Crock Pot Tru-isms
There are truisms that I bump into from time to time, like, turn on a light before entering a room.
Tru-isms: Something basic we learn by experience even though others may have told us already when we weren't listening.
I am going through a phase lately, which Jane is thoroughly enjoying, the discovery of the forgiving art of the slow cooker. I know. You're thinking , " it's about time."
If you're male and reading this, you probably discovered Crock Pot Cooking years ago. "As easy as BBQ-ing," you might say.
I wish I discovered the process 31 years ago when living in my lonely city apartment while studying at McGill!
Imagine buying the cheapest cut of tough meat, tossing it into a pot with chopped onions, carrots, potato, celery, a little salt, pepper, garlic or even a dried soup mix and some water, leaving it to cook 8 hours while out and doing your thing. Simple. Now imagine returning home. It smells like mother has sneaked in to cook Sunday meal, old home comfort style.
Anyway, I'm new at this game trying out different recipes.
During my CEGEP days, I was very fortunate to have a Jewish girlfriend and discover her mother's cooking. In my family, Pot Roast was the big deal while hers was Brisket.
If you don't know what a Brisket is, it's the same cut as smoked meat. You like smoked meat? A nicely done 'Brisket' is 'to die' for. Oh gosh- I can feel my 'goi-ish' side falling and the Jew in me emerging. You didn't know that I am part Jewish did you? Surprise! It was a surprise to me too. But that's another story.
Oh yes,- the Crock Pot and 'truisms'.
I ended up marrying one of the finest Shiksas (Non Jewish Girls) I ever met. As a result, it has been some time since my last brisket meal...not including smoked meat sandwiches which don't count.
Since I now know that I am G-d's gift to the kitchen - after all, I created my very first crock pot Stew only last week, I figured I would graduate to something more adventurous.
Yesterday, recipe in hand I made my way out to the supermarket, negotiating between wheeled wire baskets, meandering men eying younger women and wives deciding upon five or ten grain breads. Yes, I strode with purpose through IGA, empowered by my new found sense of culinary prowess, bent on my quest for the perfect Brisket.
You can imagine my distress when the butcher said, "Sorry, we don't sell those cuts of meat here."
"Aha... discrimination!" I thought. But no. Only small butcher shops supply these cuts.
The gentleman with the hair-net gave me directions to where I might find such an establishment. I bet I could get a Brisket faster at the Atwater market or on 'the Main' near Moishe's at Warshaw's if still open,-but never mind, next week for that.
I made my way up the street and around the corner once again imbued with confidence, to present myself to a more powerful wizard of the macabre arts of meat cutting .
"Brisket?" he looked back at me wide eyed. Clearly I had upset some arcane protocol.
"You mean 'fresh' Brisket?" His brow furrowed.
"Yes." I said sincerely holding up my little recipe as one might hold forth a crucifix to the heathen.
"Not 'marinated' or 'smoked'?" He looked hopeful for a moment.
"Oh, uh, no. Fresh please." I crumpled my holy relic and shoved it into the depths of the of my pocket.
"If you order it I'll receive it next day."
I looked down, scratched my head in wonderment as this man waited for my answer.
I recalled this exact feeling, when attempting a move in a game of chess against one who had the good sense to know how to play in the first place.
As I searched for a handy chess board to overturn, I caught sight of a small tag. It was under the glass counter, positioned below a beautiful hunk of meat which had been all tied up so it couldn't run away.
On the tag written in some ancient perhaps Aramaic script was "POT ROAST". I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland.
Remembering having spied a Pot Roast right next to that of my Brisket in the recipe listing at home, I pointed. "Give me that!"
"Ah. The Pot Roast!" exclaimed the butcher now within his realm of cultural expertise, " The perfect meat for the slow cooker. You cannot go wrong with that." He smiled. I had clearly made his day.
A lady to my left seemed to turn away from me, her shoulders making small movements inside her fur coat as if trying desperately to squeeze in a sneeze or some other passing tremor.
I, new proud owner of a five pound bouncing 'Roast Beast' returned home, tucked it snugly into the refrigerator with all the other ingredients, resolved to prep later in the evening.
Jane and I proceeded out to my parent's for a birthday celebration. Later we arrived back exhausted, not in any mood to face off with an onion or meat. "I'll do the prep for the slow cooker in the morning".
The problem when learning something new, without having taken lessons or spending time doing proper research, is the process of finding out later through 'Eureka!' moments, that certain emerging patterns do make sense despite what we may think.
If you were to glance at various Crock Pot cook books, you would notice a pattern. They always say to prepare the night before and only next morning throw everything in the pot. Easy. They do not say in big bold letters why you should not do everything at once.
Morning arrived. I entered the Kitchen re-energized, the rack of dishes dry, a small amount of dirty dishes on the counter awaiting the next wash session. I pulled out the celery, carrots, onions, potatoes.
Chop chop chop. Easy.
Next, I pulled out the clunker eight pound iron frying pan, turned it on high and added the oil, to 'brown the meat'.
I located the recipe for Pot Roast and put aside the one for Brisket. Every thing was ready.
I put the Crock Pot on the counter and took the meat out of the fridge shifting it onto the sizzling pan with a spatula and fork.
"OOOPs."
Quickly opening the window, then running to open the front door, I let the smoke escape. Everything was soon under control, fork and wooden spatula in hand, having turned the heat down, the 'browning' of the pot roast on-going.
"Alright! What a pro!" I congratulated myself.
OK, next..uh - oh yeah- follow the steps in the recipe.
'..put the roast into the pot.' -check.
'..put chopped vegetables in the pot.' -che.... what the hell?
There was no room for the chopped veggies!
I grabbed the spatula and fork, stabbing the carcus, I pried it from the the pot, flinging it onto the cutting board while gaining elbow room on the counter by employing an elegant 'foot-ball straight-arm' gesture, sweeping the dirty dishes with minimal application of force to the wall .
"Jane would be getting up soon." I thought.
"Eureka!" It was one of those revelations. A five pound pot roast is just 'not' the same shape as a five pound Brisket. Therefore, as per the Brisket recipe it cannot be 'folded' into the pot let alone allow room for 3 cups of water and veggies. "
So lessons for the day, as I take refuge in my office downstairs safely behind my computer, are...
1) KISS rules to apply, (Keep It Simple Stupid!)
2) Don't mix metaphors or recipes.
3) Make sure your kitchen area is clean and ready for you. No lagging dishes!
4) Envision and think through the process a few times before doing!
5) Keep preparation 'grunt work' to the night before. This keeps the 'day after' stage, nice and easy.
6) Look at the size of the pot and compare to the size of the roast before all else.
7) Run the process by Jane first.
I suspect, I would have been much better off, if back in high-school, I had opted for Miss. Green's Home Ec. class, rather than the Agriculture class with H.Gordon Green. But in his class we heard stories of bulls testicles 'this big', being hung above the barn door and he would casually refer to dangling parts on cows while hinting at the female anatomy of our species, all without sounding salacious.
But what of the Crock-Pot and the Pot Roast?
Oh that. Well It's upstairs bubbling away.
One of the hints the cook book says- Do not to lift the lid to smell the progress.
I don't know...maybe just a little...
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Friday, January 02, 2009
Dream Scape
During Cegep years 1973/74, I took a course on writing.
The teacher, David Gray, told us that it is best to write from experience.
Since our life experience was limited he said, "Keep a little notebook beside your bed. Upon awakening, quickly jot down, in point form, elements from your dreams. Later, time permitting, read the notes and most of it will come back to you. Then write about your dream. You may even find the seeds of good stories there. After all you really do experience the dream fabric."
The interesting thing about dream catching, as far as it relates to this blog, is that there are many of you who make occasional appearances in my dreams.
Richard Rankin's 'invisible elephant' notwithstanding, I think I might include a few of these in the blog. (For Richard's 'Invisible Elephant' go further back to the spring or summer in this blog.)
If you have some of your own you would like to tell me about, please feel free. I will not write about them in the blog unless you give me permission to do so.
Remember the song "Good Night Irene" (...I'll see you in my dreams...) or even Roy Orbisson's, Dream (In dream I walk with you, In dream I talk with you.)
I wonder if our dream life becomes a more significant part of our existence as we age, or as we lose our family, or why some people show up in my dreams and not others.
While Freud's theories on dream tend to be discounted, Carl Jung's theory, says that all facets of a dream are aspects of the dreamer. Yet the lingering questions might be- why a specific place or person? Ah! Now that would be telling.
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Welcome to my world.
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So, in last night's dreamscape ...
I am on St.Francis Street cradling a baby in my arms as I walk towards the highway -St. Jean Babtiste. The baby must be a newborn infant as it is very light to hold and is completely covered in a blanket. It does not cry or make any movement.
Seigniory Park Country Club is on my left.
I enter the front parking lot. People are streaming out from the gate.
Walking towards me, is a 17 year old Linda Baron.
The realization that this is a dream, emerges, since I knew Linda at an even older age when we were in Cegep. But then, perhaps she has a daughter? I then remember that Seigniory Park has been plowed under for many years, so this cannot be taking place in the conscious world.
I continue to walk inward against the flow of exiting people .
Linda walks right up to me. "Linda, - wow! How are you?"
"I'm sorry" she says, "That is not my name."
She begins to change.
"Oh, sorry." I walk on.
Passing by on my right and further over in the crowd, I see Hubert Jenosh.
I have not seen him since grade 8 or 9.
There are too many people between us for me to try to go over and I don't want to accidently crunch the baby in my arms by negotiating my way through the crowd. He does not see me.
I continue on.
End.
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Perhaps next time I'll tell the one about what I found in the massive crater on Craik Street over near where the Colonia Pool used to be.
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By the way all - Happy New Year.
During Cegep years 1973/74, I took a course on writing.
The teacher, David Gray, told us that it is best to write from experience.
Since our life experience was limited he said, "Keep a little notebook beside your bed. Upon awakening, quickly jot down, in point form, elements from your dreams. Later, time permitting, read the notes and most of it will come back to you. Then write about your dream. You may even find the seeds of good stories there. After all you really do experience the dream fabric."
The interesting thing about dream catching, as far as it relates to this blog, is that there are many of you who make occasional appearances in my dreams.
Richard Rankin's 'invisible elephant' notwithstanding, I think I might include a few of these in the blog. (For Richard's 'Invisible Elephant' go further back to the spring or summer in this blog.)
If you have some of your own you would like to tell me about, please feel free. I will not write about them in the blog unless you give me permission to do so.
Remember the song "Good Night Irene" (...I'll see you in my dreams...) or even Roy Orbisson's, Dream (In dream I walk with you, In dream I talk with you.)
I wonder if our dream life becomes a more significant part of our existence as we age, or as we lose our family, or why some people show up in my dreams and not others.
While Freud's theories on dream tend to be discounted, Carl Jung's theory, says that all facets of a dream are aspects of the dreamer. Yet the lingering questions might be- why a specific place or person? Ah! Now that would be telling.
----------
Welcome to my world.
------------------
So, in last night's dreamscape ...
I am on St.Francis Street cradling a baby in my arms as I walk towards the highway -St. Jean Babtiste. The baby must be a newborn infant as it is very light to hold and is completely covered in a blanket. It does not cry or make any movement.
Seigniory Park Country Club is on my left.
I enter the front parking lot. People are streaming out from the gate.
Walking towards me, is a 17 year old Linda Baron.
The realization that this is a dream, emerges, since I knew Linda at an even older age when we were in Cegep. But then, perhaps she has a daughter? I then remember that Seigniory Park has been plowed under for many years, so this cannot be taking place in the conscious world.
I continue to walk inward against the flow of exiting people .
Linda walks right up to me. "Linda, - wow! How are you?"
"I'm sorry" she says, "That is not my name."
She begins to change.
"Oh, sorry." I walk on.
Passing by on my right and further over in the crowd, I see Hubert Jenosh.
I have not seen him since grade 8 or 9.
There are too many people between us for me to try to go over and I don't want to accidently crunch the baby in my arms by negotiating my way through the crowd. He does not see me.
I continue on.
End.
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Perhaps next time I'll tell the one about what I found in the massive crater on Craik Street over near where the Colonia Pool used to be.
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By the way all - Happy New Year.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
The Long Road to Nowhere
(... a time of Maple School and Chateauguay High)
Mr.Peterson pushed the bar down with a slam opening the door.
"Come on boys, get moving."
Warm air was sucked out of Maple School by the deep February freeze.
We scrambled across the no-mans-land separating Maple from Chateauguay High, our blue shorts, t-shirts, pungent traces of locker room sweat and unwashed socks in our wake, the compact ice crust beneath our sneakers squeaking.
With pained expression, Mr.Plewinski held the door open across the yard.
"Hey you! Skinny! Get you-self moving!"
Roddy's glasses fogged up upon entry.
The fragrance of floor wax and detergent welcomed our stomping feet as we passed the T.D. class on the right. Tradition was upheld as our gaggle of thirteen year-olds booed and screeched up the unlit winding staircase to emerge within the "Old Gym".
Steve motioned to Bobby. Bobby knelt behind Barry. Just one nudge was all it took. Barry flew eyes wide in disbelief following the trajectory of his feet above his head, crashing onto the floor-mat losing his breath with a jolt. Pandemonium and guffaws rose to the heavens.
The gym teachers tried to locate the cause of the outbreak. Barry rose, wondering if he could take him but saw that Steve would be most willing to accept the challenge right there and then.
The shrill tones of the 'ref' whistle cut through.
"Get your feet on the black line." barked Plewinski. "Hey skinny! Get down and give me ten!"
"But sir! It wasn't me." protested Roddy.
The diversion worked. We all watched Roddy try to perform his task.
"...Two.....Three..." he grunted pushing his frame off the floor.
"Start again! I did not see your number one push-up!" sneered Plewinski.
Roddy's face turned crimson, humiliation getting the better of him more than exertion.
He was everybody's 'good guy', but even Roddy had his limits.
"O.K. - O.K., that's enough," Shouted Mr. Peterson, "get off the floor Mr.McManus and get back to the black line. Today we're playing dodge ball. Start with twenty laps around the gym. Alright - go!"
"Fuckin bastard!" Roddy's whisper was just loud enough.
Plewinski, grinning, walked towards the showers.
We ran, on our long road to nowhere.
One day, surely, we would get out.
(... a time of Maple School and Chateauguay High)
Mr.Peterson pushed the bar down with a slam opening the door.
"Come on boys, get moving."
Warm air was sucked out of Maple School by the deep February freeze.
We scrambled across the no-mans-land separating Maple from Chateauguay High, our blue shorts, t-shirts, pungent traces of locker room sweat and unwashed socks in our wake, the compact ice crust beneath our sneakers squeaking.
With pained expression, Mr.Plewinski held the door open across the yard.
"Hey you! Skinny! Get you-self moving!"
Roddy's glasses fogged up upon entry.
The fragrance of floor wax and detergent welcomed our stomping feet as we passed the T.D. class on the right. Tradition was upheld as our gaggle of thirteen year-olds booed and screeched up the unlit winding staircase to emerge within the "Old Gym".
Steve motioned to Bobby. Bobby knelt behind Barry. Just one nudge was all it took. Barry flew eyes wide in disbelief following the trajectory of his feet above his head, crashing onto the floor-mat losing his breath with a jolt. Pandemonium and guffaws rose to the heavens.
The gym teachers tried to locate the cause of the outbreak. Barry rose, wondering if he could take him but saw that Steve would be most willing to accept the challenge right there and then.
The shrill tones of the 'ref' whistle cut through.
"Get your feet on the black line." barked Plewinski. "Hey skinny! Get down and give me ten!"
"But sir! It wasn't me." protested Roddy.
The diversion worked. We all watched Roddy try to perform his task.
"...Two.....Three..." he grunted pushing his frame off the floor.
"Start again! I did not see your number one push-up!" sneered Plewinski.
Roddy's face turned crimson, humiliation getting the better of him more than exertion.
He was everybody's 'good guy', but even Roddy had his limits.
"O.K. - O.K., that's enough," Shouted Mr. Peterson, "get off the floor Mr.McManus and get back to the black line. Today we're playing dodge ball. Start with twenty laps around the gym. Alright - go!"
"Fuckin bastard!" Roddy's whisper was just loud enough.
Plewinski, grinning, walked towards the showers.
We ran, on our long road to nowhere.
One day, surely, we would get out.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
The Smile Always Said it All
There are some people from High-School days, that I can't ever leave out of my past.
Now amongst the images that float to the surface from time to time, is one in particular - she had this walk, no- it was a sway -hypnotic, and combined with her perfume... And the way she clasped her books to her chest with both arms, coyly, she might look my way.
Her eyes - Ah- her eyes, when she would bat those lashes, once and then twice! I wonder if she knew - I wonder if all of the girls in high-school knew the power they had over us stupid puppy dogs.
Her personality was just so - calm, friendly.
High-school can be a very scary place for a scrawny teen in a jean jacket, smelling of gum, cigarettes and SNAP -roaming the halls, not having done assigned homework, possibly getting caught, perhaps offending the wrong guy by looking sideways at his girlfriend and being challenged out back after school, or trying to say something with due seriousness only to have my voice crack.
Somehow she seemed to know and with one look, -just one was enough, to make me feel alright. She would smile .."Hi Les".
She made my day. Then she and Donna would be on their way. Angels?
To my friend Carol Broomer- many years later- ... well,
Thank you.
Thank you for being- you,
for being- there,
probably without even knowing what a positive effect you had,
on me
-and probably many others.
Now, who is that in the picture with you anyway -Jon Bon Jovi? Look at his smile -you see what I mean...he knows how lucky he is -( what Photoshop program version did this? Good job...almost seamless).
Congratulations Carol. You grew into your beauty with grace, keeping that smile of light, now with a great family, lots of good friends and health. You have reason to be proud. The beauty has always been authentic.
Know that you were appreciated by many of us in High-School.
Les
There are some people from High-School days, that I can't ever leave out of my past.
Now amongst the images that float to the surface from time to time, is one in particular - she had this walk, no- it was a sway -hypnotic, and combined with her perfume... And the way she clasped her books to her chest with both arms, coyly, she might look my way.
Her eyes - Ah- her eyes, when she would bat those lashes, once and then twice! I wonder if she knew - I wonder if all of the girls in high-school knew the power they had over us stupid puppy dogs.
Her personality was just so - calm, friendly.
High-school can be a very scary place for a scrawny teen in a jean jacket, smelling of gum, cigarettes and SNAP -roaming the halls, not having done assigned homework, possibly getting caught, perhaps offending the wrong guy by looking sideways at his girlfriend and being challenged out back after school, or trying to say something with due seriousness only to have my voice crack.
Somehow she seemed to know and with one look, -just one was enough, to make me feel alright. She would smile .."Hi Les".
She made my day. Then she and Donna would be on their way. Angels?
To my friend Carol Broomer- many years later- ... well,
Thank you.
Thank you for being- you,
for being- there,
probably without even knowing what a positive effect you had,
on me
-and probably many others.
Now, who is that in the picture with you anyway -Jon Bon Jovi? Look at his smile -you see what I mean...he knows how lucky he is -( what Photoshop program version did this? Good job...almost seamless).
Congratulations Carol. You grew into your beauty with grace, keeping that smile of light, now with a great family, lots of good friends and health. You have reason to be proud. The beauty has always been authentic.
Know that you were appreciated by many of us in High-School.
Les
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Past Perspective
Some time after high-school, after Dawson, after McGill, came the world of the brass ring and either "going for it" or not.
I grabbed for it and got it, - for a spell.
This is (or was) the view from our offices at the top of The World Trade Center, NYC . It was a low cloud cover day and the building did not sway as much as usual.
After eighteen years in the corporate world of international transportation, an intuition came upon me and I decided to exit that existence and go into another -closer to home.
Sometimes, it pays to listen to the inner voice.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
What Recession and what Government?
Richard-
Those are very Interesting comments.
What I can see –tangibly-with the economy and market place, at least in the financial industry is as follows:
- People are worried about the markets (US plus recession) and many do-it-yourself-ers are selling at the wrong time.
- I know for a fact that there were fund companies and banks who for the last year offered “Notes” which guaranteed the invested capital from an investor and offered increasing value with the market. The problem came when the worry set in and market levels went down due to the banks exposure to sub-prime products. When the beginning of the real slide in October occurred, it ‘triggered’ these “Note Providers” (many banks and Fund companies) to sell all underlying stock and simply buy strip bonds in order to make good on the guarantee element. At least 1-2 thirds of October’s massive slide on the TSX took place simply for this reason since so many people had been sold these “guaranteed products”. The ‘bitch’ for the customers who purchased these is that the notes carried another condition…the investment is locked in until 2012 or longer. So, once the skies clear next year (in 6-12 months) these people will be pissed. But that is not my point. My point is that this one product alone, caused much of the price slide in October due to managers having to sell stock quickly to cover the guarantees by purchasing the bonds. This is another “Selling At The Wrong Time” situation thus causing the market to slide further downward.
- So with values going down on portfolios, income for advisors on trailer fees or monthly administration fees tied to as a percentage of the value of a client’s portfolio is also down. So Christmas parties and bonuses to assistants are gone. I have had to cut my assistant from 3 days per week down to 2.
- Mutual Fund companies who traditionally have client appreciation parties including dinner and Casino nights right about now ($3000-5000 cost) for any given restaurant – for the advisers who give them business throughout the year, have been canceling. So imagine the effect on the restaurants and the trickle down effect. I suspect many from my industry are canceling plans for winter travel. I know I have. Yet strangely –since I have modeled my business on a very cheap fee base for the clients, where the monthly cost from me beats out everyone else, my business activity is now increasing…I put in another $100,000 to certain investments for clients last week and a big banker brought me a new client who signed with me on the spot. But this won’t translate into new income personally for about a month.
- What I do know from my time in this and the transport industry years ago, is that when there is the smell of recession in the air, the weaker cash flow companies immediately let people go or stop replacing those who leave. This attrition factor is now happening in many companies. –Nortel?
- Also far less people are talking to me about planning to sell their houses or buy new ones…the last one (Canadian) to buy a condo in
- It is also a wonderful time for management to bust the balls of unions if not bust them outright with unbridled glee and perhaps legitimacy under the cloak of the dreaded R word. –GM, Ford??
So given the above factors, many are holding on to their money, hiring is in freeze mode, lay-offs are taking place in Canada, businesses are ‘receding’ where they can without killing themselves. Recession is occurring on various fronts…just not a massive one….not yet anyway once the trickle down process has hit other sectors in the economy we shall see.
The government situation is not helping. The opposition parties due to their philosophic disparities are not gaining legitimacy or credibility with the common man in their new found coalition. As far as the conservatives are concerned, they let the damned genie out of the bottle by calling the last election with hopes of scraping together stronger support…but they blew it instead.
So Canadian politics-- even with the opposition calling for economic packages as a mask to their political opportunism, is not good medicine and only distracts investors attention from the credibility we have as the world's strongest financial system.
…And a happy new year …fa ..la..la la ...LAAAAA.
Les
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Snippets and Around Town
Today I was over at the 'shopping centre' drugstore loading up on Lipitor, contemplating the price/performance differences between Gillette Mach III, Turbo and the Fusion ( I know-exciting life!) when I bumped into our old friend Jacquie Ross. She, as always, looks great.
Do you remember Jacquie in high-school?
I do.
I used to enjoy her rushing about on a waves of humour and smiles. She had this long thick hair, short skirt or tight jeans and personality plus.
I smile when I think of Jacquie.
Today she had people in from Saskatoon -husbands at the Grey Cup and wives out shopping, with all to meet up at the Montreal Casino.
You never know who you're going to meet when over at the old shopping centre -now referred to as 'Mall".
If I am not mistaken, I breezed by Carol Mates a few weeks ago. I was focussed on some unimportant errand that I was running and it only clicked a few minutes later. I went back but she was gone. I guess she (if it was her) had come in for the HSB 40th Anniversary.
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Two weeks ago, Cathy Gulkin came to meet me at the Saint-James Club to chat about markets and life. Now there is someone who has talent. Did you know that Cathy is an ACTRA award winning film editor for movies and TV? Her daughter is very talented too. Her brother Jimmy, has done well. After leaving Montreal for the oil fields out west many years ago, he saved his money and went to Thailand and started a food exporting company -exporting to Canada and the USA. He stayed in Thailand, married -has a son now. Very successful!
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I understand Roddy McManus is working on the Montreal Canadians celebration with George Strompobolous of The Hour. They were with Justin Trudeau three weeks ago and Celine Dionne shortly thereafter. The show will be televised in January.
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As we all know, the stock market has presented a wonderful opportunity for those who have not saved up for retirement. Prices for banks, rail and basic good solid value (Cash flow producing systems) Canadian infrastructure, is at a 5 year discount. Thursday I put in another $100,000 for one of my clients and then Friday the market went up 400 points or more. I hope it tanks again and stays down for the next three months or so. But I think the prices are already factoring in Canada's 'Recession' which if not here now, will be here in a week or so.
Conversely, I expect weaker businesses will have to cut employment to keep their heads above water and therefore, it could be a rough Cristmas for some of our friends.
My business is tied to the value of people's portfolios rather than commissions. This allows commissions to stay with clients and grow for them rather than me. While I am not at severe risk, the income side is taking a hit as values decline ...so I will have to cut back some.
Hmmmm Barry Jones called to see if we want to go skiing up North the week before Christmas...well, I guess that's a "NO".
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My sister Gaye McConnell had a very successful vernisage/Art show last weekend where her water-colour paintings were on display. Wow! Talk about talent. Jane and I bought two new pieces (it was either that or the skiing...choices). I believe my cousin Greg Holden bought one too. There was quite a turn out. I wonder if she has a web site where her work is shown? Have to check.
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Anyway, here we are in Chateauguay. It's getting cold again. The ground is crunchy but we haven't been hugged by snow yet. Soon. Have to get Don Reid out of his house once again. He's got a great business in the Winter season, zipping around our old town with his plow getting our driveways done . (I just can't stand driveway tents- sorry, no offence ...) He also thrives in the summer trimming all the trees, shrubs, grass and maintaining gardens. He still looks like a million bucks. I know the day will come when he's discovered by Hollywood.
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Oh yes -speaking about looking good, - I bumped into Janice Goodfellow over on Victoria street, in town the other day. How is it, that some people just don't seem to age or change shape?
Well- preserved comes to mind.
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I received a very nice e-mail from Anja Michielson a couple of weeks ago. Now there's another one...OK enough of that.
Suffice it to say she is still an airline stewa... do they call them service people or 'hostesses' now? I should check with Debbie Hillock who is married to Kevin Lyons -one of those flying 'nice people'. (Bring me another Champaign please.)
Anja was off to Europe for a few days...imagine. I saw her last spring in town also. Tall and graceful, lovely coat and beautiful eyes. Some people actually grow smoothly into their beauty as they age.
Oh yeah!- speaking of Airline people, Marianne Peacock is also one of those. I saw her picture on Facebook lately as one of the attendees of Billings 40th. You still 'got it' girl!
Which reminds me, if you have not seen those pictures, get onto Facebook and somehow become "a friend" to Sue Davis Worth or one of the Gurholt girls, (speaking of looking great Davis Worth and Gurholts) -then you can check out all the photos. ...
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How are you sleeping lately? Have you turned 55 yet? I did -in October. I find that every night I have to get up at around 4:00 a.m. and do yoga stretching for 15 minutes or so - 'Downward Dog and such(- no, not dirty dog) and then go back to bed where I do diaphramatic breathing for two minutes and thankfully submerge back into heavy duty dreamland.
Welcome to upper middle age. At least everything else is just fine ...knock on ..uh, well whatever.
Today I was over at the 'shopping centre' drugstore loading up on Lipitor, contemplating the price/performance differences between Gillette Mach III, Turbo and the Fusion ( I know-exciting life!) when I bumped into our old friend Jacquie Ross. She, as always, looks great.
Do you remember Jacquie in high-school?
I do.
I used to enjoy her rushing about on a waves of humour and smiles. She had this long thick hair, short skirt or tight jeans and personality plus.
I smile when I think of Jacquie.
Today she had people in from Saskatoon -husbands at the Grey Cup and wives out shopping, with all to meet up at the Montreal Casino.
You never know who you're going to meet when over at the old shopping centre -now referred to as 'Mall".
If I am not mistaken, I breezed by Carol Mates a few weeks ago. I was focussed on some unimportant errand that I was running and it only clicked a few minutes later. I went back but she was gone. I guess she (if it was her) had come in for the HSB 40th Anniversary.
---------------------------------------------------------
Two weeks ago, Cathy Gulkin came to meet me at the Saint-James Club to chat about markets and life. Now there is someone who has talent. Did you know that Cathy is an ACTRA award winning film editor for movies and TV? Her daughter is very talented too. Her brother Jimmy, has done well. After leaving Montreal for the oil fields out west many years ago, he saved his money and went to Thailand and started a food exporting company -exporting to Canada and the USA. He stayed in Thailand, married -has a son now. Very successful!
---------------------------------------------------------
I understand Roddy McManus is working on the Montreal Canadians celebration with George Strompobolous of The Hour. They were with Justin Trudeau three weeks ago and Celine Dionne shortly thereafter. The show will be televised in January.
----------------------------------------------------------
As we all know, the stock market has presented a wonderful opportunity for those who have not saved up for retirement. Prices for banks, rail and basic good solid value (Cash flow producing systems) Canadian infrastructure, is at a 5 year discount. Thursday I put in another $100,000 for one of my clients and then Friday the market went up 400 points or more. I hope it tanks again and stays down for the next three months or so. But I think the prices are already factoring in Canada's 'Recession' which if not here now, will be here in a week or so.
Conversely, I expect weaker businesses will have to cut employment to keep their heads above water and therefore, it could be a rough Cristmas for some of our friends.
My business is tied to the value of people's portfolios rather than commissions. This allows commissions to stay with clients and grow for them rather than me. While I am not at severe risk, the income side is taking a hit as values decline ...so I will have to cut back some.
Hmmmm Barry Jones called to see if we want to go skiing up North the week before Christmas...well, I guess that's a "NO".
---------------------------------
My sister Gaye McConnell had a very successful vernisage/Art show last weekend where her water-colour paintings were on display. Wow! Talk about talent. Jane and I bought two new pieces (it was either that or the skiing...choices). I believe my cousin Greg Holden bought one too. There was quite a turn out. I wonder if she has a web site where her work is shown? Have to check.
------------------------------------
Anyway, here we are in Chateauguay. It's getting cold again. The ground is crunchy but we haven't been hugged by snow yet. Soon. Have to get Don Reid out of his house once again. He's got a great business in the Winter season, zipping around our old town with his plow getting our driveways done . (I just can't stand driveway tents- sorry, no offence ...) He also thrives in the summer trimming all the trees, shrubs, grass and maintaining gardens. He still looks like a million bucks. I know the day will come when he's discovered by Hollywood.
----------------------------------------
Oh yes -speaking about looking good, - I bumped into Janice Goodfellow over on Victoria street, in town the other day. How is it, that some people just don't seem to age or change shape?
Well- preserved comes to mind.
--------------------------------------------
I received a very nice e-mail from Anja Michielson a couple of weeks ago. Now there's another one...OK enough of that.
Suffice it to say she is still an airline stewa... do they call them service people or 'hostesses' now? I should check with Debbie Hillock who is married to Kevin Lyons -one of those flying 'nice people'. (Bring me another Champaign please.)
Anja was off to Europe for a few days...imagine. I saw her last spring in town also. Tall and graceful, lovely coat and beautiful eyes. Some people actually grow smoothly into their beauty as they age.
Oh yeah!- speaking of Airline people, Marianne Peacock is also one of those. I saw her picture on Facebook lately as one of the attendees of Billings 40th. You still 'got it' girl!
Which reminds me, if you have not seen those pictures, get onto Facebook and somehow become "a friend" to Sue Davis Worth or one of the Gurholt girls, (speaking of looking great Davis Worth and Gurholts) -then you can check out all the photos. ...
---------
How are you sleeping lately? Have you turned 55 yet? I did -in October. I find that every night I have to get up at around 4:00 a.m. and do yoga stretching for 15 minutes or so - 'Downward Dog and such(- no, not dirty dog) and then go back to bed where I do diaphramatic breathing for two minutes and thankfully submerge back into heavy duty dreamland.
Welcome to upper middle age. At least everything else is just fine ...knock on ..uh, well whatever.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
We are all proud of HSB Alumnus Dr. Seleda Williams of California, USA, the tall good looking one one on the left.
Say "Hi" to the governor for us Seleda!
All those who attended the 'Reunion '72 & Friends' last year, can say they met up with not only our old buddy Jimmy Williams, but his sister Seleda too.
Just another good example of how influences in life - from High School and friends, good decision making, passion, very hard work and determination - can get us somewhere. In each of us there is a seed that can be nurtured by ourselves and those around us.
The key I suppose, is not to give up or lose belief in one's self.
But where do we get that quality?
We grow it, in ourselves - despite all those who would oppose it's growth. The consistency of small steps everyday, gets us there, if we keep going in that one direction.
Well done Seleda! We are all proud of you and your family. What an example.
Les
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Shadowland in October Country Collection
Exit from Eden (Revison 7)
Her footsteps crunched the gravel.
She thought, "There are still no sidewalks, amazing how small the houses really are, almost as if trying not to be noticed. They seemed bigger back then, when our house was a home - of sorts."
In the field around the corner, train cars stood waiting, overshadowed by the ancient water tower, brown with corrosion - a place of exploration, memories laced with summer heat, brows of sweat, perfumed blend, creosote and field flower, hide and seek, chase catch and kiss through the milkweed, boyfriends and then, safety when mother sent her out of the house in a panic."He's been drinking again, go quick, come back when the lights go out. It won't be long now. "
Down the street- the corner store, where she would buy single cigarettes on the sly and gum with her birthday money. And on high, steeples, two of them, having lost their mystery long ago, erect, biding their time.
The lonely wail of an engine echoed off the water down by the plant -crying out to her, resonating within, to a time of innocence, magic, hope, and the ever yearning for a prince to take her away.
She quickened her pace down Main Street, glancing at her own reflection in the ice-cream shop window.
" More dimension to the curves, not bad for my age, but true enough though, youth is definitely wasted on the young, and wisdom just a convenient crutch for the aged."
Movement approached from the side.
"Quick! Keep the head down! Next street left, to the water and the taxi stand! Run!"
Escape routes never to be forgotten, well-ingrained, uncoiled themselves.
"Keep them looking - but not too closely, keep them paying and let their eyes move on." That was what he always said. They're just pictures and the money will help us get to where we need to be."
"So much for the long discarded 'Prince of optimism and deceit' and those bloody pictures. I don't even look like that anymore. Yet even now, they haunt me through the Net."
The twin shadows reached out beyond the train cars. Bells tolled the hour. Mist spread it's wing lightly over the field, sheltering precious memories beneath from the onset of the dark. Essence of dried leaves and the hint of frost idled upon the breeze.
She sighed, not looking back.
"And home? Just an idea of someone else's happiness lies submerged somewhere deep within; best not think about it. Keep going; come back when the lights go out, shouldn't be too long."
L.McConnell
Sunday
October 19.2008
Exit from Eden (Revison 7)
Her footsteps crunched the gravel.
She thought, "There are still no sidewalks, amazing how small the houses really are, almost as if trying not to be noticed. They seemed bigger back then, when our house was a home - of sorts."
In the field around the corner, train cars stood waiting, overshadowed by the ancient water tower, brown with corrosion - a place of exploration, memories laced with summer heat, brows of sweat, perfumed blend, creosote and field flower, hide and seek, chase catch and kiss through the milkweed, boyfriends and then, safety when mother sent her out of the house in a panic."He's been drinking again, go quick, come back when the lights go out. It won't be long now. "
Down the street- the corner store, where she would buy single cigarettes on the sly and gum with her birthday money. And on high, steeples, two of them, having lost their mystery long ago, erect, biding their time.
The lonely wail of an engine echoed off the water down by the plant -crying out to her, resonating within, to a time of innocence, magic, hope, and the ever yearning for a prince to take her away.
She quickened her pace down Main Street, glancing at her own reflection in the ice-cream shop window.
" More dimension to the curves, not bad for my age, but true enough though, youth is definitely wasted on the young, and wisdom just a convenient crutch for the aged."
Movement approached from the side.
"Quick! Keep the head down! Next street left, to the water and the taxi stand! Run!"
Escape routes never to be forgotten, well-ingrained, uncoiled themselves.
"Keep them looking - but not too closely, keep them paying and let their eyes move on." That was what he always said. They're just pictures and the money will help us get to where we need to be."
"So much for the long discarded 'Prince of optimism and deceit' and those bloody pictures. I don't even look like that anymore. Yet even now, they haunt me through the Net."
The twin shadows reached out beyond the train cars. Bells tolled the hour. Mist spread it's wing lightly over the field, sheltering precious memories beneath from the onset of the dark. Essence of dried leaves and the hint of frost idled upon the breeze.
She sighed, not looking back.
"And home? Just an idea of someone else's happiness lies submerged somewhere deep within; best not think about it. Keep going; come back when the lights go out, shouldn't be too long."
L.McConnell
Sunday
October 19.2008
Saturday, September 06, 2008
I've Been Working on The Railroad
(Prince Rupert '76) continued
Jake, a forty five to fifty something 'White Russian' by birth (-Canadian by choice) proceeded to take me under his wing until such time as I could fend for myself and "... knew which way was up". He was not a foreman, but rather, the moral back bone and wise man of our crew. He was in fact deemed to be 'holy' by those from overseas.
The few Canadians on the crew- blue collar in orientation, just stayed clear of him.
Jake did not fit any known mold as he did not watch TV that much, did not care for any sport and did not suffer fools. His blunt comments could reach into the root of any situation and deflate the greatest shows of male bravado.
We all climbed into the 'speeder' or 'crew car' by pecking order.
The speeder experience is the most wonderful thing and brings out the kid in all of us until we become jaded by the job itself. Imagine yourself zipping through the wooded and mountainous hinterland on tracks at lightening speed - better than La Ronde any day.
We pulled out of 'Rupert', heading for the Mill down the line, the ponds, trees, sky opening up. Secluded spots where man has never stepped, emerge 50 yards in front. Pools of water, mist rising and quiet - pure quiet- solitude.
The others in the speede
r, used to the morning ritual are catching a snooze as we buzz through "the creation". Jake seems interested in watching my reactions . I suspect he's judging me, as if weighing my substance. 'Will the city kid make it -yes or no?'
We turn a gradual corner around a hill and there on the trees and telephone lines as if by magic- a regiment of Bald Eagles.
" Guys! Look!" I shout. "This is incredible..." when on the back of my helmet 'wop' !
"-ow!"
I could not restrain myself. I had never seen a real Bald Eagle 'live' before, let alone this many in one sitting and here they were - at least 8 or 9 of them, all about three feet high, yellow hook beaks, white or yellowing crests.
"Hey - new kid!" one of the workers reaches over from the other side and gives me a shove after hitting my helmet. "Shut up you mouth! Sleeping time!"
Jake observes me, apparently with great interest, to see my reaction, the suggestion of a smile playing in his steady eyes.
"But..." I reach to grab my helmet.
Jake put a finger up to his lips and raised an eyebrow.
"You have to figure" He whispers, "they go through this everyday. They've seen what you see and a great deal more, especially when they were in Angola fighting."
This is when I got my first lesson on culture. Apparently those on the crew with Mediterranean swarthy looks, were either from Greece or Portugal and the Portuguese in particular, ex-army regulars, were in from the colonial Portuguese Angola war.
"The one that just poked you," Jake informed me, ".. is 'Lil Tony'. Don't get in his way. Try to make him a friend. No one will ever bother you once they know he's on your side."
"Oh." I responded.
"You're from 'back East' and there is much that will be new to you. Try not to be an excitable kid, be cool, this is not a travel tour, it's our life and quite mornings on the ride to site are sacred."
I looked at the others , dozing.
"We only really start wa
king up once on the track, -once we've been on the job for about an hour and all the stiffness, aches and pains from the previous day have worked themselves out."
"..the Eagles.." I point.
"I know" he said, "- quite special, at first, but a regular thing out here, especially behind the canneries where the catch is brought in. Eagles, like gulls, come around for the innards left on the back pile. Easy 'pickins'."
Upon disembarking at our first work site, I cannot help but notice how Tony comes by his name. He stands, all of 4 ft. 5 inches tall, solid rock and I am to soon discover, one hell of a fighter -if not warrior in the traditional sense. 'Fear', I was to learn, has no place in his vocabulary. I could have used him at H.S. Billings.
During the summer, 'Lil Tony' would make a few extra bucks for himself and his shell-shocked buddy, Eduardo by ..well.. I'll get to that later
... but I'm sure you'll find it to be rather strange reading when I do get to it.
The speeder made it's way through the hills where fresh crystal water cascaded down- water that one could drink straight from the stream.
Soon the air became thick. My nose wrinked at the stench.
"That's the Pulp Mill." announced Jake shaking his head and looking down almost in shame.
--------------------------
Within myself I had been trying to fend off homesickness that had been bubbling beneath the surface since my buddy Monte had left for for his job in Terrace. But now, the fabric of this new scenic reality and human adventure caught hold of me. I discovered that as long as I was on the job, and had my trusty narrator and home grown Merlin, Jake, with me, I tacitly agreed to become the Arthurian apprentice in this 'quest' - for tuition money, life experience and the Holy Grail -my undiscovered inner self.
The real journey had begun.
(Prince Rupert '76) continued
Jake, a forty five to fifty something 'White Russian' by birth (-Canadian by choice) proceeded to take me under his wing until such time as I could fend for myself and "... knew which way was up". He was not a foreman, but rather, the moral back bone and wise man of our crew. He was in fact deemed to be 'holy' by those from overseas.
The few Canadians on the crew- blue collar in orientation, just stayed clear of him.
Jake did not fit any known mold as he did not watch TV that much, did not care for any sport and did not suffer fools. His blunt comments could reach into the root of any situation and deflate the greatest shows of male bravado.
We all climbed into the 'speeder' or 'crew car' by pecking order.
The speeder experience is the most wonderful thing and brings out the kid in all of us until we become jaded by the job itself. Imagine yourself zipping through the wooded and mountainous hinterland on tracks at lightening speed - better than La Ronde any day.
We pulled out of 'Rupert', heading for the Mill down the line, the ponds, trees, sky opening up. Secluded spots where man has never stepped, emerge 50 yards in front. Pools of water, mist rising and quiet - pure quiet- solitude.
The others in the speede
r, used to the morning ritual are catching a snooze as we buzz through "the creation". Jake seems interested in watching my reactions . I suspect he's judging me, as if weighing my substance. 'Will the city kid make it -yes or no?'We turn a gradual corner around a hill and there on the trees and telephone lines as if by magic- a regiment of Bald Eagles.
" Guys! Look!" I shout. "This is incredible..." when on the back of my helmet 'wop' !
"-ow!"
I could not restrain myself. I had never seen a real Bald Eagle 'live' before, let alone this many in one sitting and here they were - at least 8 or 9 of them, all about three feet high, yellow hook beaks, white or yellowing crests.
"Hey - new kid!" one of the workers reaches over from the other side and gives me a shove after hitting my helmet. "Shut up you mouth! Sleeping time!"
Jake observes me, apparently with great interest, to see my reaction, the suggestion of a smile playing in his steady eyes.
"But..." I reach to grab my helmet.
Jake put a finger up to his lips and raised an eyebrow.
"You have to figure" He whispers, "they go through this everyday. They've seen what you see and a great deal more, especially when they were in Angola fighting."
This is when I got my first lesson on culture. Apparently those on the crew with Mediterranean swarthy looks, were either from Greece or Portugal and the Portuguese in particular, ex-army regulars, were in from the colonial Portuguese Angola war.
"The one that just poked you," Jake informed me, ".. is 'Lil Tony'. Don't get in his way. Try to make him a friend. No one will ever bother you once they know he's on your side."
"Oh." I responded.
"You're from 'back East' and there is much that will be new to you. Try not to be an excitable kid, be cool, this is not a travel tour, it's our life and quite mornings on the ride to site are sacred."
I looked at the others , dozing.
"We only really start wa
king up once on the track, -once we've been on the job for about an hour and all the stiffness, aches and pains from the previous day have worked themselves out.""..the Eagles.." I point.
"I know" he said, "- quite special, at first, but a regular thing out here, especially behind the canneries where the catch is brought in. Eagles, like gulls, come around for the innards left on the back pile. Easy 'pickins'."
Upon disembarking at our first work site, I cannot help but notice how Tony comes by his name. He stands, all of 4 ft. 5 inches tall, solid rock and I am to soon discover, one hell of a fighter -if not warrior in the traditional sense. 'Fear', I was to learn, has no place in his vocabulary. I could have used him at H.S. Billings.
During the summer, 'Lil Tony' would make a few extra bucks for himself and his shell-shocked buddy, Eduardo by ..well.. I'll get to that later
... but I'm sure you'll find it to be rather strange reading when I do get to it.The speeder made it's way through the hills where fresh crystal water cascaded down- water that one could drink straight from the stream.
Soon the air became thick. My nose wrinked at the stench.
"That's the Pulp Mill." announced Jake shaking his head and looking down almost in shame.
--------------------------
Within myself I had been trying to fend off homesickness that had been bubbling beneath the surface since my buddy Monte had left for for his job in Terrace. But now, the fabric of this new scenic reality and human adventure caught hold of me. I discovered that as long as I was on the job, and had my trusty narrator and home grown Merlin, Jake, with me, I tacitly agreed to become the Arthurian apprentice in this 'quest' - for tuition money, life experience and the Holy Grail -my undiscovered inner self.
The real journey had begun.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Prince Rupert Station Yard /II
continued...
I grappled with the bar on the frayed wood floor hoping to avoid splinters, while trying to pick the damn thing up. It was cold, hard and very heavy.
I recalled in grade six doing research for the project everybody in the school (and most schools at the time) was involved with on Confederation, seeing pictures of laborers -Chinese and white- at the sides of the rails leaning into their labours using long staff like things. If these were the same, I figured I was either going to break this summer or get into some really good shape despite my skinny 19 year old frame.
Dragging one end of the first 'pick' on the floor, I was able to negotiate my way out of the shed to the side of the "car" which had it's wheels affixed to the sides of the rails on the spur. Even though I wore leather workman's gloves, I could feel the chaffing on the skin of my palms. The thought hit me like a slap in the face how I would complain in the autumn when raking the leaves with my dad, about the blisters forming on my palms. In my minds eye, I could see Jimmy Williams back in grade 10 up on the high bars being coached by Mr. Peterson. Despite the gymnast gloves and chalk used, he had callouses upon callouses on his hands. They were like thick pads of leather. I was seriously wondering now, how long I could take this. Whoever coined the saying was right. "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it."
The sun was just blinking through the trees from the East. It had already done so in Montreal I imagined some three hours ago. There was a mist shrouding the yard, but there was no covering the ever-present smell of tar coming from the piles of rail ties.
I had managed to pull three picks out in about four minutes and was seriously considering a break and some coffee from my thermus.
A little ways over, by the side of the track, lit up from behind in silhouette, a small crowd was gathering to watch my progress. Everyone was in gray coveralls and billy boots topped with the CN helmet. The morning quiet was littered with bits of language I could not place coming from the group. It sounded like a combination of Hindi or Pakistani, some Greek and there was some other language which turned out to be Portugese. There was one thing they all had in common - their apparent delight in watching skinny white guy trying to lug the pry bar picks.
Off to the side of this giggling coterie of linguistic jibber-jabber, (which I would grow used to over the course of the summer), a loner sat, on his CN helmet no less, one leg draped over the knee of the other, the upper foot rocking up and down ever so nonchalantly. He was was smiling, shaking his head and it was at that point the realization dawned upon me that I was the source of some hilarity.
"OK guys - help him out!"
They all moved at once .
It was the man who had given me the instruction in the first place.
There were some more picks left in the shed.
"Put it down and watch." he said to me, chuckling still.
He went into the shed, bent at the knees lifting two at a time in the mid section and passed them to the others. They hoisted the bars in smooth swings onto their shoulders and then gently put them into the 'work car'. He put his arm around my shoulder and walked me over to the group.
As the sun rose, his face emerged magically from the dark. He must have been in his fifties, but he was built like me only fuller in the arms and shoulders. His hair was silver and rust. Life had etched mystic runes upon the tawny leather above and beneath the eyes. His smile was warm. Instinctively, I knew I had an ally - a guide .
"Welcome to the gang kid. I'm Jacob or as most call me - Jake."
He extended a bony hand and I, gratefully, shook it.
Wednesday May 1976
Journal Entry
My first day at work went very well...considering...that my day consists of 11 hours of very hard manual labour.
My muscles have gone stiff on me as I write. I shall have to take a bath down the hall. My room is without toilet facilities; just a bed, a shelf, and old stove. The milk I kept on the windowsill thinking it would stay cool has curdled.
After work I made my way over to a book store in the small mall. There was a friendly lady behind the cash.
"People in this town seem nice," I said, " But they are unlike other small towns I have been in, in that I sense a general 'holding back' from strangers which I suppose is only natural."
She considered what I had said for a moment, given I suppose that I was the 'stranger' and she of course, one of the towns people. The words had already slipped out of my mouth, too late to snatch them back.
"Outsiders", she said slowly, peering at my soiled jeans, dirty hands while appreciating my unmistakable musk of sweat, kerosene and creosote, " generally come in to Prince Rupert on their way to somewhere's-else and take jobs for a while, that the town-folk might otherwise have. When they have made their money - they disappear."
"Would you like the key to the city with that ?" Handing me the purchased book, she winked. And there it was again... the smile.
continued...
I grappled with the bar on the frayed wood floor hoping to avoid splinters, while trying to pick the damn thing up. It was cold, hard and very heavy.
I recalled in grade six doing research for the project everybody in the school (and most schools at the time) was involved with on Confederation, seeing pictures of laborers -Chinese and white- at the sides of the rails leaning into their labours using long staff like things. If these were the same, I figured I was either going to break this summer or get into some really good shape despite my skinny 19 year old frame.
Dragging one end of the first 'pick' on the floor, I was able to negotiate my way out of the shed to the side of the "car" which had it's wheels affixed to the sides of the rails on the spur. Even though I wore leather workman's gloves, I could feel the chaffing on the skin of my palms. The thought hit me like a slap in the face how I would complain in the autumn when raking the leaves with my dad, about the blisters forming on my palms. In my minds eye, I could see Jimmy Williams back in grade 10 up on the high bars being coached by Mr. Peterson. Despite the gymnast gloves and chalk used, he had callouses upon callouses on his hands. They were like thick pads of leather. I was seriously wondering now, how long I could take this. Whoever coined the saying was right. "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it."
The sun was just blinking through the trees from the East. It had already done so in Montreal I imagined some three hours ago. There was a mist shrouding the yard, but there was no covering the ever-present smell of tar coming from the piles of rail ties.
I had managed to pull three picks out in about four minutes and was seriously considering a break and some coffee from my thermus.
A little ways over, by the side of the track, lit up from behind in silhouette, a small crowd was gathering to watch my progress. Everyone was in gray coveralls and billy boots topped with the CN helmet. The morning quiet was littered with bits of language I could not place coming from the group. It sounded like a combination of Hindi or Pakistani, some Greek and there was some other language which turned out to be Portugese. There was one thing they all had in common - their apparent delight in watching skinny white guy trying to lug the pry bar picks.
Off to the side of this giggling coterie of linguistic jibber-jabber, (which I would grow used to over the course of the summer), a loner sat, on his CN helmet no less, one leg draped over the knee of the other, the upper foot rocking up and down ever so nonchalantly. He was was smiling, shaking his head and it was at that point the realization dawned upon me that I was the source of some hilarity.
"OK guys - help him out!"
They all moved at once .
It was the man who had given me the instruction in the first place.
There were some more picks left in the shed.
"Put it down and watch." he said to me, chuckling still.
He went into the shed, bent at the knees lifting two at a time in the mid section and passed them to the others. They hoisted the bars in smooth swings onto their shoulders and then gently put them into the 'work car'. He put his arm around my shoulder and walked me over to the group.
As the sun rose, his face emerged magically from the dark. He must have been in his fifties, but he was built like me only fuller in the arms and shoulders. His hair was silver and rust. Life had etched mystic runes upon the tawny leather above and beneath the eyes. His smile was warm. Instinctively, I knew I had an ally - a guide .
"Welcome to the gang kid. I'm Jacob or as most call me - Jake."
He extended a bony hand and I, gratefully, shook it.
Wednesday May 1976
Journal Entry
My first day at work went very well...considering...that my day consists of 11 hours of very hard manual labour.
My muscles have gone stiff on me as I write. I shall have to take a bath down the hall. My room is without toilet facilities; just a bed, a shelf, and old stove. The milk I kept on the windowsill thinking it would stay cool has curdled.
After work I made my way over to a book store in the small mall. There was a friendly lady behind the cash.
"People in this town seem nice," I said, " But they are unlike other small towns I have been in, in that I sense a general 'holding back' from strangers which I suppose is only natural."
She considered what I had said for a moment, given I suppose that I was the 'stranger' and she of course, one of the towns people. The words had already slipped out of my mouth, too late to snatch them back.
"Outsiders", she said slowly, peering at my soiled jeans, dirty hands while appreciating my unmistakable musk of sweat, kerosene and creosote, " generally come in to Prince Rupert on their way to somewhere's-else and take jobs for a while, that the town-folk might otherwise have. When they have made their money - they disappear."
"Would you like the key to the city with that ?" Handing me the purchased book, she winked. And there it was again... the smile.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
1976 May 7th. En Route
(Journal Entries)
I'm on my way to Edmonton.
Montie and I have been on the train for about 26 hours since leaving Montreal. We expect to arrive at the Edmonton station for about 7:00 a.m. on Sunday and then meet up with Scott Johnson later in the day at the Library. Hopefully we'll find a job on Monday...if we are lucky.
The prices on the train for food are ridiculous.
At least we have the entertainment factor - drunks who enjoy singing through the night. Could be worse - babies crying.
1976 Monday May 17
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
It's late afternoon.
I have spent another day at the railway station...waiting, waiting, reading, waiting.
Such patience I never knew I had.
All this for a job.
Did I make a big mistake letting Montie have the job that I had fought for?
I guess after a day like this one would think so. I sure hope something turns up tomorrow. I understand that today is payday for the work gangs, which for me I'm told is good, since once paid, some of these people never come back. Well hopefully someone will quit.
I'll either have to get in touch with Montie for money soon or go home this Friday. I am paid up in this hotel until then.
I am not homesick for home... but I am for my girlfriend.
1976 Tuesday May 18
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
7:13 AM
I'll be back at the Railway station in about 15 minutes. It's just around the corner and down the hill and looks out over the Pacific and Queen Charlottes. It is strange to think I am on the other end of Canada.
Hopefully by this evening, I will have a job.
Well here goes.
1976 Tuesday May 18
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
10:15 AM
Well it's about time.
Got it! I took a job in the Prince Rupert Yards. I start tomorrow morning at 7:00 A.M.
I'll be making $4.52 per hour and the shift is minimum 9 hours per day.
1976 Wednesday May 19
Prince Rupert BC
CN Yards
6:30 AM
The sun is not yet up. I have met the yard master. He gets to wear the white helmet while the crew have to wear yellow ones. I'm crew.
(I'm glad I ran into Scott back in Edmonton. He warned me to get well stocked up on steel-toed construction boots and warm light hunting jackets to wear under the over-alls and rubber wet ware. You can almost set your watch to the rain-fall here. It is clear in the morning with sun until late morning and then it pours on you. Then it clears by 2:00 or 3:00 PM.)
"Hey you - get some work gloves on and follow me." A yellow helmet guy commands me. He doesn't even look at me or say good morning.
"Christ I'm just waking up! " I think to myself. What happened to the ..you start at 7:00a.m. bit?
I can make out a white shack in the emerging morning haze.
"Here..." He says, "...Take the key and open the shed. Then bring out the 'picks' off the floor. Bring out six of each and I'll bring the car over."
He looks me up and down in disbelief.
"Oh by the way, have you ever done this before?" He asks.
"No, but I'm a fast learner." I respond -trying to sound motivationally correct.
" Well you might learn fast, but the question is, will you last?"
"Oh come on, " I think to myself, "It can't be that hard..."
The shed is right beside a parallel side track or "spur".
I manage to unlock the big padlock and open the heavy doors.
It's dark in there and I stub my steel toed boot against something and fall making one hell of a racket while bashing my shin on the way down.
From outside a head peers in.
"Ya gotta turn on the light first. " He says, reaching in to the side wall.
The bare bulb on the ceiling goes on and I find myself sitting atop a bunch of heavy steel rods.
"Those are the picks." he says.
He leaves me to continue the task.
I look down.
The rods (picks?), gray steel, are about an inch to an inch and a half thick in diameter and are about six feet long. At one end a point and the other flattened.
"O.K." I think, "let us begin".
I reach down and get my fingers under one of these things and pull.
"Oh Oh"
"Did I hear an 'oh-oh'?" a voice queries outside.
"Shit".
(Journal Entries)
I'm on my way to Edmonton.
Montie and I have been on the train for about 26 hours since leaving Montreal. We expect to arrive at the Edmonton station for about 7:00 a.m. on Sunday and then meet up with Scott Johnson later in the day at the Library. Hopefully we'll find a job on Monday...if we are lucky.
The prices on the train for food are ridiculous.
At least we have the entertainment factor - drunks who enjoy singing through the night. Could be worse - babies crying.
1976 Monday May 17
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
It's late afternoon.
I have spent another day at the railway station...waiting, waiting, reading, waiting.
Such patience I never knew I had.
All this for a job.
Did I make a big mistake letting Montie have the job that I had fought for?
I guess after a day like this one would think so. I sure hope something turns up tomorrow. I understand that today is payday for the work gangs, which for me I'm told is good, since once paid, some of these people never come back. Well hopefully someone will quit.
I'll either have to get in touch with Montie for money soon or go home this Friday. I am paid up in this hotel until then.
I am not homesick for home... but I am for my girlfriend.
1976 Tuesday May 18
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
7:13 AM
I'll be back at the Railway station in about 15 minutes. It's just around the corner and down the hill and looks out over the Pacific and Queen Charlottes. It is strange to think I am on the other end of Canada.
Hopefully by this evening, I will have a job.
Well here goes.
1976 Tuesday May 18
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
10:15 AM
Well it's about time.
Got it! I took a job in the Prince Rupert Yards. I start tomorrow morning at 7:00 A.M.
I'll be making $4.52 per hour and the shift is minimum 9 hours per day.
1976 Wednesday May 19
Prince Rupert BC
CN Yards
6:30 AM
The sun is not yet up. I have met the yard master. He gets to wear the white helmet while the crew have to wear yellow ones. I'm crew.
(I'm glad I ran into Scott back in Edmonton. He warned me to get well stocked up on steel-toed construction boots and warm light hunting jackets to wear under the over-alls and rubber wet ware. You can almost set your watch to the rain-fall here. It is clear in the morning with sun until late morning and then it pours on you. Then it clears by 2:00 or 3:00 PM.)
"Hey you - get some work gloves on and follow me." A yellow helmet guy commands me. He doesn't even look at me or say good morning.
"Christ I'm just waking up! " I think to myself. What happened to the ..you start at 7:00a.m. bit?
I can make out a white shack in the emerging morning haze.
"Here..." He says, "...Take the key and open the shed. Then bring out the 'picks' off the floor. Bring out six of each and I'll bring the car over."
He looks me up and down in disbelief.
"Oh by the way, have you ever done this before?" He asks.
"No, but I'm a fast learner." I respond -trying to sound motivationally correct.
" Well you might learn fast, but the question is, will you last?"
"Oh come on, " I think to myself, "It can't be that hard..."
The shed is right beside a parallel side track or "spur".
I manage to unlock the big padlock and open the heavy doors.
It's dark in there and I stub my steel toed boot against something and fall making one hell of a racket while bashing my shin on the way down.
From outside a head peers in.
"Ya gotta turn on the light first. " He says, reaching in to the side wall.
The bare bulb on the ceiling goes on and I find myself sitting atop a bunch of heavy steel rods.
"Those are the picks." he says.
He leaves me to continue the task.
I look down.
The rods (picks?), gray steel, are about an inch to an inch and a half thick in diameter and are about six feet long. At one end a point and the other flattened.
"O.K." I think, "let us begin".
I reach down and get my fingers under one of these things and pull.
"Oh Oh"
"Did I hear an 'oh-oh'?" a voice queries outside.
"Shit".
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
The End of The Line (Revised)After High School, sometime during my last year in Dawson and beginning of McGill, 1976, I and the brother of my then girlfriend, shipped out from Montreal on the quest for a job.
"What have you got in mind?" He asked.
"Well Monty, I have a plan, but you have to have faith in me- and this will test us both." I replied.
He never knew how really scared I was.
The plan was to get on a train in Montreal and not get off until the end of the line - somewhere out west -presumably Vancouver. That train came upon a divide -one way to Vancouver, the other to Prince Rupert BC....North West, just under Alaska across from the Queen Charlotte Islands - Haida Territory.
We had about $150 dollars between us. It would last a few days, but the last thing I wanted, was to use it up and beg my way home to Chateauguay.
"So, OK, we're here," Monty said, "Now let's hear some more of the plan."
An hour later we were in the Office of Mr.Louis Arsenault, stationmaster of the Prince Rupert CN yard.
"Who 're you?" He looked us up and down and then back to the statistics on his desk.
"What do you take in your coffee?" I asked while looking around the office. My eyes settled on his stained coffee mug - apparently used for years, it sat over near a pile of yellowed news-papers.
"What d' ya mean?" He barked, still not lifting his head to look at us.
"I mean, what do you take in your coffee -one cream two sugars?"
The head rose, as stubby workman's fingers, yellow-tanned with years of nicotine, gripped the desk and pushed back, revealing a generous beer gut, well worn belt with a CN train buckle. The two day stubble seemed to grimace into a painful smile. The bleary red eyes blinked behind the coke bottle glasses.
"I know a number of Arsenault's back in Quebec" I ventured, "They are good people. So- ah, what time do you start work in the morning?" I asked.
"Why da-ya want ta know d'ese-'tings-fer-christ's-sake?" He demanded, all in one word, voice beginning to rise
Monty was gently starting to back out of the room.
"Monty - stay here for a second. This won't take long." I said.
"Mr. Arsenault you should expect to see me every morning as you start work. I'll have your coffee and newspaper all ready for you."
His eyes began to bulge.
"What d-y'a want?" He laughed, unsure of what the devil was going on.
"I want a job" I said.
"But d'ers no jobs." he retorted.
"That's precisely why you will see me every morning from now on. I will bring your coffee, newspaper, run errands, do what needs to be done. I will be your 'unpaid' assistant."
"I don't need any assistant". He roared, turning red almost to blue ... (blood pressure?).
"I can't pay you not'n anyways."
" That's OK ." I replied gently, " Something will turn up and when it does, perhaps you will think of me."
Next morning, we went back coffe and newspaper in hand- nothing. The door was locked from the inside.
We went back the day after -nothing. But this time the door was open.
On the third day -finally - a job..in Terrace down the track, a little west of Prince Rupert.
"OK, now you can get 'da hell outta my office and leave me alone." He said, sighing with some relief.
"Why?" I asked quietly, still sorting through some of his papers and moving his freshly cleaned mug and ashtray.
His jaw did a whip saw double-take. He could not believe what he was hearing.
"I gotta job for you! You fukin crazy or somtin'? " He shrieked.
" No, - you got Monty a job, and we thank you very much, so I'll see you tomorrow morning as usual, -until you get one for me."
H tried to swallow a choke or a gurgle.
He just stared at me and then at Monty and then back at me.
He just couldn't believe what was happening.
Monty gave me his last twenty dollars before getting on the train leaving Prince Rupert.
"Thanks - I 'll visit, but somehow, I don't think you will lack for 'friends' or enemies for that matter - so be careful."
The Tamper Machine, I shoveled gravel in front of for 8-10 hours a day.
The Federal Fisheries Boat that Scott Johnson worked on upon the Skeena River. I met him a month after I got my job.
The beautiful yet treacherous Skeena River
The Mobile Home four of my crew and I lived in at Tyee Station at the side of the track- which was the only thing in the station. It was more a 'stop' than a station.My Crew was composed of ex-soldiers from Portugal (some shell shocked I figure) after their respective terms in Mozambique after their days of colonialism had come to an end. We had Pakistanis and Sikhs in search of a better life. Oh yes, there were two bunks to a room. I had mine to myself for a few weeks, until a tall, mustachioed, muscle bound man stood in the doorway and noted my record player. He took over the other bunk.
I asked him how his left eye had clouded over to such a milky white -eclipsing all color?
"Oh it's dead, lost it in a prison riot." He peered at me from the good eye.
I could not think of a better time to put my girlfriend's picture up on the wall for all to see.
We used to enjoy going back into town to the tavern. It became rather activated when the Haida fisherman would come in after getting paid by the cannery for their catch. I learned to camp carefully with my glass of beer beneath the pool table until things would settle. Other rail guys used to be up for the fun.
Well that was a long time ago.
But I hear that either Beverly or Barbara Hague now run a fishing bout out that way. Remember Barbara's infectious giggle?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
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