Olympic Withdrawal

Our men’s hockey team bringing the Sochi Olympics to a satisfying and fitting close last Sunday is probably one of those events that every Canadian will proudly remember for years to come.  And now we can all let out a long sigh of relief and allow our lives to return to normal.  After so many athletic highlights, new records and thrilling close calls a period of well-deserved rest and quiet pride is definitely in order.  And I think our Canadian athletes deserve a little R & R and admiration too.

I know why I’m exhausted.  During the last two weeks my mental acuity, physical coordination, endurance and discipline have reached an all-time high.

With a dizzying array of TV stations randomly airing the various sports throughout the pre-dawn and sometimes even daylight hours my daily challenge was to figure out how to record the ones I wanted for our evening viewing.  I have now acquired the clairvoyance and mental agility to select the correct channel (as opposed to the one announced in the guide), the ability to determine if sufficient recording time was available, and the foresight to record the following program so that, unlike on the first couple of days, we would actually see who won the events and even catch a bit of the flower-presentation ceremony.

The major advantage of PVR-ing is that one does not have to endure the endless series and constant repetition of annoying ads.  But fast-forwarding over these and not cutting into the competition takes advanced levels of digital dexterity.  I now boast one of the fastest TV-remote control fingers on the planet.  I’m hoping this will become one of the demonstration sports in the 2018 Olympics.

The 30 km-long ladies’ cross-country ski in which a mass (that’s the actual Olympic term) of dismayingly fit (and inevitably blonde) young women chase each other up and down hills and back and forth through snow-covered forests for over an hour, or countless ends of curling with the only levity provided by the Norwegian men’s questionable sartorial choices, or hours of oversized bullet casings stuffed with 4 hairy-legged and hefty men hurtling down spiraling cylindrical ice-lined hamster-runs require high levels of concentration and the ability to remain seated for far longer than the average human anatomy can usually tolerate.  But I am confident I rank among the best in the world in the field of sedentary endurance.  And don’t even contemplate competing with me in the bladder-control event!

Loyalty to our Canadian athletes is a requirement that is easy to fulfill but every day brought new events, each with its own set of rules to decrpyt (does ANYONE who isn’t Dutch understand the intricacies of the speed-skating events?).  Each day I learned the names of yet another batch of bright young superstars whose success or failure depended on my unwavering concentration and support.  Like all true afficionados I prided myself on being able to refer to our medal-winners by name and inject arcane details of their Olympic triumphs into conversation even days after their event.

But I am most proud of the discipline I have acquired thanks to these games.  Watching a sporting event loses all of its drama if one already knows the results.  In preparation for evening viewing I would resolutely abstain from listening to the radio; all family and friends were warned at the outset of any conversation that I DID NOT WANT TO HEAR WHO HAD WON!  If I had to find a TV channel for my husband I would mute the sound and peek at the upper portion of the screen through fanned fingers.  I felt that I was at the top of my game in Olympic-result-avoidance until I made the mistake of attending the Symphony where a woman I had never met ran up to me, grabbed me by the arm and exuded:  How about those Canadian women winning gold in the hockey game!?!  If hadn’t become so well- disciplined I would probably have reacted in a rather violent manner.

So now I return to my pre-Olympic lifestyle. I’ll have to search for topics of conversation when I begin interacting with friends again; I’ll start going out of the house again (Where did all that snow come from?  I thought it was 15° outside!); and I’ll have to rely on my tai chi class and my computer keyboard for my athletic activity.

                                             

What did I do to offend the gods? And which gods did I offend?

My dear, housebound husband looks forward to an outing every day.  I have become very adept at transforming everyday errands into mini-adventures.   But some days the most exciting excursion I can conjure up is a 3-minute drive to Shoppers to pick up a jar of something we just might, one day, feel the need of.  So today’s excursion  seemed perfect:  a trip to the dentist to pick up his newly repaired upper plate.

For over 40 years he has worn the same partial plate but last year the hooks had become loose so we had undergone the ordeal of ordering, sizing and fitting a new set of front teeth for him.  Since then he has managed to break off, lose and/or swallow FOUR of the 9 teeth on the plate!  Needless to say, we are well-known at the dentist’s and have the drill down pat: I take the plate in one day and pick it up, freshly repaired the next morning.  I find it easier to perform this alone as parking in the Yonge and St. Clair area is difficult even with a handicapped sign.  But today, Harry INSISTED on accompanying me.  We got him safely to the car and set off to a recurring theme of “Where are my TEETH???”

As usual, I had made a plan that would involve leaving him alone in the car for a minimum of time; if I’m gone too long he tries to come and find me and in this weather even covered in a blanket he finds the cold intolerable.  The parking lot was full forcing us to revise our route and make an almost impossible left-hand turn onto a dug-up St. Clair lined with cranky drivers who were tired of construction and snow banks.  We managed to work our way to another parking garage and I assured Harry I’d leave the heat on and be back in a jiff. 

All went well; the dentist’s assistants handed over the little blue plastic box and I was back at the car in less than 10 minutes.  At the garage exit, the machine swallowed both my ticket AND credit card and then flashed angrily at me.  There were no buttons of any kind to push (Cancel?  Restart transaction? Call the fire brigade?) so there we sat until a human appeared to interrogate me on what I had done wrong (Uh??? Nothing??) and why we hadn’t left when the gate was up (It WASN’T up!  I wanted my credit card back!).  At that point the trickster apparatus spat my card and receipt into the waiting hand of the garage attendant who assured me cheerily this was WHY he still had a job.  (I’m so happy for him!)

So off we drove, Harry clutching the little blue plastic box and reiterating the theme of missing teeth.  So I told him to open the box.  This he did and swiftly popped the contents into his mouth.  When I asked how they felt he moaned ‘Not good’ then squeezed open his lips to reveal a gaping hole where the missing tooth was still missing!

I performed some kind of illegal traffic manoeuvre and we headed back to the dentist’s.  I did not feel up to sparring with the parking lot and smug attendant again so decided to use Harry’s handicapped sign to park on a side street.  The icy mounds of snow were 3 feet high and the pavement was dangerously narrow and snow-covered.  I ‘parked’ as best I could, wrenched the blue plastic box from Harry’s surprised hands, assured him I would be back in a jiff and scurried back to the dental office.  The entire staff stared in wide-eyed and red-faced disbelief at the dental plate with the gaping hole and assured me they would look after it – again!

As I arrived puffing and sliding back at the car Harry explained to me that I had parked in a very unsafe spot and then asked where his teeth were.  My explanation sounded as ridiculous to me as it did to him but we didn’t have much time to contemplate this as huge, 6-inch thick tiles of frozen snow cascaded noisily off the roof of my car and smothered the entire windscreen.  I couldn’t see ANYTHING so blindly inched to the side of the road much to the dismay of the line-up of cars behind me.  When I judged that it was almost safe to do so I got out and cleared away my own personal avalanche.

The thought of an impending snowstorm tonight and tomorrow morning, a repeat trip to the dentist’s and another 20+ hours of answering the question:  ‘Where are my teeth?’ have me wondering which of the many gods I have annoyed and if, perhaps, they will still be angry tomorrow, and if so, what new forms of torture will they have for me?

Bell Email Scam

I am very conscientious about paying my bills as soon as they arrive so I post-date them to be paid on the due date by the bank.  In general, this works very well.  But  for the second month in a row, I received an email saying that Bell had been unable to process my last payment.

Last month I had clicked the link provided in the email and was led to a page asking for a great deal of information including my credit card.  I recognized it immediately as a phishing attempt and called Bell to report it.  After the obligatory wait period, I was connected to agent Tom who assured me that this was indeed a scam and I should disregard it.

Again this month, I received the “Your last payment cannot be processed” email.  Once again, it looked very official and this time the link to My Bell took me to a page that looked exactly as the legitimate site looks including photos and links, most of which worked.  Two blank rectangles eagerly awaited my account name and password but the URL at the top looked a little suspicious so I stopped there and, after the obligatory wait, commenced a chat with Rhoda, this month’s cheery Bell agent.

Once again I provided the appropriate information for her to verify my authenticity and when I explained the situation she agreed that this was a very common scam that I should ignore.  She also asked if I would be willing to forward the offending email to be used as evidence and, after a short waiting period, she was able to provide me with an email address that would lead, I understood, straight to the sleuths at Bell Accounts.  I ended the chat session, assured Rhoda that there was nothing else she could do for me and fired off the email along with the offending email and a screenshot of the purported My Bell page.

Two seconds later I received the message from the ever-vigilant Postmaster informing me that my email could not be delivered.  I shook my head and questioned the authenticity of Rhoda.

I then picked up the phone and, after the obligatory waiting and authentication periods, explained the situation to Camille.  She launched into a long explanation of the scam, etc.  I assured her I knew all about this, and wanted to know if she could provide the CORRECT Bell abuse address.  Obviously unaware of this she offered to find it for me. After yet another obligatory waiting period she cheerily rhymed off not an email address but a website.  When I pointed this out, she assured me that this was where I would be able to be a good citizen and register the email, false My Bell page, etc.

I dutifully went the page only to discover that it contained a long explanation by Bell on what phishing is and how to avoid internet scams. There was NO place to forward suspicious emails or websites.  I sat stunned, staring at this useless screen questioning whether any of the ‘agents’ I had talked with were legit and contemplating what I will do when I receive next month’s email telling me that Bell has been unable to process my latest payment.

The Lions in Winter

In January I spent a week in a London.  But this wasn’t just plain old London; it was London in the harshest winter the UK has known in years; and it was magnificent.  Buildings, trees and bushes were all outlined in pristine white against a clear, dark winter sky; the fairy lights on Harrods illuminated deserted Knightsbridge streets; every Brit we encountered complained of the “Arctic cold” (it was -1°C) and assured us we had arrived “at a very bad time.”

Our first morning, we headed for Trafalgar Square to admire the snow bedecking the bronze manes of its four proud lions.  As always, we felt a swelling of colonial pride at the sight of the flapping red and white flags garlanding Canada House on the west side of the square.  What an architectural gem!   What an impressive address!  What fond memories this imposing building held!

I remember travelling in Europe in the 1960’s when such a journey meant that we were isolated from family and home for weeks or even months at a time.  We wouldn’t dare call or cable home unless it was literally a matter of life and death; European newspapers did not cover Canadian events and CNN had not been invented.  What a joy it was in those days to walk up the steps of Canada House and feel we had come home.  We eagerly collected messages from other travelling friends and letters from family and friends written on onion skin paper and folded origami-style into little pale blue square packages that were impossible to open without rendering at least two of the sentences illegible.  The comfortable Library displayed rows of well-thumbed Canadian papers that would bring us up to date on the latest news (latest meaning what had happened up until a mere two weeks previously since the papers, being shipped by sea were invariably out of date by the time they arrived).   The staff went about their business and smiled indulgently as we took turns reading snippets of  ‘news’ and family highlights out loud to each other.  

In more recent years, before cell phones, iPods and free WIFI, Canada House provided a bank of computers for our use.  Visits to London would be punctuated by frequent stops in Trafalgar Square to check our inbox, whip off an email, catch up on the latest news. 

So it was no surprise last month that I automatically wandered over to the familiar front door of Canada House.  The steps were unshovelled and the door was locked tight.  Recalling previous visits when the building was under repair and a rear entrance had been in use, I worked my way to the back door.  The black wrought iron gate was padlocked shut and squinting through the railings I could just make out the message on a piece of white paper taped to the door providing a cell number for deliveries.  There was no sign of life and no other information. 

I have since learned that the government, reversing its decision to close Canada House, had renovated and opened it during the Olympics.  It has subsequently been closed to compete the work.  Wouldn’t you think, since this project is obviously taking several months, that someone would have thought of preparing an official sign instructing visitors – lonely ex-pats, Canadian travellers in need of help, prospective immigrants – where to find Canadian consular services. 

So I walked wistfully away and paid one more visit to Nelson’s rather cold and surprised feline companions then headed off through the snow to acquaint myself with London in winter.

          Trafalgar Square Lion with Canada House in the background.

  

The Great Snowstorm of 2013

There’s nothing more Canadian than a SNOW DAY!  I woke up early today, excited by the gauze of snow that bandaged my bedroom window and the thought that there would be NO SCHOOL TODAY!  Of course I haven’t ‘gone to school’ either to learn or to teach for ten years but the thrill was still there.

I nestled under my blankets and listened for the school closures on my bedside radio.  I was somewhat disappointed to learn that they no longer read long lists of schools but rather direct eager little eyes to search for their no school today card on line.  The dog and I went out onto the balcony to get a first-hand experience of the depth and feel of the snow; we sniffed the cold air and then wisely turned around and headed back to our respective beds.  I amused myself by planning ways to spend my day:  I’d read a book; I’d clean out the furnace room; I’d make a big bubbling pot of boeuf bourguignon. The silly thing is that since I decide my own working hours I can do any of those things any day I please but they seemed far more inviting today.

But instead I listened to tales of frustrated commuters, flightless airline passengers and frustrated drivers and let my mind wander to the serendipity of previous winter weather disasters. 

• The impromptu pot-luck dinner organized by a fellow graduate student who had phoned a few friends who lived in the neighbourhood but didn’t really know each other.  We all arrived, awkward, our meagre offerings dangling in plastic bags from snow-covered mittens, to be met by the aroma of a roasting goose he had just happened to have on hand!  It was one of the most memorable meals of my life!   

• Seven months pregnant, trudging 2 kilometres through the quickly mounting snow to catch the last London to Toronto train.  After many delays we arrived at Union Station well after midnight.  The next morning I arrived bright and early at the hospital only to discover that my ultra-sound had been postponed since the required the staff couldn’t make it to work ‘because of the weather.’

• The morning I stepped out of my shower to a chorus of “Hi Mum!  We’re home!  Our dorm is closed for the week.”  The great ice storm of 1998 had indeed closed Queens and Alyssa had persuaded all of her out-of-province floor-mates that her mother would be delighted for them to move in.

It’s now past noon; the snow continues to sift down, the dog dozes, I smile quietly, all of the items on my to-day list still untouched and wonder if one day I’ll look back on the Great Snowstorm of 2013 as the occasion on which I finally resurrected my blog.

How I discovered Kajiji and became an Organ Donor

In preparation for our kitchen-family room renovation I have spent many hours pondering what changes were needed in order to gain the modern, uncluttered look I’m dreaming of. Gazing at the drawings of the new configuration I realized that I would have to be ruthless and discard all that was not absolutely essential.

So I made a list of what we use every day in our family room – a sofa, two comfy chairs and a footstool, a reading lamp, a TV & stand for all of its accompanying paraphernalia. It was at this point that I came face-to-face with a realization. After the sofa the next largest item was my father’s 40 year-old Hammond organ complete with two keyboards, a full octave of foot pedals, countless stops and settings including a very annoying one that beats time to the music imitating a cymbal or brush or whatever instrument you chose. I never did figure out how to silence it and in the middle of a majestic ‘And did those feet in ancient times …’ I would become aware of some invisible percussionist trying to jazz it up a bit.

My father loved to play the organ. As a child he had rejected the violin that his mother thrust at him but he never lost his love for music. He was a teenaged bugler in the Army Corps and later played the trumpet. But he found his true passion when he bought his first electronic organ in the 60’s. Self-taught, he played all kinds of music with expression and delight (often accompanied by electronic drums). When Alyssa was young and went to spend the weekend with Grandma and Grandpa she would always request that he play the organ until she fell asleep and he was happy and proud to do so.

When I had to empty my parent’s house I was able to part with all of the furniture except the organ. For a while it sat untouched upstairs but when Alyssa moved into her own home and took her piano with her the organ moved into the family room. Since then, however, it has been played only a few times. No little toddlers request that I lull them to sleep with my unpractised hand.

So, logically, it had to go.

This called for self-discipline and new skills. So I went on line and discovered that no matter how many J’s and I’s you type you will arrive immediately at Kajiji. The site was a synch to master; within 15 minutes I had posted my ad (Beloved family organ free to good home) complete with a photo I took and uploaded myself. WOW, that was easy! But would anyone want it?

To my surprise, I had several inquires and by that evening had arranged for the organ to be picked up and transported to a Christian Camp for young people in Brighton. I know my father would be delighted to know that his beloved organ is the focal point of their Friendship Centre and that it will once again be played frequently and bring pleasure to a whole new generation.

A Remembrance Day to Remember

Remembrance Day has always been very emotional for me as both my father and my uncle served in the Second World War and then spent the rest of their lives in the military. In the 50's when I was quite young, my family lived in Germany as part of the Occupation forces. At that time bomb damaged houses and apartment buildings gaped eerily at us as we walked the streets of our small German town; gigantic hunks of concrete reinforced with rusting metal rods that had been Siegfried Line bunkers were scattered across the fields where we children played; my family took me to 'visit' Dachau before it had been prettied up for tourists. I thus grew up with a very vivid realization of the horrors caused by war.

Both my father and his brother have passed on but I have very strong memories of them as both proud military men and warm family members. But I have always been haunted by vague family references to 'Uncle Charley' who died in World War I. None of the family could offer me any specific details of where Uncle Charley served or more importantly where, when and how he died. So although I have spent many years of my adult life in Europe and have visited several of the Canadian gravesites in France I knew nothing about this distant family member or where to look for his grave.

On the morning of November 11th I was watching the Ottawa ceremonies and heard reference to a website where the records of Canada’s WWI soldiers were all available free of charge. I immediately logged on and despite the fact that I knew only his name and probable hometown and that our family name is not uncommon I was able to locate his records almost immediately. I was amazed to see his ‘Attestation’ papers – the form he had filled out when he signed up – written in his own hand. I learned that he was 50 years less a day older that me. I then uncovered the official report of his death giving the date and place as well as the number of other young men in his unit who died in the same trench. Lastly, I found a record of exactly where his grave is located. Most touching of all were notations in several different hands naming the cemetery, the closest villages and the row and number of his plot. It was comforting to know that unknown Canadians had taken an interest in identifying the precise location of his final resting place.

As I closed down my computer I felt so moved; Uncle Charley, who for so many years had been just an empty name, had now become a flesh and blood person. I made a Remembrance Day vow to be the first family member in 95 years to visit Uncle Charley's lonely grave.