at about 68 pounds.  As a result, her tube barely sank into the water with her on it, and she went down the river like a soap bubble.  Her tube just floated over the rocks and obstructions. Her only job was to hang on for dear life, which she did quite ably.  I, on the other hand, am a big fat guy.  My tube sank considerably in the water, and, being both big and fat,  My arms and legs protruded over the edges of the tube and into the water, while  my backside protruded through the hole in the middle.

It was my backside, appropriately, I suppose, that first felt the pain of my folly.  During the first set of rapids, the rushing water carried all of the tube and most of me over a submerged rock, but not quite high enough.   I hadn't thought to put any padding on my backside, because my backside essentially is padding.  Suffice to say:  Ouch.

The only trouble younger encountered on that first run was when her tube took the wrong path at another set of rapids and followed a short channel between two narrow stones and got jammed.  I whizzed past her, unable to stop.  I decided to try and mount a rescue mission, and began swimming upstream with a tube in tow.  Did I mention we were in the middle of some rapids?  I somehow managed to make it to her, only to find that some other adult had got into the same predicament, and pulled both himself and Younger out of the mess. 

The second run was going well until about the third or fourth set of rapids.  While inner tubing, in case you have never participated in this form of attempted suicide, the human person has only limited control over their progress.  They are, in essence, ballast.    As such, you frequently find yourself going in the wrong direction, you find yourself going the wrong way in the wrong direction.  Such as happened here.  The increased current at the mouth of the rapids spun me around rapidly, but only one hundred and eighty degrees, so I was going backwards down the rapids.  My limited control became non existent control, and the current slammed me into a boulder just under the water.  I was wearing a life jacket, which took much of the brunt of the impact, but I still have a large angry bruise on my shoulder blade.  Through an inch of cushioning foam.   Ouch.  Again.  By now the face palm brigade have stopped counting my clues and have simply taken to pounding their foreheads against the table.

I also noticed around this time that I had a small spot of sunburn on one of my shoulders.  I didn't think anything of it.

I endeavoured to talk Younger out of a third run.  "But you promised," she said. 

"I said we might," I said.

"You said we would if we had the time," she said. 

It occurred to me that I should have said, "If we have the time, and I have not maimed myself on an earlier run." but I hadn't, and here I was, stuck with my stupid promises.  We went in for the third time.

Here things went a little wrong for me.  It was in the first rapids.  As usual, my tube bounced off many rocks in that first chute, but this time it dug into one and flipped over.  (In case you have been wondering what that first chute looked like, here's a photo from the web)

I was off the tube, but I instinctively grabbed the tube (I believe my thoughts were: "No! I'll lose my ten dollar deposit!")  as I slammed into that first rock, and then began swimming down the rapids whilst carrying my tube.

Swimming through rapids isn't as easy as you might think.  Actually, "swimming" isn't really the term for it.  "Not drowning while attempting to get beck my ten dollar deposit" is a more accurate description, so I'll rephrase.  Not drowning while attempting to get your ten dollar deposit back whilst in the middle of some rapids isn't as easy as you might think.  The current has you, for starters.  There are also rocks.  Lots and lots of rocks.  Rocks that have been there a long time even though they daily have tons and tons of water pounding against them.  The kinds that laugh when some big fatso is rammed against them.   Those kind of rocks. And very hard.  Very hard rocks indeed.

I also swallowed a fair amount of water for the nth time that day.  The Grand River flows through a fair amount of farmland, with cattle poop and pesticides and fertiliser all washing into it.  I expect to soon die from some obscure waterborne disease that will be named after me.  People will talk about the amazing coincidence that I, like Lou Gehrig, died of a disease that had the same name as me.

I managed to make my way into the shallows where the current wasn't  quite so strong, feeling battered bruised, scraped and altogether tenderised.  The first thing I saw on the shore was a paramedic rushing in my direction.  "Wow," I thought.  "These guys are really on the ball."  But she rushed past me down the stream a little ways.  There was another man there, who appeared to have a broken leg.  I  could also see younger, squealing with delight, pulling farther and farther away.  I hopped back onto my tube and pushed off into the rapids.  By now, the face palm brigade gave up the will to live, pulled out guns and shot themselves. 

I made it to the end without any further accidents.  Younger came, without complaint, back to the check in station, where we returned our gear and got our deposits back.   I noticed that the sunburn spot on my shoulder had grown.  We got into the car to go home.

As I drove, everything in my body, one piece at a time, seemed to stop working.  Ever muscle, every fibre seemed to seize up, and would move no more.  By the time I got home, I moved out of the car like a zombie and ambled up the stairs. 

"How was the day?" asked Puff.

"NNNNNNN," I mumbled back to her.  "Need medicine."

I pulled off my shirt, and saw that I was badly burned on both shoulders, as well as on my belly in the space between my life jacket and my swimming trunks.  I was badly scraped on the knees and feet, and the large bruise on my shoulder was starting to form.   Puff started to chide me about doing stupid things with the kids as she began to smear some ointment on me.  Younger was telling everyone how much fun she had. 

"Can we do it again next year, Daddy?" she asked.

"MMMMMMM." I said.  "Ne....ne....ne..." 

Judging from her reaction, I think she took that as a "yes".  And a promise.

Our Easter Weekend

When asked by my coworkers how I would spend the long weekend, I told them that I would spend it by going to church a lot.  As it turned out, I went only once, on Holy Thursday.  On Good Friday, Younger was ill, and I stayed at home to care for her while Puff and Elder went to church.  On Easter Sunday, our holiest day of the year, I and Elder were violently ill, and could not go anywhere that was more than twenty feet from a  bathroom.  Puff and Younger went to Mass.  Yesterday, Puff was down, and last night Frodo came down with whatever this is.  The circle is now complete, I hope, and we will all soon recover. 

I hope all of you had a better Easter weekend than us.  In the meantime, I feel we all owe our toilets an apology for the hell we have put them through.

Holiday weekend

This was a long weekend in my home province.  The family celebrated it by spending more money than we should have going to Ottawa for Winterlude.  We sort of had fun, although Elder's idea of fun is a trip to the mall (the family trip she most wants to go on is to travel to West Edmonton Mall) and younger sometimes allows the fun things she didn't do overshadow the fun things she did.  Frodo just goes along until he's had enough, then he starts crying. Loudly.

As is typical, we took along our cameras and almost never used them.  We stopped off to see the Ice Sculpture Garden, where many carvers were busy at work.  I only took one photo of this Famous Canadian guy.



Famous Canadian Guy.  If you're Canadian, you know who he is.


There were also quite a few French Canadians doing their French Canadian Thing.



French Canadian Thing.  Nourish my inner child!  Nourish it, I say!


These trips are often an agony for us.  Our kids are simply too far apart in age to find anything they all want to do.  Sooner or later, we split up.  Younger and I headed for the various icy events.  Elder and Puff, along with Frodo, headed for the heated tents and, eventually, a bookstore.

Younger and I went to a large ice slide, which you slide down on your backside. 



Sure you want to do this?

 That didn't go too well for me.  My pants actually stuck to the ice and I had to kind of row myself down the slope with my hands while the lineup waited for me to clear the track.

Younger and I also went skating on the Rideau Canal.  This may have been the part I was looking forward to the most. 



World's largest skating rink, with world's largest skating crowd.

  It was without hesitation, the worst Ice I have ever skated on.  Between freezing and refreezing, and a couple of million skaters skating on it, the ice was chewed up badly.  How badly?  Look at the picture above.  You see the snow on the ice?  That is from the skaters.  I was perpetually off balance and constantly tripping over huge cuts and small cracks in the ice.  I must have looked drunk to other skaters.

We went to Mass on Sunday morning before we headed for home.  Puff located a lovely little church on line: Our Lady of the Visitation.



Very nice interior. You can tell it was originally a French Parish.

Odd that the statues were already covered.  I would have liked to have seen them.

A curiosity was these little crosses on the walls.  I was pretty sure I knew what they were, but we asked the priest anyway.

They are the spots where the bishop anointed the walls when the church was originally consecrated.  All churches are supposed to be marked this way, but I know of few that are.  I believe they are also supposed to have candles placed on these spots, which are to be lit on the anniversary of the church's consecration, which is also a feast day for parishioners.

All in all, not a bad trip.  No one did everything they wanted, but everybody did something.

Mom

I have booked tomorrow off work so that I may attend a little ceremony, with food, wherein my mother will be awarded the Queen's Diamond Jubilee Medal.  She is being awarded the medal in honour of her painting.  It is not that her paintings hang in any art galleries that she is being awarded this medal, but because they hang in private homes across the country.

It began around the late nineties or so.  Mom, by then already in the second half of her seventies, read an article in a newspaper of how two boys from a town about an hour and a half drive out of Toronto had fallen into their local river and drowned.  The photos that accompanied the story included school portraits of the two boys, and one of the mother, in agony over their deaths.  Mother decided she had to do something: she would use her talents and paint portraits of the two boys and send them to the woman.  She asked me what I thought of what she was doing, and I confess that I thought intruding on someone's private grief may not be the thing to do, but I didn't say that.  I asked her if she thought she was doing a good thing, and when she replied yes, she thought she was, I told her to continue on, and never mind what others said.  (I actually got that from her.  It was something she told me often growing up.) She contacted the newspaper that carried the story, and managed to get the address of the family, and mailed the portraits.  A few weeks later, mother received a gushing letter of thanks from the woman, telling mother how much it had meant to her that somehow had reached out to her in her grief.  I could not have been more wrong in this case, and never have I been so glad to have held my tongue.

That was how it began.  She then began sending off portrait after portrait to people who had lost loved ones in tragedies.  She sent them off to the Creba and Stafford families; to a family whose children burned in a house fire; to the families who lost their sons when a bus crash killed many members of a maritime hockey team; to the families of firefighters and police officers who died on duty.  She even sent a portrait of a little girl who was believed to have been murdered to the little girl's mother- despite the fact that the mother happened to be in jail for the killing at the time.  Mom saw a photo in the newspaper of the mother giving the daughter a bath in the kitchen sink, and both were laughing happily.  "I can't believe anyone who could bring that kind of joy into a child's life could then kill them," said Mom.  Once again, I held my tongue.  My view of the world is far darker and more cynical than mother's. However, it turned out she was right: the mother was a victim of a botched autopsy by an incompetent coroner, now disgraced, and was since released.  Her letter to mother was among the most touching, as she told mother that it meant so much that someone somewhere believed her when she claimed her innocence, and reached out to her.  Mother's  single biggest task, however, was to paint portraits of every single member of the Canadian Armed Forces who died in the Afghan mission.   She hasn't kept track of exactly how many portraits in total she has done, but thinks the number is over three hundred.

It may be higher.  She frequently gets requests for second and third copies of portraits, so that one can go to an estranged parent, or a school, or a legion hall or station house.  She takes no money for any of these, although my brother, who mails these portraits across the country at his expense, wishes she would at least start charging for shipping and handling.

Mom has scrapbooks at home filled with letters and tributes she has received from families, police and fire departments, and the military.  Not everyone writes to mother, but many do, telling her what those of us who know her already know: that she is a wonderful and loving woman, as well as a talented artist.  She has never asked for any recompense or recognition for her work, although she loves reading out the letters of thanks she has received to her friends and family, and she was never told that anyone was trying to nominate her for this or any other award, (some cousins, friends and family members are trying to get her name in for the Order of Canada)  because she would have told whoever was doing the nomination not to put themselves out for her. But we did anyway, because we believe she deserves some recognition for her work, and because she has done what most people today believe is impossible. When reading the news, it is the easiest thing in the world to become depressed, and to be overwhelmed by feelings of helplessness.  The news is full of darkness about which we seem to be able to do nothing.  Mom is one of the few who has decided to do something in her own small way to push back against the darkness and to not stand by helplessly, who instead of throwing up her hands and asking rhetorically "What can I do?" instead looked within herself and asked "What can I do?"  and then rolled up her sleeves, and did it.

Aunt M. Doesn't Cook The Turkey, Part 2.

Read part one first.

On that fine Christmas Day, there was poor man, a just and upright man, an unappreciated man who went by the name of Bear.  On that fine Christmas Day, Bear was, with a patience worthy of Job, getting his wife and children out the door to go and visit his mother and brother and sisters.

"But why do we have to get there now?" whined his Elder daughter as she languished her way to the car.  "What's so important about getting there on time?"

"If we don't get there on time," explained Bear for the umpteenth (read: "billionth") time in the last half hour.  "We won't get dinner."

"But what's so special about dinner at Grammy's?" she asked for the googolth time.

"Because it's Christmas dinner," Bear said, yet again. 

"So?"

"So?" said Bear.  By now everyone was in the car at last.  The gifts were in the car.  He started the engine.  "So?  This is the best dinner of the year.  There's going to be turkey..."

"We've had turkey before, Dad," muttered Elder. 

"But this is special," said Bear.  "It's huge, and it's fresh.  You can't believe how much better a turkey taste when it has never been frozen.  And it's huge.  You can go back for seconds and thirds and fourths and fifths.  We can come back tomorrow for sandwiches... and the day after... And that's not all.  Sis 2 has made her stuffing... there'll be about seven pounds of it..." 

The drive to Bear's mother's house took roughly half an hour.  The entire way, this good, upright, honest and caring man went on and on to a family who just didn't fully appreciate the wonder of that which he spoke.  Yet tirelessly, he went on and on, trying to instill in them a true appreciation for what was about to happen.  He was still going on as he made his way up the driveway to his mother's house. 

"Yes sirree," he said, turning off the engine and stepping out of the car.  "I have been waiting all year for this."  He opened the door and stepped into his mother's house.  He breathed deeply, and took in the smell of roasting fowl.  "Ahhhh, smell that," he said as he walked into the kitchen, savouring the aroma.  "This makes it all worthwhile."  On the kitchen table stood the great roasting pan, fresh from the oven.  Bear went to it, and placed his hand on the lid.  "This is the moment of truth.  Look at this," he said, removing the lid....

I should take this moment to explain how Sis 1 and Sis 2's shopping trip went.  In a word, not well.  The odds of finding an open supermarket that Christmas was about zero.  Their only hope lay in quik-e-marts, and the chance of finding a turkey in one of those could only be calculated through the use of excessive decimal places.  But they did find something.  They took it home, and set it aside, because it would not take that long to cook.  Meanwhile, another cousin dropped by and left their gift, a basket of stuff that contained, among other things, a small black forest ham.  When the time came to prepare Christmas dinner, they rammed about one tenth of the stuffing into what they had bought at the store, and tossed in a bunch of potatoes and the ham to boot.  The ham was still in the oven, but what they had bought at the store had just come out of the over, and that was what Bear was uncovering.

"This is the moment of truth.  Look at this," he said, removing the lid, revealing a small two pound chicken.

"I thought it would be bigger," said Elder.

  He stared at it for a moment, blinking.  "What the hell is this?" he said at last.

"Bear, don't speak like that on Christmas Day," admonished his mother. 

"Sorry," he said.  "What the heck is this?"

"Dinner," said Sis 2. 

"For thirteen?" demanded Bear.

"No," said Sis 1.  "We have a ham, too."

"A ham," repeated Bear.  "Where's the turkey?"

"Shhh," said Sis 1 and 2 together.  "You don't want to start that again."

"Start what again?"

Sis 2 explained.

"You guys left one of the finest turkeys in all of creation rot on the veranda during a warm spell?  What are you, morons?"  said Bear.  "I haven't eaten all day.  I've been saving myself for this.  I even wore track pants, so I wouldn't have to unbuckle my belt.  I passed over a meal at my in- laws so I could gorge myself here..."

"But you don't like my family's cooking," said Puff.

"Shhh," he explained.  "The point is, I came here to eat..."

"Well, don't eat so much," said mother.  "Make sure the kids have enough first."

"They already ate!" said bear.  "I'm the one that's hungry."

"It's Christmas, dear," said Mother.  "Be grateful for what you have."

Bear looked over at the two pound chicken.  Gratitude was not exactly what he felt.  He went over to the phone and started dialing. 

"What are you doing?" asked Sis 1.

"The obvious," said Bear.  "I'm ordering a pizza."

"One won't be enough for everyone," said Sis 2.

"The rest of you can have the chicken," he said.  "Make sure the kids get their share first."

Believe it or not, the same thing happened the next year.  After that, our cousin stopped giving us seventy dollar turkeys that just went rancid on the front porch for lack of a fridge.  We went back to buying our own smaller, frozen birds, and defrosting them a day or two before the holidays.  You didn't get a week of sandwiches, and they didn't taste as good, but at least you tasted something, and there was peace in the house, or at least as much peace as you ever got in that old house.

Aunt M Doesn't Cook a Turkey, part one.

Note:  The title for this little piece is a variation of the classic "Dave Cooks The Turkey" by Stuart McLean. 

Every year, our cousin gave us a turkey for Christmas  Not just a turkey, but a big one- thirty pounds- fresh, never frozen.  The highlight of our Christmas day was sitting down to dinner at a table that groaned under the weight of that turkey.

The preparation of the bird was left to the younger of my two sisters, the Martha Stewart wannabe.  She would come back to the old house early on Christmas day, with all her trimmings, and the large mixing bowl filled with the cranberry/rice/something else stuffing she had carefully prepared the day before.  One this fine Christmas day, she set out all her utensils, all her stuffing and herbs, everything she needed.  She grunted and puffed as she strained to carry the bird from its storage place and put it on the kitchen table.  Then she pulled back the brown butcher's paper and...

I suppose I should take this moment and should specify what I meant when I said she got the turkey from its "storage place".  Storing the turkey always posed a little bit of a problem.  You see, our cousin always gave us the bird a few days before Christmas, and we never had a fridge big enough to hold one that size.   That was okay, usually, because we had an enclosed, uninsulated veranda attached to the house that was as cold as a fridge, as long as the December weather stayed Decemberish.  That year, however, was the warmest December on record, with not a single day below freezing in the days leading up to Christmas, and some days that were really quite warm.  We now return to the story, where younger of two sisters pulled back the brown butcher's paper that covered a bird that had not been refrigerated in three to four days and....

...threw up.

"Oh. My. God." she said. "I've got to get rid of this." And she began wrapping it up again before the smell could permeate the entire house.  It was at this point Aunt M. walked in.

"What are you doing?" demanded Aunt M.

"This turkey has gone rancid," said sister 2.  "We can't use it."

"What do you mean?" asked Aunt M.

I suppose I should take this opportunity to explain Aunt M's apparent lack of familiarity with the English language.  The explanation for that is twofold.  First, she had been born and raised in Canada, and had spoken English ever since she could speak.  We knew this, as she was our mother's sister, and lived in the same house as us all our lives.  She was one of five sisters my mother had.  Most of the other sisters had gone and raised families of their own, so Aunt M. was aunt to a lot of people, though she had none of her own.  As sometimes happened, she preferred some nieces and nephews over others.  As also sometimes happens, familiarity breeds contempt, which is another way of saying she had favourites, and they weren't us.  The most favourite of all her nieces and nephews just so happened to be the one who gave us the turkey.  Which brings me to point two:  my university education. 

At university, we were taught that meaning is seated in the listener or reader, as opposed to in the speaker or writer.  What someone says is not necessarily what someone else hears, and there is really no way around that problem, and right now we have a lovely illustration of exactly that problem.  Sister two said: "This turkey has gone rancid," meaning : "This turkey, which was stupidly left outside for a warm December week, has done what any moron except us could easily have  predicted it would do, and gone bad." but Aunt M heard: "I, your least favourite niece in the whole wide world, am accusing your most favourite niece in the whole wide world of giving us a rancid turkey."  We may now continue with the story.

"What do you mean?" asked Aunt M. dangerously.

"I mean the turkey is rancid and we can't use it," said sister 2, who, lacking my university education, was not up on the finer points of deconstruction and reader centred theory. 

"I've had enough of you people thinking you're better than everyone else," said Aunt M. ('You people' meant "us", her least favourite nieces and nephews.)

"What?" said sister 2,  (I could break off and try and explain Sis's apparent inability to grasp the English language, but I think at this point it is self explanatory.)

"Do you think your cousin would deliberately give us a rancid turkey?"  demanded Aunt M.  "Do you?"

"I never said that," said Sister 2.  "I didn't mean..."

"I know what you mean," said Aunt M.  "And let me tell you:  I've had enough of it.  You can't go and throw out a gift from someone just because you don't like them.  It's terrible.  If you're too good to fix a turkey, then I'll do it myself!"  With that Aunt M. shoved Sis 2 out of the way, and began unwrapping the turkey.  Sis 2 went outside before she vomited again. 

Outside, Sis 2's mind raced furiously.  Who would Aunt M. listen to?  The list was fairly short, but on it was Sis 1.  She was the most favourite of Aunt M's least favourite nieces and nephews.  Aunt M. listened to her.  Sometimes.  It was worth a shot.  Sis 1 was up for the holidays from Texas, but she was currently walking her dogs, and had left about five minutes prior.  She could be anywhere.  Sis 2 raced off to find her.

Fortunately, her dogs were particularly incontinent that day, and Sis 1 had not gotten far. 

"Sis 1, you've got to help us," panted Sis 2.  "I need you stop Aunt M. from killing us all."

"What's the matter?" asked Sis 1.

Sis 2 explained.  "You're the only one here she listens to," finished Sis 2.

Sis 1 snorted.  "You just don't know how to talk to her." said Sis 1. 

"Please," begged Sis 2.  "She won't listen to me."

:"Fine," huffed Sis 1.

Within minutes the two were back home, choking on the smell of rancid turkey.  "M!" said  Sis 1.  "You are not cooking that turkey!"  She pulled the turkey out from under Aunt M's nose, and began carrying it out of the house to the garbage. 

"Fine!" huffed Aunt M.  And with that, she stormed off to her favourite chair in front of the TV to sulk.

As Sis 1 passed Sis 2 she said "See?  You just have to know how to talk to her."

Sis 2 turned her eyes upward in the universal why me, O Lord gesture.  A moment later Sis 1 was back inside.  "There," said Sis 1.  "Problem solved."

"Not quite," said Sis 1.  "We still need something to eat."

"Oh," said Sis 2.  She contemplated their options.  There weren't any.  She reached for her car keys.  "C'mon," said Sis 1.  "You're coming with me."

"Do you really need me?' asked Sis 2.  "I mean..."

"Get in the car," growled Sis 1.  Sis 2 followed her out the door.

And thus the two set off, on a fine Christmas morning to find A. an open store with B a turkey.  Please, prayed Sis 2 silently, Please let us find one.  And the Lord heard their prayers on that fine Christmas morning.  He heard and He answered that prayer...with the words "Yeah.  Good luck with that one."

To be continued.

The kind of moron I am

There was once a hair cutting place just down the hall from my place of business, where I used to go and get my hair cut, but the mall forced them out, as part of a plan of removing small, independent businesses and replacing them with larger chains.  That was around July, right around the time I usually get a hair cut.  Between that time and now, I have been unable to find a place that is open at a time that is convenient for me.  I was getting shaggy.

I mentioned my problem to a co-worker, who offered a solution:  "Why don't you cut it yourself?" he said.

"Myself? How" I asked.

"I got trimmers.  I'll loan them to you."  I should hasten to add that my co worker is completely bald.

With no other option, and with money hitting new lows with every passing day, I decided to go with that option. He brought me his trimmer along with several attachments that regulate the length of the hair.  He gave me a basic set of instructions, and wished me well.

I waited until Saturday night, then I took the trimmer into the bathroom, and locked the door.  No need for disturbances.  I took out one attachment that was adjustable, and set it for the longest setting- 17.  I took a deep breath, hit the power, and began cutting my own hair.

The cutting started out well, then I heard a sudden click click click from the attachment.  It had slid down to fifteen.  So I redid the parts I had already done, and then started doing some more, except by that time I was down to fifteen.

I was cutting my hair at eleven when there was a knock on the bathroom door. "Bear, what's that buzzing sound?" said Puff.

"I'm cutting my hair," I said.

"What hair?"  she said, her voice rising in pitch. 

"What hair do you think?  I'm not cutting my chest hair."

"You're cutting your hair?" she shrieked.   "No!"  The door began rattling.  "Younger! Get me a coat hanger to open this lock!"

Puff stormed in.  "Gah!" she said.  "What kind of moron are you to cut your own hair?"

"I dunno," I said, resetting the attachment for eight.  "The kind that cuts his own hair?" I started to even out my hair.  Again.

"Stop that!" she said.  "Don't touch it!"

"You want me to leave it like this?" I asked.

She glared at me.  After a while, she left.  I continued trimming my hair at the five setting. 

All in all, it's not the worst haircut I've ever had.  That would be one given to me by my brother when we were kids. As a bonus, the coworker who loaned me the trimmer told me I could keep it.  He doesn't need it any more.  I'm sure Puff will be pleased.

Strange things said at home.

First, two things you never think you will actually end up saying or hearing, until you are married and have kids.

1,  Younger, discussing her lunch at school:  You know, boys will do crazy things for a slice of bacon.

2. Me, to Frodo: Frodo, no! In this house we do not throw second or third class relics down the stairs!

Lastly, (Risque alert) what a wife says, and what her husband thinks:

Puff, to me:  Bear, I want you to do me-

Me, inside:  (Yes!)

Puff:- a favour.

Me:  (Rats.)

3.5 Timeouts Tuesday

Kids are not happy edition.


1.

Younger was sad this morning.  I don't know why.  I took her into the kitchen to help me make breakfast.  I find there are few problems in this life that cannot be helped by the liberal application of bacon.

2.

Elder is feeling what it means to be raised in a poor, white trash family.  She is hoping to meet up with her best friend in August, but is also dreading the meeting.  Her friend has been studying French in Quebec this summer, and went camping in the Gaspe region.  She also went whale watching in the gulf of the St Lawrence.  She is going to have wonderful tales of what she has done this summer.  Elder, on the other hand, thinks a trip to Kingston and visiting Fort Henry, or travelling up north for a weekend of fishing, or farther north to the Canadian shield and Science North and other things simply does not compare.   Even if I were to take Elder to the Gaspe or to watch whales and whatnot, it still wouldn't be enough, because when she tells her friend, the friend's reaction will be along the lines of "been there, done that."

3.

Frodo veers wildly from being outrageously happy to being inconsolably sad.  Little cuss has a mean, rotten temper, too.  I don't know where he gets that from.  *cough*.

3.5

There is no .5 kid to be unhappy, so I am grateful for that.
  

3.5 Timeouts Tuesday

Travelling around edition.

1.

The family has been taking weekend and day trips over the month of July.  I've booked off Mondays for the month to try and give us a string of small vacations, rather than one large one.  We've avoided the the usual summer hot spots- no Wonderland, Marineland, Wild Water Kingdom, etc.  because they are too busy and expensive.  The intention was to try and save money.  I don't think we've been entirely successful

At this point, I should insert some pictures of the places we've been.  Unfortunately, while we always pack the camera, we also always leave it packed up.   So no pictures.  However, if place names mean anything to you, (you can google some if you desire) we've been to Kingston, Sudbury, Elora, Peterborough and Bobcaygeon thus far.  I loved old Kingston, the scenery around Sudbury is awesome, and we loved fishing in Bobcaygeon. 

2.

We go to church, even on vacation, so I've been indulging in looking up local churches, and picking one to attend for Mass, a kind of Catholic tourism, if you will.  I've taken the opportunity to cross a few Cathedrals off my list of places to visit.  Both Peterborough and Kingston are the seats of their dioceses. 

3.

The biggest hit, for younger anyway, was the trip to Elora.  She had been hinting loudly that she wanted to go to a waterpark, but I found these places to be expensive, and you spend half your time standing in line.  So I took her to the Elora Conservation area where we rode innertubes down the Grand River.  The starting point is actually in the middle of a rapid.  Younger looked at the rapid and got a little nervous.  "I don't think I want to do this anymore," she said.  "Nonsense!" I said, and I shoved her into the current and followed.  By the time that first rapid had petered out, she yelled back to me "BEST. TRIP. EVER!"

.5

We had trouble finding a hotel room at Bobcaygeon last weekend, which is why we ended up in Peterborough for the night.  We had several conversations that went like this:

Me:  I'd like a room for the night.

Them:  Sorry sir, we're booked.

Me:  But your sign says "Vacancy".

Them.  Yes, sir.  That is because we have empty rooms.

Me:  And I can't have one because...?

Them: ... because those rooms have been reserved.

Me: Then why does your sign say "vacancy" if all the rooms are taken?

Them:  As I said, sir, some of your rooms are currently empty.

Me:  Pause.  Let me explain some basic English to you.  If someone comes in here and asks for a room, and the answer is no, then you have no vacancy.

What I've been up to lately

part three: what I, myself, have been up to lately.

So, inspired/convinced/persuaded/dragged kicking and screaming by my daughter back into the realm of the bazaar and craft show circuit, I began to think of what I could do. I needed to do something cheap and fast, if I would make any money at all.  I took stock of my materials and tools, and I had an interesting idea:  How much stuff could I make without spending a penny in overhead?

It may sound strange, but it is feasible.  I have tools, and I have a fair supply of wood, almost all of which I got for free.  I buy glue by the gallon, so I had enough for several months worth of work.  I have some old finishes lying around, so I don't need to go out and buy those.  All in all, I should be able to take a fair run at it before I need to restock with something. 

As I mentioned in my posts about my daughter's stuff, people who go to bazaars and such are looking for cheap stuff. so not only do I need to have the wood and supplies for free, I need to be able to knock them off fast.  I years past, my tool of choice for fast and cheap was the lathe, mainly because it is my favourite tool.  However, this time around I began work with another tool, my scroll saw.  I wanted to use this as a chance to improve my skills with that tool.  In time, I will get to the again, but for now, I used the scroll saw.

I also decided to use this as an opportunity to get rid of my scrap pile.  If you have ever done woodworking, you know what I am talking about.  If you sew, you have a really good idea of what I am talking about, and can extrapolate.  The scrap pile is that pile of scraps, (hence the name) that builds up in every shop.  It is that collection of pieces of wood that you cut off from larger pieces of wood, the pieces you did not need at the time, which are too big to throw out or burn, but too small to actually be useful.  Mine was getting a little out of control.  Making a bunch of small things could help tame it.   Glue also helps.  I take the scraps and glue them together, to make a piece slightly more useful.  I take the scraps from the scraps, reglue them until I can make something else out of them.  The general goal is this: when a piece of wood enters my shop, it leaves either as money, or sawdust.

So I have been making many little things out of whatever wood happens to be lying around, colouring it with some dyes I had lying around, or food colouring, or some kiddy paints.  I started by making a bunch of the things normally associated the the scrollsaw: puzzles.  I've made dozens. 

When I grew tired of puzzles, plus I was a little convinced they may not sell well- it is hard to sell children's toys made of wood in an era of xbox and PlayStation's and robots and remote control and where even shoes have flashing lights- I started making Christmas decorations.  I experimented with instarsia, which is an art of making pictures using pieces of different species of wood for colour.  In that, it is rather like making stained glass.  I have been cheating, though.  I cut all the pieces from the same piece and then colour them using dyes and stains. 

I found some patterns, and made a few creche scenes, including a few for Christmas ornaments and angels.  This can be rather dicey, however, as I do not know if the photos I found on the web come from the original designer, or if the design lies in the public domain or not.  Personally, I believe if you publish pictures of your work on the web you have effectively made them public domain, as any woodworker with a little experience will be able to use a picture as a plan, but that is neither here nor there.  I decided to try and sidestep the problem entirely by coming up with a few of my own designs.  I will try and have Younger sell some ornaments of Saints to Catholics.  I've been taking photographs, or downloading classic paintings, statues and stained glass off the web and using them for my plans.  They are actually turning out rather well thus far. 

I began with a few St Patrick designs, because, after all, who doesn't love St Paddy?

No details on the small faces.  The wood I'm using won't hold such fine details.  My first design. 

A big Patrick with a small one for comparison.  The large Patrick was an experiment, just to see how a large one of a different design would look.  I did carve some facial features.  

Other designs came from paintings or stained glass windows.  Here's a picture of Durer's Praying Hands.

And here's my version.

Feruzzi's Madonna of the Streets

My attempt.



St Cecilia.

My version.

St Mary.  I don't know the name of this picture.

My attempts.

I'll keep on working with a few more designs. WIll any of it sell?  I have no idea.  I have always been lousy at pickign what people will want to buy.  I think some Catholics might like the idea of having some saints hanging from their tree, but I don't know.

One last point:  as far as not spending anything, I may have hit a wall, as far as the scrollsaw is concerned.  It goes through blades rapidly, and I am nearly out.  The manufacturers say a blade should last a couple of hours in use, but I have never seen one that will go beyond a half hour in use.  After that, it becomes dull, tears, binds and burns the wood.  So either I buy some new blades (I can get about a dozen each of the two kinds of blades I have been using for about five bucks per pack) or I stop with the intarsia ornaments, and pull out the lathe.



What I've been up to lately

Part two.

After Younger, aged nine, decided she wanted to try her hand at Church Christmas bazaars,  I was pressed into service as her advisor.  While it is a good choice insofar as I have done bazaars in the past, it was a bad decision insofar as I was not successful at it. However, I thought this would be a good chance to have some father daughter time, and also to teach her some lessons about money and work. 

lesson 1: shop around, keep overhead low.

She had some misconceptions about how the bazaars worked, and how one makes money out of them, so the first concept needed to be explained was that of overhead, the cost of running a business, and that profit was the money taken from the goods sold minus overhead. I began by taking her around to various stores where we could buy the materials necessary for her goods, where she learned the importance of finding the materials that were of the best quality at the best (ie lowest) price.  She is to keep track of the money she spends on materials. She then had to calculate a price which would cover the cost of materials, plus a little extra.  For instance, she thought the balls she made would sell well at about two fifty each.  I'm sure they would, but we learned before long that the materials (pins, balls, sequins, ribbon) would run about two forty each. So a higher price.

lesson 2:  value

 We then had to decide what a better price would be.  If we were working a sweat shop, paying minumum wage, we would take the price of the ball and tack on about ten or so bucks minimum wage, and come to a price of about twelve fifty each. Unfortunately, my expreience has told me that no one would be willing to pay that kind of money for ornaments at a bazaar.  The lesson here was one that was particualrly hard for me back when I did the bazaars:  it doesn't matter what you think your work is worth.  Your work is worth exactly what the customer is willing to pay, and not a penny more.  The most we could reasonably ask for, and hope to get some sales, would be about five bucks.  The plan, as it stands now, is to make five bucks sound like a deal, so we will be charging six bucks each, but two for ten.

I'll teach her about minimum wage some other time.

lesson 3:  doing the job.

We planned quite a bit.  We took her design and started doing variations.  We searched  the internet for other ideas and patterns, and added balls covered in cloth instead of sequins. (Takes the same amount of time, but cheaper and ergo more profitable)  However, in the end, it is not enough to dream about it, to plan about it, to think about it.  You must eventually sit down and do it, sometimes even if you don't want to.  We have been working together, and the results have been fairly good, so far.  The problem is, they photograph badly.

same pattern, different fabrics.  Still need to be finished with ribbon.

sequins, solid colour.

sequins, patterned.

snowman's face. 

Lesson 4:  It helps to have an old man who is willing to chip in some time (and the occasional supplies) for free.

I have decided to help my daughter in other ways.  I will be going to th bazaar with her, and so I am now making supplies for sale, many of which I will give to her to sell, and we will split the money.

What I've been up to lately,

Part one, how it started.

I've been in the shop working on a whole bunch of small things that I hope to sell at a church bazaar or two around Christmas time.  It wasn't my idea, as I tried those and gave up on them a long time ago.  Left to my own devices, I would let them pass.  But I am but one man and I am almost never left to my own devices.  I am heading back to them as part of Younger's plot for World Domination.  It is her goal in life to own half the world, and she is not afraid to put in some work, or put someone else to work, to achieve that goal.

Younger got this idea into her head when she came home from school with her annual Christmas Art project.  Any of you parents out there who have or have had children in public school system know just how cringe worthy and goshawful these things usually are, and how you grit your teeth as you lie through them and tell your little darling "That's really nice, sweetheart.".  This year, she brought home a Christmas ornament she had made in class, and it actually looked nice, but unfortunately doesn't photograph well.  (At least, not by me.  As I have said every time I have tried to post pictures I have taken myself, I suck.)

The ornament is a Styrofoam ball covered in sequins held in place by pins.  It is pretty, reflects light nicely, and looked good on the tree.  We could have left it there.  Then Puff said:  "Y'know, I bet if you made more of those, you could sell them at a bazaar or something and make some money."

Younger's face lit up in a way that could mean nothing good.  "Really?" she asked.  "How much?"

Puff:  "I don't know. I never did bazaars.  Your father did, though.  Ask him."

Younger, calling out:  "Dadddddeeeee.....!"

And that is how it began.

No post at the moment...

... So here's Frodo playing with his nonna's cat.

Where I went this weekend.

Another mother outing.  Took in a waterfall and a church. 

Watching the Santa Claus Parade

Two things.

First, I remember when the parade floats were mainly fairy tales.  Companies would sponsor floats that had a tie their products, but without being overtly so.  For example, a candy making company might do a float of Hansel and Gretel and the witch's candy cottage, or perhaps the witch being turned into chocolate in her oven. They invoked old stories, the ones we all knew, the ones that tied us all together in our memories of childhood. Almost all the floats this year are large moving billboards, featuring the company products in the most blatant, crass fashion possible.  They shut down traffic and create chaos in the city for a bunch of mobile ads, the sole purpose of which is to get the kids in the crowd to turn to their parents and say "I want one! I want one!"  They aren't telling stories, they aren't about Christmas, they aren't even about winter.  Movies, toys, stuff.  Just stuff.

Second, if I were a sniper, the guy with the vuvuzela would have a nice round dot in the middle of his forehead by now.

This is a school trip?

About a week ago, I was woken up by Puff.  "Here," she said, thrusting a pen and my chequebook into my hands.  "Sign this cheque.  It's for Younger's class trip."  Bleary eyed and less than half awake, I signed my name, or I think I signed my name, somewhere in the region of the line.  I then went back to sleep, not knowing how much, or for what kind of trip I had just paid.

As it turns out. the trip is connected to her English class.  Ah! you think.  She must be going to one of Shakespeare's plays, or some such.  Sorry, but no.  You would be wrong in making such an assumption.  The book they are studying is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and the trip is to an actual chocolate factory.  Sadly, the charming Oompa Loompas will not be singing little songs giving the children and their parents sage and common sense advice as they ironically punish and purge the children of their vices.  Oh no.  That would be something worthwhile.  Instead, they are going to the real deal, where they will be shown how chocolate is made, (by machine) then they will be allowed to sample some chocolate, (the fresh made kind, not the kind that has been sitting in a warehouse, then a truck, then a shelf, for weeks) so they are all nice and wired by the time the return home to their overworked and under loved parents.  This, I am sure, will grant them tremendous insight into the literary world of the book.

I have only two questions: 1.  Just how much money was on that cheque I signed? and 2. Where the heck were these trips when I was a kid?

How stupid ideas become plans, and then fail.

I have written that once a month, I rent a car, pick up my mother, and take her for a drive somewhere nice.  Once a year, I try and take her out for a longer drive, to somewhere a little more special.  I then call that long drive my gift to her for Christmas/birthday/Mother's Day/any other gift giving occasion.  She doesn't seem to mind not having anything to unwrap under the tree.

A few months ago, I decided it was about time to take her on The Long Drive- but where?  there were several possibilities.  What stuck in my mind was her reaction to our photos of our recent trip to Montreal.  When she saw the photos of La Basilique de Notre Dame, she had said: "I always wanted to go there, but it was always closed every time I went.  Oh well."

You may wonder why she says things like that.  I answer: because it works.

At first, I was willing to write that off as tough luck, and to simply say that sometimes we don't get what we want.  Then I remembered my father on his death bed telling me: "Raise your family.  Take care of my grandchildren.  And check in on your mother from time to time."  I don't know how that turns into a command to take her to Montreal (in all honesty, I can swear to you on a stack of bibles that he would never have taken her himself, no matter how much guilt she laid on him. I unfortunately lack his sang froid.)  but somehow it did.  Mom is old (let's just say she won't see another eighty plus years)  and if she was ever going to achieve her dream of going to Montreal and seeing the basilica, and a few other places, it was up to me to take her.  Which, I might add, sucks.

So, Montreal it was.  First of all, I needed the money.  I had none, so I dismissed the idea of taking her. The next day, money came in the form of a little regulation in the union contract.  Any day we work more than two hours of overtime, we get a dinner allowance of twelve dollars.  That money comes out of petty cash and is not considered part of our income.  This year, in August and September, I earned about two hundred dollars of dinner money, which I never told my wife and which she never knew, until she read those very words.  Whoops. 

So I had some money.  Could we get to Montreal and back on two hundred dollars?  With a car rental, yes, but I didn't want to rent a car and navigate a new city.  Furthermore, because of our schedules, the only day I could take her would be a weekday, which meant I would not only be facing Montreal traffic, but rush hour Montreal traffic.  So what about other forms of transportation?  A train, my favourite way to travel, cost too much.  Two hundred would get us there, and leave us.  So no trains.  What about buses?  Most bus lines- too expensive.  We could get there, but not eat.  Then one of my coworkers told me about Megabus, and their deals.  I checked it out.  Toronto to Montreal, ten bucks each.  The pair of us to go there and back would be forty.  That was doable, very doable...

...Except we would be leaving and starting our return trip at some pretty ungodly hours.  She would have to be at the Toronto bus terminal at about six in the morning.  Maybe I could get my brother to do it.  I could just hear that conversation:

Hey, brother, how are you doing?....good...good...Listen, I got a question for you.  Do you think you could drive Mom to the downtown bus terminal and get her there by six?... no, I mean six in the morning.... hello? Hello?

So that was out.  The only way to do it would be to go and get her myself, which meant renting a car. Which meant money.  Which also meant I would have to park that car, in downtown Toronto, for a day, and a night.  Which meant more money.  And, once we got to Montreal, then what?

The bus depot is not too far from where we would be going.  If it were me alone, I would do it on foot.  However, for mother, it is a little far.

Montreal has an excellent subway system.  In many ways it is superior to Toronto's.  Some of the stations are close enough to where I wished to take her that only a little walking, well within her capabilities, would be required.  But there were two catches:  First, I don't know if the Montreal stations have elevators.  I am sure they must have, or at least some must have them, but when I was there before I did not see any.  They have escalators, but Mom cannot move fast enough to board an escalator anymore, and the stairs would be a bit much for her.  Second, I repeat that I love everything about the Montreal subway system, except for the trains themselves.  They are a little narrow, and they have few seats.  There is no way mother could stand on a moving train, and I don't hold much hope that any passengers on any train in any city these days would give up their seat for an old lady.  So the subway trains were out.

Which leaves cabs, which cost money.  So we would be paying for a car rental, paying for parking, paying for a bus, paying for cabs, and then food, and then paying for something to do or stay while we waited for an ungodly hour to depart from Montreal. 

But if I was renting a car anyway, why not drive it to Montreal?  It was exactly what I did not want to do.  But I could hear Dad on his deathbed, and Mother's sigh as she resigned herself to never seeing the places she wanted to go, and my own children who need a good example of how a child should take care of their mother after I'm dead and rotten.  A car to Montreal it was.  I called Mom and told her I would be picking her up early Wednesday morning for our drive.  I didn't tell her where we were going.  I never do. 

I was aware that my plan was ludicrous.  I was going to take an octogenarian, who likes to have two naps a day,  on a six hour plus car ride, walk her around to her limits, then drive her back, and hope she didn't have a stroke on the way.  Plus there are the thousand variables that come on a drive- traffic, construction, all kinds of stuff that can mess with your plans. Going to Montreal involved careful timing.  I had to leave here at a reasonable hour, but arrive there while the places I planned on taking her were still open and, above all before rush hour traffic.   I made a few backups, just in case.  If Montreal became impossible, as I fully expected, I would switch and go to Ottawa.  They have some nice churches there, plus the scenery of Parliament and the river gorge.  She would like that very much.  Failing Ottawa, I would take her on a drive along Highway 2 and see the fall colours.

I expected Mom to not be ready when I arrived at her house at 6:30 that morning, thus ruining my plans.  But she was ready, and excited about a long drive.  I expected to run into Toronto traffic, the worst in North America, apparently.  But all the traffic was heading in the opposite direction.  Our road was clear.  Rather than daring to hope, I just wrote it off as dumb luck, and expected disaster to be delayed.  I thought my plans would be dead by Kingston.

But we blew past Kingston, the road still wide open, a sunny blue sky, and no trouble in sight.  The only problem that cam around Kingston was when we passed a road sign giving the distance to the next few cities, including Montreal.  "You're taking me to Montreal, aren't you?"  Mom said.

"Why would I do that?"  I asked. 

""You want to show me the basilica," she said.  I could feel her excitement. 

Crap, I thought.  Now she'll be disappointed if we don't make it.

We stopped off at the En Routes along the way, got a little bite to eat and walk around for a few moments, then back into the car.  As we drew closer, mom seemed to get more excited, though she doesn't show excitement that much.    I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

We stopped at our last planned stop before Montreal itself, an En Route near Morrisburg.  it was just afternoon.  My plan had gone perfectly thus far.  I couldn't believe it. We were on time.  At this rate, we would be in Montreal a little after one- perfect timing.  No plan of mine had ever gone so well.  I became excited myself.  We got into the car.  "Next stop, Montreal!" I said.  I was excited now.  My plan was working.  It was too good to be true.  I put the key in the ignition, and smiled at my mother as I turned it.  With a faint snap, the key broke off.

And that, gentle reader, was the death of both my great plan and all its two backups.  I used the fob to turn the key stub.  The engine started, but I didn't trust the fob to be able to start the car indefinitely.  I thought if I could use a pair of pliers to turn what was left of the key, that would be more reliable, and some of the plan may be salvaged.  I went to a hardware store and bought some cheap pliers, but the engine refused to turn over at all.  I called for help.  CAA arrived, and they explained that the fob had a chip in it, and without that chip being in contact with the key, the engine would not turn over.  I tried the fob, and the engine turned over.  By now, two hours had passed.  The window of opportunity had closed, All I could hope to do was limp the car home.

I apologized to Mom for this failure.  "It's alright dear," she said, sounding indeed as if it were alright.  "I got out for the day, the weather has been beautiful, and it;s enough for me that you wanted to take me there."  somehow, that made me feel more guilty. "Well, mom,"  I said.  "I think God doesn't want you to see that basilica." I drove back along highway 2, but the fall colours never came out this year. 

I got her home, and she told me she'd had a wonderful day.   I went home.  Somehow, I did feel better.  A large part of the trip was for me as much as it was for her. I wanted to alleviate future guilt.  If she were to die, and I hadn't even tried to take her there, I would have regretted it badly.  Now, at least I tried.  I can even try again.  This time, though, it'll be a weekend.

Married Life

I had meant to publish this a long time ago, but forgot.  Then Mark Shea mentioned an article that spoke of  movie and this scene. Most movies these days feature broken and/or dysfunctional families.  It is rare to see a movie which celebrates marriage.  Then there's this one from Pixar.  This is the most loving and heartfelt tribute I have ever seen to lifelong love and marriage in any movie.




And then, just to up the ante, they have a second scene later in the movie.  In this scene, Carl is looking through Ellie's adventure book, when he comes to the part she was going to fill with her thrilling adventures in far off lands and undiscovered countries.  He begins to close the book, thinking it to be empty, regretting that they never did have that adventure together, when he notices something.




I really should stop chopping onions when watching these videos.

Where I went today

I have mentioned once or twice that I try to take my mother out once a month or so, usually for a drive somewhere to someplace she might enjoy seeing, as long as it's cheap.  i usually end up taking her to a waterfall, a battlefield from the War of 1812, or an old church.  Today, we continued on our tour of the One Hundred Waterfalls of Hamilton with Albion Falls.

In truth, some of the hundred are 'wateralls' only by a rather loose definition of the term.  I don't know what their standards are, but some of the 'falls' are more of a ditch on a downward slope.  However, they do have some very nice ones, and of the ones I have seen thus far, Albion is one of the nicer ones.   It also has a good view when looking out from the falls.

The cliff in the middle of the photo is a lovers' leap. 

At any rate, Mom liked the day, and wants me to get my photos of the falls printed up soon, so she can work on painting some of the sketches she made while we were there.  Not all of our trips turn out so well.  I should write about a recent attempt to take her to Montreal, and how that fell apart.

younger, with a millstone around her neck.