The Dinosaur Trail

Welcoming Party: One of the first things you see when you enter the Tyrrell Museum is this model of an adolescent Tyrannosaurus Rex. He's just a kid. But look at those eyes.

Our two full days in Drumheller took us to all the points of interest on what they call the Dinosaur Trail, a 48-kilometer loop affording several views of the badlands. And then we went the other way to see a few more things.

The landscape formed 10 to 15 thousand years ago when massive glacial run off carved out layers of alluvial and other deposits on vast former inland seas. 

Also carved out were areas called bone yards where large colonies of ancient beings suddenly met their end 70 million years ago. Then they were happenstantially encased in something both soft and anoxic, and *presto* you got yourself some fossils.

These two bad things that happened long ago combined to make one good thing: work for local palaeontologists that restored the economy of the little town of Drumheller, Alberta.

As we know, mammals outlived the last worst day the dinosaurs ever had. A joke from the locals as they wish you a good day as a tourist is: "Don't let the dinosaurs bite." Little danger of that, but a mule deer kick might set you back.

Young buck mule deer in a canola field by the Orkney Lookout.

Or twisting your ankle on a prairie dog burrow.

Prairie dog in the Drumheller Municipal Cemetery, which was riddled with burrows. All of Drumheller seemed to be one big prairie dog colony.

In a novel effort to diversify the economy, two avid collectors, one of whom is employed in the entertainment industry, have opened up the Trekcetera Museum. Here you can find some Star Trek stuff, along with an uncategorizable mishmash of other stuff - all interesting, but as coherently connected as longhorn beetles and rim shots. There's American Civil War uniforms and saddles, Denzel Washington's costume from the Magnificent Seven, two of Mimi Bobeck's costumes from the Drew Cary show and Titanic memorabilia, to name just a few.   

Captain Janeway's uniform from Star Trek Voyager.

You can find antiques too. We stopped at the Rustic Red Barn.

The welcoming committee at Rustic Red Barn Antiques was comprised of four dogs, including a golden lab that growled at Bruce. The growl meant "I am displeased that you are not petting me." 

There used to be 139 coal mines in the Drumheller valley, all overworking, underpaying and endangering their employees so housewives could cook meals and heat their homes.

We all know natural gas won that battle. The last standing example of the bygone era is the Atlas Coal Mine, now a mouldering pile of near-rubble, invoking the absolute lack of romance of hard rock fossil fuel extraction.

Kim had an idea about how to bring the industry back to life: 

Thanks for reading!

Karen

Drumheller?

Next to the anthropomorphized ceratopsian with the improbable accessories, Kim and Carol smile in spite of the punishing heat, and Carol keeps rocking Lennard Taylor.

Yes, Drumheller, where there's lots of work for the local teenagers at the many hotels and attractions in this otherwise tiny (8,000 people), sleepy, formerly-burgeoning-but-now-spent coal mining town.

Now it's dinosaurs, their fossilized remains and the many fine products - toys, t-shirts - featuring dinosaurs' fossilized remains that drive the economy of the town where Mike Myers' sister lives and teaches art classes.

What're we doing here?

Eating well for one thing:

Kim pretends she's going to eat the whole thing... That's the "Mammoth Burger" at Bernie and the Boys Bistro at the corner of Fourth and Third. It's the house trademark burger - apparently someone once ate one in less than ten minutes. It took the five of us longer than that, but it was a truly fine burger. The fries and milkshakes both showed the skill and quality of a lost age.

A local named Lothar (his bona fide true and own name) leads Ghost Walks on Friday and Saturday nights. 

Bruce gets all the fun roles: when we were in Italy, he got to be the king of France. In Drumheller, he was Annie, a six foot four inch three hundred pound bartender who made friends with the local constable and was his enforcer ever after.

We're here for three nights hanging out and having fun. But this is the twenty-first century, so the heat is unbelievable and the horizons are smudged with smoke from BC forest fires.

Thanks for reading!

Karen 

Captain Oreo

Fuzzy maguffin safe in his pen.

In third and fourth year undergrad, I helped make ends meet by house sitting for my professors. Nothing ever went wrong but I was always a little unnerved nonetheless by being accountable for someone else's stuff and, sometimes, someone else's pet.

I grew skilled and confident in my semi-profession of house sitter. And, like knowing how to ride a bike, I have kept those skills to this day.

So, when Bruce subcontracted to me for one day his commitment to take care of our friends' rabbit while they travelled in France, I felt up to the task. 

The charge at issue is Captain Oreo - a little two-colour bunny with a better name than anyone.

I headed over to Riverdale last Saturday morning, five pages of written instructions (not kidding) in hand. 

The old feeling of being slightly unnerved came along with me.

I have trouble with locks. Always have had. So it took me three tries and two looks at the written instructions before I got in the door.

Once inside, I knew exactly where the bunny was and what to. 

Bruce and the instructions both said to let the Captain lollop around the house while I changed his bedding, cleaned up rabbit poo, filled his water and feed bowls and prepared a rich, delicious half baby carrot for his lunch.

Bruce had included the detail that there was no concern about the bunny going up and down the stairs in the house, because both had been blocked off.

I let the Captain out of his cage. He took off to scoot around the house. I set about my chores. 

I had just put the Captain's refreshed water bowl down when I heard a *WHOMP*.

The treacherous cunning bunny had knocked down the picture -- canvas stretched on a wooden frame -- blocking the stairs to the second floor. 

"Hey!" I said.

I ran over to the stairs. Captain Oreo had climbed about halfway up.

"Hey! Hey!" I said again, and the Captain picked up speed as he climbed the rest of the stairs. I realized that yelling at the rabbit was a bad idea.

I climbed the stairs. I got to the top in time to see the Captain's tail disappearing under the bed in the master bedroom.

A montage played in my head. Me reaching under one side of the bed as the rabbit escaped out the other side. Me looking in one direction as the rabbit moseyed by in the other. Me opening a dresser drawer and the rabbit popping out ...

I abandoned the strategy of chasing the rabbit. Bruce had said the Captain could be lured with food, so I went downstairs, put the picture back in place to block the stairs so I would know where he was and finished cleaning his cage.

I went to the fridge to get a juicy tasty lettuce leaf to lure him and ... there was the goddam rabbit, in the hallway. He'd pushed the picture out of the way. I took one step toward him. He turned and ran back up the stairs.

Resolved to be better and smarter than a three-pound rodent, I laid a trail of lettuce bits on the floor for him leading from the stairs to his cage.

That was too clever. He got the first bit, noisily ate it and then just sat there. 

Stupid rabbit.

So, I shook his food bowl freshly charged with a small amount of rabbit pellets in his cage and he came running.

I took this week's picture after I'd locked the Captain in his cage. I sent it to the travelling family so they could see that I had not killed their rabbit.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Finding Bruno

The Lohses, in Winnipeg, circa 1924.
Emma and Bruno Lohse with Alfred (standing) and Ernest. Bruno had completed his apprenticeship as a tailor. I bet he made Emma's dress.

This all started with me spitting into a cup.

Then I left a message on 23andMe, asking for help in finding information about my mysterious grandfather, Bruno Oswald (or Otto) Lohse.

Then a stranger sent me a photo of my grandparents on their wedding day.

Here's the rest of the story.

Emma Schmidt and Bruno Lohse married in February 1920. They were both born, in Poland, in 1892. Bruno's family, ethnic Germans, had lived for three generations in Alexandroff in Poland/Russia, since about 1800. Bruno's father ran a textile mill, where Bruno worked before the first World War. 

Although German by blood, Bruno fought for Russia against the Germans in WWI. The war destroyed the Lohse family business.

After they married, Bruno and Emma emigrated to Canada in September 1920. They joined Emma's older sister and brother-in-law in Prairie Rose Saskatchewan.

Two years later, after the birth of their first son Alfred, they moved to Winnipeg, where Bruno pursued odd jobs for a time and then apprenticed as a tailor.

Emma spent the 1920's pregnant with and caring for her five children: Alfred, born in 1921, Ernest, born in 1923 and, after several miscarriages, Ruth in 1927, Hilda in 1928 and Lillian (my mother) in 1929.

Emma died in 1933, at the age of 42. That left Bruno with five children, aged 4 to 12, and not much else.

Perhaps because of his desperate situation, after the death of his wife, Bruno fell in with a bad crowd, a local "bund" associated with Winnipeg's Nazi community. 

As anti-German sentiment grew inside Canada in the run up to the second world war, Bruno's situation became even more precarious.

The RCMP had been monitoring Nazi activity in the country, including Bruno's "bund." 

By August 1939 the Mounted Police had assembled lists of the pro-Nazis to be arrested and arrangements had been made for internment camps at Petawawa and Kananaskis. 

The arrests which began in early September concentrated on those German nationals with clear Nazi affiliations and on "a number of naturalized Canadians of German birth or racial origin who had so identified themselves with Nazi propagandist activities ... that they could not be regarded as loyal citizens of Canada." Credit: Manitoba Historical Society

Bruno was arrested and shipped to Kananaskis in October, 1939, around the time of my mother's 10th birthday.

When Kananaskis was expanded to hold German POWs, Bruno was sent to Fredericton, NB, where he remained until June 1945.

Bruno returned to his embittered, angry, unforgiving family, continued his trade as a tailor and lived the rest of his days in Winnipeg, until May 13, 1954, when he died from heart disease at the age of 62.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen 

Greyhound Rescue

A point of clarification: My sister Kim is not posing with "rescued" greyhounds. These are retired greyhounds that have been adopted by my cousin Susan. They are sweet, docile and friendly dogs; even though Kim's expression might make you think otherwise.

The weather's been pleasant in Toronto these days - good summer weather, warm, but not blistering or so muggy you can't stand to be outside.

So I was enjoying my walk home from work the other afternoon. I was just past the southwest corner of Sherbourne and Gerrard when I saw fifty metres or so down the sidewalk a light-beige-coloured greyhound pelting towards me.

It had no leash, no apparent accompanying human. But that was so unthinkable I believed with every fibre of my being that this dog was not running at high speed toward a busy intersection without someone who cared about it close by.

As it sped past me, I had to wonder.

So I turned to look back at the intersection.

The dog continued to run, full speed, into the road.

At that point, as I am wont to do, I started shouting "oh my God" and ran the few steps back to the corner.

Traffic was bad that afternoon. Construction on nearby streets had squeezed six or seven times the normal number of cars onto Sherbourne. 

Just as the light was turning red for north/south traffic, one last, frazzled driver gunned his vehicle through a quick left turn, right when the dog was in the intersection.

It was a bad moment.  

By some miracle the car did not hit the dog.

By another, the greyhound stopped its merry run toward an uncertain future, turned around as the light changed and placidly walked back across the street along with a small crowd of people.

As they approached me on the corner, I interrogated each of them.  

"Is that your dog?" 

"No," they all said.

The greyhound walked almost at heel with a denizen of the neighbourhood, a man with bags of picked bottles hanging from his arms.

I asked him if the dog were his. He said "no," too.

The dog was unaccompanied and needed help. I grabbed it by its collar.

I checked for tags. There were none. As I resumed my walk home, with the dog, the small plans forming in my head were that I'd call the Humane Society and the City Animal Control office to see if anyone had reported a lost greyhound. 

The thought also occurred that this might be the way to get a dog for Bruce in his retirement.

I was twenty metres or so south of the intersection when a man in a white SUV nestled in the unmoving grip of northbound traffic called to me. He said he'd seen the dog escape from the yard of a house about halfway down the block. 

I thanked him. His helpful tip reminded me that I had seen the dog before. It lived in one of the renovated Victorian houses just north of my townhouse. So that would be the first place I'd look for the dog's owner.

At that moment, I could see a young woman step onto the sidewalk just about where the dog's house was. She was obviously agitated, looking from side to side frantically, her phone in her right hand.

She saw me and the dog. I waved slightly at her and she came running toward us. 

I was happy to be party to the young woman's relief and give her back her dog. But I could not resist telling her how narrowly the worst had been avoided.

"He was almost hit by a car," I said over her many thank you's, "you have to be more careful." 

That satisfied me, but not the guy with the bags of bottles. He was right there and gave her a long lecture about the responsibilities of dog ownership and watching out for your pets. 

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Big Week - The Lost Edition

Equilibrium: June 27 2018

Equilibrium: July 13 2018

This is my second attempt at this blog post. The first time, this morning, when I thought I had everything about where I wanted it, I noticed that a photo caption was in the wrong font size.

I tried to change it, but it wouldn't budge.

I dove into the html function on the blog site, which I do not understand at all, but can make work if I poke at it cautiously.

This time I poked too hard. I removed one innocuous-seeming font command and wiped out the whole post (phooey). 

Could not get it back (dammit). 

Wrote it off as a bad job (wasn't that good).

Went and got my hair cut (trying a new style - sorta like a mushroom). 

Prepared lunch for company (charcuterie and cheese - it's too hot to cook). 

After lunch, dropped some dead batteries and household hazardous waste off at the "Environment Day" at Allan Gardens and picked up some compost for the garden.

Made reservations for supper at a restaurant near the Bell Lightbox theatre where we're going to go see Sorcerer tonight.

And now, all my other chores are done and I have no excuse so I should be able to get back to the blog post that blew up on me this morning.

But I can't. 

I made the mistake of using blog content to make lunch time conversation with someone who reads this blog. 

So, other than the completion of the soaring distraction, Equilibrium, at the corner of Jarvis and Carlton, I won't tell you why this was a big week. 

Come back next week. I'll try again. 

Thanks for reading!

Karen

Older Than It Looks

The slab-like mid-70's vintage twenty-three storey highrise on the southwest corner of Carlton and Jarvis Streets was once the Primrose Hotel. A family of falcons lived somewhere among the raised, illuminated, 3-metre-tall letters that spelled the hotel's name high on its eastern wall.

I imagined they lived in the second "R."

Some years ago, due to delays in the construction of student housing elsewhere, the University of Toronto took over the entire hotel and, as a temporary measure, turned it into student digs.

The change turned out not to be temporary.  Since 2015, the building has been The Parkside, a privately-owned residence for Ryerson, U of T, OCAD and George Brown University students. 

The falcons still hunt the Allan Gardens, though workmen removed the sign they lived in long ago. 

Now, something else is happening on the sunny side of the building.

I noticed this on the last day of the Pride weekend. I thought someone had screwed up, and started at the end of the celebration something that should have been completed at the outset. 

The rainbow bands are part of Toronto's next building-sized piece of art, joining the Phoenix in St. James Town and the thing-I-don't-have-a-word-to-describe up by Yonge and St. Clair. 

The new mural's called "Equilibrium", a work in progress.

New Media Reviews

I've been watching Scishow on YouTube for many months now. The videos feature well-spoken young people talking as fast as they can about science for four to fourteen minutes. I think the first one I watched was about how pain killers work. My all-time favourite is the one about memes. They are terrific. If you have never seen them, you should check them out. 

The oldest things in my house: a 400 million year old trilobite fossil and a 16 million year old mosasaur tooth, both excavated in what is now Morocco, purchased in support of Scishow at Scishow Finds.

Because I'm old, I edge my way slowly into new-fangled ways of transmitting information. Take podcasts for example. I never listened to them. Couldn't see the point. 

Then a friend of mine told me about Gilbert Gottfried's podcast. So I loaded an app on my phone and tried it.

Gottfried's show didn't grab me, but the app pushed a bunch of others my way, including Pod Save America, which, if you can stand the non-stop barrage of all-American-end-of-the-worldism all the time, has some things to commend it.

Nothing tops Malcolm Gladwell's Revisionist History, though. It's the way podcasts should be done. Listen to The Prime Minister and the Prof (or the King of Tears) and see if you can resist listening to all three seasons. 

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen