Safe Travels

Every decision involves risk. And when you decide to travel to Newfoundland in May, there's a risk the weather may not be that great. So you plan around the risk and make the most of what's on offer, which can still put you on the edge of peril.

That said, the only danger in the Railroad Costal Museum was that we might actually learn something, which we did. I am now certain that but for constant infusions of cash from several governments, Newfoundland would be permanently populated only by seals and puffins. This is no place to sustain an economy. 

The Newman Wine Vaults were dangerous for tall people. Bruce knocked his head at least once.  

The Duke of Duckworth, a favourite among locals, presented the risk of the wait person who sold us that last half pint of Guinness that we really didn't need.

Happily stuffed on truly awesome pub food (the fish and chips changed my life) and half pickled on Guinness, we ventured out for some drunk shopping.

Bruce got a beautiful hand-knit wool sweater. I got a rock painted like a house.

After that, the only dangerous thing to do was to get home. We flew on WestJet 549 which left St. John's at 7:30 p.m. The pilot promised a smooth flight, which it was, until just before landing. A pocket of turbulence knocked the plane just seconds before touchdown, which put the plane off level. I'm pretty sure we landed on one wheel, bounced, wobbled the other way, bounced again on the other wheel and then repeated that before the pilot levelled us off and the woman in the window seat next to me finally released my arm. 

She apologized and said something about being afraid of flying. I reassured her there was no harm done and that any landing you can walk away from is a good one. 

The rough landing was the worst I've ever experienced. I wondered whether it was truly bad or only seemed that way. I thought I'd ask the pilot, who, usually on WestJet flights, stands at the cockpit door as passengers disembark saying "goodbye" and "thanks."

Except this time there was no beaming pilot to bid me farewell and answer questions. The cockpit door was closed and there was only the cabin steward to say good bye.

I guess it was truly bad.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Fewer seals; more people: commemorating 15 years of slaughter.

The Rooms

Through the second level window, The Rooms.

As predicted, the weather today was absolutely filthy. Two degrees celsius with rain and snow.

We're staying at a place called Monroe House, a very fine mansion owned at one time by Newfoundland Prime Minister Walter Stanley Monroe and now converted into rooms. It's not a bed and breakfast. Just beds. It has 7 large and nicely appointed suites. Fun fact: for the full time that we have been staying here, we have been the only guests.

Today, for the first time, we met someone affiliated with the ownership and operation of the premises, a friendly woman named Bonnie, who kindly drove us to The Rooms rather than send us off into the gale to get frozen and drenched to the bone. 

We sheltered in the combined art gallery, museum and cultural centre until well past 3:00 p.m., when the weather broke, the precipitation stopped and it was possible to walk outside without just hating every goddam minute.

The Rooms make it plain that Newfoundlanders are Canadians second. Their identity is forged in the immigrant experience (there's a display that shows the likenesses between locals and folks in Ireland with the same family name), the terrible losses from the first World War (540 men shipped out as the first regiment; less than 70 came home) and the fishery (the Rodney boat in the above display was made by a local). 

This is listed in a brochure as one of the ten highlights in the museum. The text reads: Would you put a dead cat in your house wall? How about a rat? What if you believed that it would ward off evil spirits and the plague? A deliberately concealed dried-out cat and rat were recently discovered during the renovations of the 170-year-old Thimble Cottage, built by the O'Briens, Irish immigrant farmers to St. John's. Common beliefs were that cats communed with spirits, warding off all evil ones and that rats protected against rodent infestation and plague. 

The Rooms dominates the skyline, bigger even than the catholic cathedral.

View of St. John's from halfway up Signal Hill.

Thanks for reading!

Karen

Better Weather Than We Dared Hope

Terry Fox Mile 0 Memorial, by the Battery, St. John's.

The Weather Network told us this would be our best day. So the plan was to do the North Head Trail. Locals have used the trail for about the past 250 years to get to the top of Signal Hill. Parks Canada has more recently taken it over. It's a loop trail, very demanding to go up; less demanding to go down. We took an alternative path to go up (along Signal Hill Road mostly) and benefitted from gravity working in our favour as we forgot our fear of heights and enjoyed the view on the way down. 

That's my foot on the edge of the trail and a representative example of the drop off.

Adirondack chairs set by Parks Canada at points on the trail offered chances, as Bruce demonstrates, to live ones' best life.

It's still too early for whales, but there were a few icebergs 

Cuckold's Cove: the white speck in the middle of the shot is an eagle.

We've noticed that St. John's is a little empty. On the holiday Monday, along Water Street downtown, there was nothing but panhandlers, the guys working on the new water mains and a few other tourists. Today, there was more traffic, but the touristy spots were still mostly deserted. It was wonderful. We ran into only a dozen or so people on the trail and witnessed all alone an eagle getting the bum's rush from a raven by Cuckold's Cove. 

Tomorrow is forecasted to snow and rain, so we'll be making the most of the great indoors.

Thanks for reading!

Karen

First Day on the Rock

Once a grand drunk tank, this is the Supreme Court of Newfoundland building.

The last time we were in St. John's was almost exactly three years ago, when we split our first ever east cost vacation equally between Halifax and St. John's. This time we didn't bother with Halifax (no disrespect meant; we just prefer St. John's).

Contrasting the old apothecary shop and the new energy monolith.

I was hobbling around with a cane back then, three months shy of my hip surgery. I felt a bit short changed. I have unfinished business with St. John's' vertical streets and hiking paths.

Visiting the Rock in May comes with risks. Don't be fooled by blue skies in the shots above. It was about 2 degrees today. Tomorrow is supposed to be the same - cold and mostly sunny - so it will be our hiking day. The day after that, there's an 80% chance of precipitation - including snow. 

"Newfoundland Indoors" will be the theme. There's a row of museums along Water Street, including the apothecary's, so we'll spend our time there.

Thanks for reading!

Karen

The Struggles of Age

At the corner of Bloor and Sherbourne

For the workshop this past week, we were supposed to write two lists, one of the five "first" things we had done in our lives and one of the five "last." Then we were to pick one and write about it.

I'm a busy person, so I skipped the lists. I took a scene I'd already written from Molly's blog and fixed it up using what I've learned so far. 

Brent was Molly’s walker for ten years.  Bruce and I walk with him as he carries her the two blocks to the vet's. It is a cold, clear November morning. We walk three abreast on the sidewalk with nothing to say.  

Molly is our Jack Russell terrier. At sixteen years she’s deaf, blind and in pain. She’s got a cough, which every time I hear it, reminds me I have a responsibility. 

A few steps from the door, Brent puts Molly down. Right away she has a light-coloured goopy poo. We threw a party for her the night before and she ate some rich food. I pick up the dog shit with a baggie over my hand.

“That’s the last time I’ll ever do that,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I tie up the plastic bag and wonder when I’ll get a chance to dispose of it. Molly makes her own way to the door of the vet clinic. She’s been there before and knows there are treats on the other side. Bruce picks her up and we follow him in.

“I can take that,” says a young woman behind the counter and I hand her the poo-filled bag.

The vet steps out of a doorway. 

“Hi. Come on in here.” He ushers us into a room decorated to not look like it’s the place where pets are killed. There’s a beige carpet, a two-seater couch, a generic painting on the wall. The vet takes Molly from Bruce. 

“I’m going to put a catheter on her,” he says. “Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.” The small room has three walls. The vet disappears with Molly into the dimly lit expanse beyond the missing fourth wall. 

I sit on the couch, then reconsider. I’m the one who ordered Molly’s execution and I am not at all comfortable in that role. 

“I think she should sit on your lap. She likes you best.” I say to Bruce. I stand up to change places, but I feel dizzy, lose my balance and end up standing by the opposite wall. 

Bruce and Brent arrange themselves on the couch, Bruce with a blanket on his lap. The vet comes back with Molly, a catheter taped to her leg.

Bruce takes her. She is not at all agitated, surrounded as she is by people she knows and trusts. The vet uncaps the syringe and I want to yell "stop!" For sixteen years I protected Molly's life. I am terrified by the finality of her death. But I don’t say anything.

Instead I watch the vet's hands, see the plunger on the syringe move. 

Bruce hugs Molly gently and Brent kisses her head. I watch from across the room as the dog transitions from relaxed to inert; dead in seconds. 

The vet takes the limp little corpse into the back for disposal. I see tears on Bruce’s and Brent’s cheeks. I squeeze my eyes shut, let my knees buckle and collapse against the wall, wailing.

 Communications Update 

Research says we should not have done this at our age, but Bruce and I ditched our land line this past week and got two new phones. I can now be reached at our old land line number. Bruce kept the mobile number he's had since 2017. I don't think it's a good idea to just put the numbers on this blog. If you can't guess what they are from these hints, send me an e-mail and I'll fill you in.

And while we now have nice little iPhone 7s to cradle in our hands like precious totems, my electronic life is in shambles. My mail account won't work on my new phone for reasons I don't have the patience to figure out. 

Dammit.

Anyway, the phones are nice and the apps that do work will help us on our journey to Newfoundland next week.

Temperatures have finally broken into the double digits here in Southern Ontario, so where else would we travel but to cloudy St. John's where the forecast predicts a bracing 6 degrees for the duration of our three day stay. 

Thanks for reading!

Happy Victoria Day!

Karen

Angry Old Men

No longer an unobstructed view of the lake: from the 35th floor of 250 Yonge Street

The Ford government announced in April that it would be consulting with broader public sector employers and unions. The idea is to "protect what matters most" from the debt amassed by the previous government and the tax cuts promised by the current government.

Presumably informed by the Premier's opinion of unions (they're thugs), the exercise allows agencies, schools and hospitals and their staffs' bargaining agents to choose between:

a) arbitrary limits to collective bargaining set by the province or 

b) arbitrary limits set by the province without any recourse to collective bargaining. 

This is about reducing the deficit. So the unions for the non-tax-base-funded energy sector that met with the government's hired gun this past week were a bit miffed about being invited to the party.

Once at the party, mind you, they took the opportunity to express their deep contempt for the proposal.  There were hints the scheme was unconstitutional - which I'm guessing won't even slow the province down - and veiled promises of future litigation. The unions went for a show of force, bringing along one - the Steel Workers union - that had not only not been invited but does not have any members in the energy sector.

I bore mute witness to the discussion. I'd also sat on the sidelines of the conversation with the energy sector employers a couple of weeks ago. 

That talk wasn't as interesting as this one.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Homework

The City recently installed this just north of us on Sherbourne Street 
because they don't make a "junkies crossing" sign.

This past week's writing assignment in Roxanne Snider's course was to craft a character's "moving defence," a monologue that sets a tone and explains something the character wants you to know about them:

I hate having to listen to people passionate about their work. You know who I'm talking about. Like the guy from a monster food conglomerate excited about early childhood nutrition, by which he means baby food with almost no asbestos in it. Or the millennial woman proselytizing about how the next wave of electric cars will save the world. Because that's what cars do. Save the world.

These tiresome zealots are all different on the surface but when they start talking about their thing they all get the same weird light in their eyes, the same excited tone in their voice; their words pick up torque and they become their own force of nature.

When my luck runs out and I end up next to one of these self-winding windbags, I pretend to listen and consider my options. I can't step on their foot or spill my drink on them. That would make them sympathetic and that's not what I'm looking for.

But, I need to inflict some pain. My general rule is the worse the bore, the grander my exit. A military manufacturer from my golf club was just about to make his big finish on next generation low friction super liquids. I took a fake phone call. My nephew's wedding exposed me to a game designer looking for ways to hook up with Disney. She was never going to get to her big finish. I choked on a canapé. I got cornered at a fundraiser at the Aga Khan museum by the son of a former business partner. He's big into blockchain. I told him I needed to leave so I could attend my ex-lover's medically assisted death.

Call it a hobby. I love turning my back on stunned faces and egos deflating so furiously you can almost hear the whistle.

Another Publishing Milestone

Google tools tell me where the traffic on this blog comes from. Most of the time it's porn bots. But, last week, this blog was viewed by plagscan, which teachers use to check to see if their student's work was plagiarized. I'm so proud.

The Industriousness of Squirrels, Revisited

I noted in 2017 the progress since 2015 of squirrels gnawing away at a metal plate bolted to a silver maple in the Allan Gardens.

They're done now.

 
Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen