(check out the video clips below)
Just For Laughs-Rue St.Denis 'dream 'jest fest' -seulment comme ca a Montreal.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Sunday, August 09, 2009
University
OK, so half the summer is gone.
My daughter has finsihed with University, graduated and has a damned fine job already lined up. Great! I am proud of her.
My son is in year two of University.
Why am I starting out with this topic?
Well, Jane has a friend over for dinner tonight and we've been talking about her daughter's book list in first year University, Liberal Arts program and I am thinking back to my Under-Graduate program at McGill some 30 years ago.
In Highschool I was not oriented to Math or French.
Too bad. Those are really the things I use the most today. Thankfully years later, I went back and paid a highschool math teacher to take me back through the Algebra curriculum I missed.
In CEGEP (Prov Que) I was in Social Sciences /Political Science and Psychology as my base of study with the sincere intent of entering into Law School in University after completing what was called the "undergraduate program" (Bacelor Arts.... Bachelor Science. etc)
The reason for the entry is just to tell a story that might help some of your children who are entering such a program. (If this does not pertain to you, skip it. Conversely, if you are simply keeping tabs on me and my past, read on, this might be of interest or might send you off to sleep.)
I remember my first day of the '101 Polie Scie class'. - That is, "Political Science".
Professors Sam Noumoff, Charles Taylor and Hal Sarf were at the front telling us the magic and wonders of the course to come this year (1975). I was intrigued ...in that I actually made it in and that I was in something as sophisticated sounding as 'Political Science'. Sounds important to a high school grad doesn't it? The girls in the class were hot too. (No I had not as yet changed. I was always on the look out. Once I met my wife a few years later I could allow myself to focus on living rather than always being on the ready.)
(Google- Charles Taylor- very interesting.)
In that year I learned many things, the first of which was that 'reading' was my prime tool and ally. If you had not read Aristotle, Plato, Bacon, Hume, Hegel, Rousseau, Schopenhauer, Nitsche, Swift, Johnson and various others, then there was lots of catching up to do....but I only just got here! Agh! You mean there's homework?!
So fortunately in year two of CEGEP at Dawson, I had learned how to apply 'discipline' to my schedule. Every hour of every day of my 7 day week had a function.
I scheduled my sleep for rebooting and rejuvenating, eating, to recharging batteries/ energy, 'a little time-off' to partying and what was left, the most part of my time, I divided between each of my subjects for pre lecture reading, then re-study and "typing" of papers (with copy tissues between).
Thank goodness I had taken typing in highschool. I had listened to Scott Johnson who said I had better get this talent down pat. My mom also was a great help on this. She is and was a great typist. Know this- scribbling is not writing.. typing is writing and even more important, going back and editing is 'writing'.
After a year and some into the undergrad program my G.P.A. (grade point average) was a dismal 2.8%. The people at the top of the class were at 4.
What was it that they had that Idid not have?
For one thing, I should have somehow made it my business to follow certain rules.
Rule 1
If the class size is larger than 20 people, locate and get to know as soon as possible, the TA. The TA is "teaching assistant".
Rule 2
If you are taking a class like 'English Literature' or 'Philosphy' as an "elective" and not part of your core of concentration simply becuase it sounds like you'll be able to breeze through...think again!
Rule 3
Take a course on writing a term paper or writing as a craft.
Now if we examine Rule 2 just for an example:
I took English Lit figuring it would be something similar to what I took in HS Billings Highschool, where this lovely young teacher sat on her desk in a mini skirt and silk stockings chatting about someone called Arsitophanes and some birds. Did I mention her protrusions and tight sweater?
Anyway, in McGill, I entered an English Lit class of about 50-60 kids and a lecturer.
He talked of Falkner. This is Southern USA Lit. It was good!-Hey I mean, I saw the movie 'To Kill a Mockingbird'. I figured I got it! So I read the Falkner books - 'As I lay Dying' etc. Great stuff! Wow! I figured this was going to be a real breeze!
So the lecturer was blabbing away at the front and I'm thinking "..yah da yah da yah.right right". And he stops, looks up and suddenly asks us..., "Are there any questions?"...
I'm thinking -"No, this is all quite straight forward, I mean, the old lady is lying down and dying, for heaven's sake! What kind of questions would I have? Cancer? What?"
All of a sudden, all hands on all sides shoot up! What the hell!
I've entered the land of waving hands, MEEEEE! OOOH Pick MEEE!
"Sir -would the archtypal myth of the 'old lady' be akin to the metaphorical demise of the Old South?" asked the gorgeous number with the black glasses, sleek blond hair and shapely legs.
"What the hell language is this?
I mean, I don't blame the professor when he asked her to repeat the question. I didn't understand the langauage, but I suspect he just wanted to see her breathe some more as she spoke. Marilyn Munroe with brains!
My point to you, is this, --English Lit has a lexicon (language) all of it's very own from James Joyce through to Falkner. Every word you read is code for something/someone else. A color refers to something in someone elses book and/or the BIBLE. Allegory, metaphore and similes! If you do not know the language and if you have not done the background reading and study -(and there's lot's of it) do not go there.
On the other hand, if you have the time, go ahead. It's actually wonderful...but only if you can take your time, make some friends who can guide you to the realm of Archetypes and established Myths. It's kind of like Stats but with dream and story woven in.
Then there is rule 1.
For a whole year and a half I struggled with Polie Scie. I scored far higher in Pshycology in CEGEP and then I dropped that in University to take the Polie Scie. (Why? I think that to my infantile 19 year old mind, the 'Political Science' tag sounded most impressive. The truth is that if you are doing well in Music Class (getting great marks), you have a good shot at Law School. Just do the L-SATs first with a team of buddies. The Team of buddies is really helpful.
At the end of year one in Political Science, I was struggling. My TA, Greg Claeys came to me and said, "You look like you're having a hard time. I have read your writing. You are doing the reading, but your are not picking up on what it is you need to grasp."
"I need help." I said sheepishly.
"What you need is a set of conceptual handlebars to hold on to as you ride through the obstacle course, and I will give them to you now - a gift, just two words - 'empirical' and 'normative'.
I don't know what he expected. Did he think I would put my finger to my strawhead and say"Eurika?". I stood with a blank stare and nooded. "HMMM".
"You don't 'get it', right?" He asked.
"Uh - No."
So, he explained ..."There are those who put forward ideas based upon actuality or 'what is'- "empirical', versus those who base their ideas on what "could be if"...if humans were nicer or whatever... 'normative'.
So if you can write your papers on each philosopher, from now on identifying which form is being used, you will "get it" and understand what kind of change upon the world the author is proposing.
WOW! I GOT IT!
This was the tool I needed to pass and excel.
Now in Philosophy proper, OH-OH-
I chose this as an elective thinking it would be easy as long as I wrote long papers. This is where Rule 3 applies.
Isubmitted a piece that I thought was quite clever from my then 'High School/CEGEP 19 year old point of view'.
I got it back soon after. 'DRIVEL!" was scrawled in red at the bottom. Cut it all and just get to the point! Provide support to your premise!
It was this instruction, that taught me my greatest of educational lessons.
I had never taken a writing course in High school or CEGEP. I should have.
Writing courses teach you to state in each paragragh a point supporting your "thesis", then how to back-up to that point and finally, conclude with a statement that reinforces the logic overall. Simple right? Yes -if you had taken the writing course.
There is just no "finessing" your way through university.
You pay the big fees (cheap in Canada), put in the long hours, minimize the partying, talk to teachers and TAs after class where need be, without wasting their time and create allies with smarter students than you.
Usually- if you fail in University, there is only one person to blame.
It is not 'the system', it is not racisim. It is not an 'A for a lay'.
There can be the odd class where you disagree with a professor at your own risk. But they 'all' can't be wrong.
If you listen and make absolutely certain that you understand what is being asked and then organize your time and do it, you will be just fine.
Finally, having a group of friends and supporters around from your classes, to help you as you help them, is a good bet.
So- final rule! You must work on that team of friends from the 'get-go'.
University is no place to be in a vacuum or be too proud to ask for help. There is always the Guidance office too.
(Oh- yes I graduated with my B.A. but I chose not to go into Law. Who knows, I could go back. It is never too late.)
OK, so half the summer is gone.
My daughter has finsihed with University, graduated and has a damned fine job already lined up. Great! I am proud of her.
My son is in year two of University.
Why am I starting out with this topic?
Well, Jane has a friend over for dinner tonight and we've been talking about her daughter's book list in first year University, Liberal Arts program and I am thinking back to my Under-Graduate program at McGill some 30 years ago.
In Highschool I was not oriented to Math or French.
Too bad. Those are really the things I use the most today. Thankfully years later, I went back and paid a highschool math teacher to take me back through the Algebra curriculum I missed.
In CEGEP (Prov Que) I was in Social Sciences /Political Science and Psychology as my base of study with the sincere intent of entering into Law School in University after completing what was called the "undergraduate program" (Bacelor Arts.... Bachelor Science. etc)
The reason for the entry is just to tell a story that might help some of your children who are entering such a program. (If this does not pertain to you, skip it. Conversely, if you are simply keeping tabs on me and my past, read on, this might be of interest or might send you off to sleep.)
I remember my first day of the '101 Polie Scie class'. - That is, "Political Science".
Professors Sam Noumoff, Charles Taylor and Hal Sarf were at the front telling us the magic and wonders of the course to come this year (1975). I was intrigued ...in that I actually made it in and that I was in something as sophisticated sounding as 'Political Science'. Sounds important to a high school grad doesn't it? The girls in the class were hot too. (No I had not as yet changed. I was always on the look out. Once I met my wife a few years later I could allow myself to focus on living rather than always being on the ready.)
(Google- Charles Taylor- very interesting.)
In that year I learned many things, the first of which was that 'reading' was my prime tool and ally. If you had not read Aristotle, Plato, Bacon, Hume, Hegel, Rousseau, Schopenhauer, Nitsche, Swift, Johnson and various others, then there was lots of catching up to do....but I only just got here! Agh! You mean there's homework?!
So fortunately in year two of CEGEP at Dawson, I had learned how to apply 'discipline' to my schedule. Every hour of every day of my 7 day week had a function.
I scheduled my sleep for rebooting and rejuvenating, eating, to recharging batteries/ energy, 'a little time-off' to partying and what was left, the most part of my time, I divided between each of my subjects for pre lecture reading, then re-study and "typing" of papers (with copy tissues between).
Thank goodness I had taken typing in highschool. I had listened to Scott Johnson who said I had better get this talent down pat. My mom also was a great help on this. She is and was a great typist. Know this- scribbling is not writing.. typing is writing and even more important, going back and editing is 'writing'.
After a year and some into the undergrad program my G.P.A. (grade point average) was a dismal 2.8%. The people at the top of the class were at 4.
What was it that they had that Idid not have?
For one thing, I should have somehow made it my business to follow certain rules.
Rule 1
If the class size is larger than 20 people, locate and get to know as soon as possible, the TA. The TA is "teaching assistant".
Rule 2
If you are taking a class like 'English Literature' or 'Philosphy' as an "elective" and not part of your core of concentration simply becuase it sounds like you'll be able to breeze through...think again!
Rule 3
Take a course on writing a term paper or writing as a craft.
Now if we examine Rule 2 just for an example:
I took English Lit figuring it would be something similar to what I took in HS Billings Highschool, where this lovely young teacher sat on her desk in a mini skirt and silk stockings chatting about someone called Arsitophanes and some birds. Did I mention her protrusions and tight sweater?
Anyway, in McGill, I entered an English Lit class of about 50-60 kids and a lecturer.
He talked of Falkner. This is Southern USA Lit. It was good!-Hey I mean, I saw the movie 'To Kill a Mockingbird'. I figured I got it! So I read the Falkner books - 'As I lay Dying' etc. Great stuff! Wow! I figured this was going to be a real breeze!
So the lecturer was blabbing away at the front and I'm thinking "..yah da yah da yah.right right". And he stops, looks up and suddenly asks us..., "Are there any questions?"...
I'm thinking -"No, this is all quite straight forward, I mean, the old lady is lying down and dying, for heaven's sake! What kind of questions would I have? Cancer? What?"
All of a sudden, all hands on all sides shoot up! What the hell!
I've entered the land of waving hands, MEEEEE! OOOH Pick MEEE!
"Sir -would the archtypal myth of the 'old lady' be akin to the metaphorical demise of the Old South?" asked the gorgeous number with the black glasses, sleek blond hair and shapely legs.
"What the hell language is this?
I mean, I don't blame the professor when he asked her to repeat the question. I didn't understand the langauage, but I suspect he just wanted to see her breathe some more as she spoke. Marilyn Munroe with brains!
My point to you, is this, --English Lit has a lexicon (language) all of it's very own from James Joyce through to Falkner. Every word you read is code for something/someone else. A color refers to something in someone elses book and/or the BIBLE. Allegory, metaphore and similes! If you do not know the language and if you have not done the background reading and study -(and there's lot's of it) do not go there.
On the other hand, if you have the time, go ahead. It's actually wonderful...but only if you can take your time, make some friends who can guide you to the realm of Archetypes and established Myths. It's kind of like Stats but with dream and story woven in.
Then there is rule 1.
For a whole year and a half I struggled with Polie Scie. I scored far higher in Pshycology in CEGEP and then I dropped that in University to take the Polie Scie. (Why? I think that to my infantile 19 year old mind, the 'Political Science' tag sounded most impressive. The truth is that if you are doing well in Music Class (getting great marks), you have a good shot at Law School. Just do the L-SATs first with a team of buddies. The Team of buddies is really helpful.
At the end of year one in Political Science, I was struggling. My TA, Greg Claeys came to me and said, "You look like you're having a hard time. I have read your writing. You are doing the reading, but your are not picking up on what it is you need to grasp."
"I need help." I said sheepishly.
"What you need is a set of conceptual handlebars to hold on to as you ride through the obstacle course, and I will give them to you now - a gift, just two words - 'empirical' and 'normative'.
I don't know what he expected. Did he think I would put my finger to my strawhead and say"Eurika?". I stood with a blank stare and nooded. "HMMM".
"You don't 'get it', right?" He asked.
"Uh - No."
So, he explained ..."There are those who put forward ideas based upon actuality or 'what is'- "empirical', versus those who base their ideas on what "could be if"...if humans were nicer or whatever... 'normative'.
So if you can write your papers on each philosopher, from now on identifying which form is being used, you will "get it" and understand what kind of change upon the world the author is proposing.
WOW! I GOT IT!
This was the tool I needed to pass and excel.
Now in Philosophy proper, OH-OH-
I chose this as an elective thinking it would be easy as long as I wrote long papers. This is where Rule 3 applies.
Isubmitted a piece that I thought was quite clever from my then 'High School/CEGEP 19 year old point of view'.
I got it back soon after. 'DRIVEL!" was scrawled in red at the bottom. Cut it all and just get to the point! Provide support to your premise!
It was this instruction, that taught me my greatest of educational lessons.
I had never taken a writing course in High school or CEGEP. I should have.
Writing courses teach you to state in each paragragh a point supporting your "thesis", then how to back-up to that point and finally, conclude with a statement that reinforces the logic overall. Simple right? Yes -if you had taken the writing course.
There is just no "finessing" your way through university.
You pay the big fees (cheap in Canada), put in the long hours, minimize the partying, talk to teachers and TAs after class where need be, without wasting their time and create allies with smarter students than you.
Usually- if you fail in University, there is only one person to blame.
It is not 'the system', it is not racisim. It is not an 'A for a lay'.
There can be the odd class where you disagree with a professor at your own risk. But they 'all' can't be wrong.
If you listen and make absolutely certain that you understand what is being asked and then organize your time and do it, you will be just fine.
Finally, having a group of friends and supporters around from your classes, to help you as you help them, is a good bet.
So- final rule! You must work on that team of friends from the 'get-go'.
University is no place to be in a vacuum or be too proud to ask for help. There is always the Guidance office too.
(Oh- yes I graduated with my B.A. but I chose not to go into Law. Who knows, I could go back. It is never too late.)
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Fred Left us this week.
Well Fred - Your last years in the end were not the easiest for you to bear. And you never really complained. You stayed in touch with Jimmy Williams and with me collaberated sometimes on some writing projects.
Despite the distance from us you were a dear and wonderful friend.
In Highschool and afterwards be it in your music, humour, thought provoking articles on CBC, jamming (Season of the Witch at the Carnival by the arena or out at Bill Howes in Gaspe) simply 'hanging out', -your soul shone.
Fred Sailor you were one of the most philisophically cool people I had ever met.
I know a bit of you will always be with us. You gifted us with your presence.
Fly on Godfrey.
We'll miss you.
Les
Well Fred - Your last years in the end were not the easiest for you to bear. And you never really complained. You stayed in touch with Jimmy Williams and with me collaberated sometimes on some writing projects.Despite the distance from us you were a dear and wonderful friend.
In Highschool and afterwards be it in your music, humour, thought provoking articles on CBC, jamming (Season of the Witch at the Carnival by the arena or out at Bill Howes in Gaspe) simply 'hanging out', -your soul shone.
Fred Sailor you were one of the most philisophically cool people I had ever met.
I know a bit of you will always be with us. You gifted us with your presence.
Fly on Godfrey.
We'll miss you.
Les
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Black and White and shades of gray.
Barry Jones, Steve Poirier, Scott Johnson.
Barry Jones, Steve Poirier, Scott Johnson.
(I'm afraid I cannot remember the name of the person sitting beside Scott Johnson.)
This is extracted from a class picture from grade 8 if I am not mistaken.
Photography is fascinating. It captures a moment and beyond that, it chrystalizes certain character traits and moods.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
What makes a place a home territory?
Perhaps it's a time and not the place in and of itself?
I remember first moving to Chateauguay in 1963 in wicked mid February.
My parents purchased a model home next to and slightly to the side of Seigneury Park Country Club. The roads were full of pot holes then and the the trees were many. It was a very new development with some very new home models -more vertical in orientation rather than the spread of a New England or Ocean side bungalo. They were novel for Chateauguay.
After a number of years, this area became home to me and the centre of my being with many friends and acquaintences. The neighborhood community was focussed upon the pool and club house both in winter and summer.
I found that the rest of Chateauguay with it's separate neighborhoods - Colonia, Terrace, Parkview, The Heights, West End. Chateauguay North , The Basin all had similar cohesion and I believe it was due to the community activities surrounding water, pools, canoes, and rinks. But in each area I entered, I felt like a stranger. These places were not home to me and not until very much later in high school did I feel that greater Chateauguay was part of my being. This was of course, due to the fact that I was becoming more aware of other neighborhoods outside our collective environment - Ville de Lery, Woodlands, Maple Grove, Beauharnois to the west and Kahnawake to the North East.
Once again, as I ventured forth and met new friends in their domains I felt as a stranger in strange lands, pushing the limits of my awareness yet at the same time causing me to take posession in a sense, of Chateauguay as a whole with it's differing neighborhood parts.
By discovering outsiders and new places, Chateuaguy as a whole was becoming smaller to me and far more comfortable as names such as Houston, Hillock, Moody, Cushing from WestEnd or D'Aguilar, Mitchell and McGurk over by des Marguerites past the Centre or, Doumaraesque, Martin, Duchene, Holt, Kaye, Birch, Packer, Leroux, Robichaude, Starkey in Colonia, Ranger, Bushe, Deliva, Daze, Garnier, Craig, Ross, Crawford, Sailor, in Parkview, Perry, Fletcher, Farmer, Bissonette, Rennie, Hewitt, Poirier, Toth, Jones, McManus, and Gulkin in Seigneury Park, Finnerty, Wilding, Larsen and Birch in Northern Circle and Oliver, Boshart, Hart, Gilmore, Butt, Artagnon, Behrens, Mountain, Stuart, Rankin, Riley and Reid in the Heights and many others gave shape and texture if not a wonderful character to the Chateauguay we called home.
Today I was cycling around the bike paths of Chateauguay with Jane pointing out things which mark my memory.
I pointed out what used to be the pool at Seigniroy Park now buried beneath a Hyundai dealership. We passed through Colonia on Craik street where there was eveidence of a pool where the ball park still stands.
We returned to the Terrace, passing by the two new houses which sit atop what used to be the baby pool their respective back yards with fresh green sods covering the memories of the shallow end and deep end of our old community Terrace pool.
We stopped our bikes and remembered how Dave Maclean, myself along with Danny Cooney, Peter MacHardy, Peter Roy and many others from the neighborhood (Bobbit, Gurholt, Meaney) year after year ran that community pool with it's outdoor activities- swim lessons, racing team, camp nights, movie nights and dances.
"God we were lucky." Jane said . "Our kids were lucky. Nowadays there are pools in many back yards. And people have their own private domains just outside the back door."
This, while not bad, is not quite as good as what the children once had.
There is something to be said for heat build-up, the walk or ride over to the local pool, nearing it, the screams of excited children, whistles of the life guards, the sound system with the latest songs, 'eau de pool water' blended with fragrance of ice cream, popsicles, hot dogs and suntan lotion. You just never knew who would turn up at the pool.
And there was something else too- something significant. Older people would talk to younger ones. We were all together and exposed to varied social, cultural elements; English, French, men women, boys, girls, small, big, shaply or not, white, black, rich and poor - we were all together at our community watering hole, which helped to develop our outer natures as community beings.
But nothing could beat just lying on the hot concrete as the sun baked the water off one's browning limbs as we talked with our summer friends. It made going home in the evening all the better after a bar-b-q at the pool.
It just seems that Chateauguay and all developments with community pools were enriched - the whole being far greater than the parts. There was a belonging where now there is fragmentation.
I do not know if the Canoe Club still exists or not. I often hear stories of the times the people of 'the heights' had over there. I never really knew about this place until later. Most unfortunate. But I did belong to the Carlyle Tennis Club. Herbie Hart taught me how to serve!
There was a magic in the summer for many of us, perhaps the magic of a time. But I'm afraid that -that time -has gone.
Ah -but we can remember!
Perhaps it's a time and not the place in and of itself?
I remember first moving to Chateauguay in 1963 in wicked mid February.
My parents purchased a model home next to and slightly to the side of Seigneury Park Country Club. The roads were full of pot holes then and the the trees were many. It was a very new development with some very new home models -more vertical in orientation rather than the spread of a New England or Ocean side bungalo. They were novel for Chateauguay.
After a number of years, this area became home to me and the centre of my being with many friends and acquaintences. The neighborhood community was focussed upon the pool and club house both in winter and summer.
I found that the rest of Chateauguay with it's separate neighborhoods - Colonia, Terrace, Parkview, The Heights, West End. Chateauguay North , The Basin all had similar cohesion and I believe it was due to the community activities surrounding water, pools, canoes, and rinks. But in each area I entered, I felt like a stranger. These places were not home to me and not until very much later in high school did I feel that greater Chateauguay was part of my being. This was of course, due to the fact that I was becoming more aware of other neighborhoods outside our collective environment - Ville de Lery, Woodlands, Maple Grove, Beauharnois to the west and Kahnawake to the North East.
Once again, as I ventured forth and met new friends in their domains I felt as a stranger in strange lands, pushing the limits of my awareness yet at the same time causing me to take posession in a sense, of Chateauguay as a whole with it's differing neighborhood parts.
By discovering outsiders and new places, Chateuaguy as a whole was becoming smaller to me and far more comfortable as names such as Houston, Hillock, Moody, Cushing from WestEnd or D'Aguilar, Mitchell and McGurk over by des Marguerites past the Centre or, Doumaraesque, Martin, Duchene, Holt, Kaye, Birch, Packer, Leroux, Robichaude, Starkey in Colonia, Ranger, Bushe, Deliva, Daze, Garnier, Craig, Ross, Crawford, Sailor, in Parkview, Perry, Fletcher, Farmer, Bissonette, Rennie, Hewitt, Poirier, Toth, Jones, McManus, and Gulkin in Seigneury Park, Finnerty, Wilding, Larsen and Birch in Northern Circle and Oliver, Boshart, Hart, Gilmore, Butt, Artagnon, Behrens, Mountain, Stuart, Rankin, Riley and Reid in the Heights and many others gave shape and texture if not a wonderful character to the Chateauguay we called home.
Today I was cycling around the bike paths of Chateauguay with Jane pointing out things which mark my memory.
I pointed out what used to be the pool at Seigniroy Park now buried beneath a Hyundai dealership. We passed through Colonia on Craik street where there was eveidence of a pool where the ball park still stands.
We returned to the Terrace, passing by the two new houses which sit atop what used to be the baby pool their respective back yards with fresh green sods covering the memories of the shallow end and deep end of our old community Terrace pool.
We stopped our bikes and remembered how Dave Maclean, myself along with Danny Cooney, Peter MacHardy, Peter Roy and many others from the neighborhood (Bobbit, Gurholt, Meaney) year after year ran that community pool with it's outdoor activities- swim lessons, racing team, camp nights, movie nights and dances.
"God we were lucky." Jane said . "Our kids were lucky. Nowadays there are pools in many back yards. And people have their own private domains just outside the back door."
This, while not bad, is not quite as good as what the children once had.
There is something to be said for heat build-up, the walk or ride over to the local pool, nearing it, the screams of excited children, whistles of the life guards, the sound system with the latest songs, 'eau de pool water' blended with fragrance of ice cream, popsicles, hot dogs and suntan lotion. You just never knew who would turn up at the pool.
And there was something else too- something significant. Older people would talk to younger ones. We were all together and exposed to varied social, cultural elements; English, French, men women, boys, girls, small, big, shaply or not, white, black, rich and poor - we were all together at our community watering hole, which helped to develop our outer natures as community beings.
But nothing could beat just lying on the hot concrete as the sun baked the water off one's browning limbs as we talked with our summer friends. It made going home in the evening all the better after a bar-b-q at the pool.
It just seems that Chateauguay and all developments with community pools were enriched - the whole being far greater than the parts. There was a belonging where now there is fragmentation.
I do not know if the Canoe Club still exists or not. I often hear stories of the times the people of 'the heights' had over there. I never really knew about this place until later. Most unfortunate. But I did belong to the Carlyle Tennis Club. Herbie Hart taught me how to serve!
There was a magic in the summer for many of us, perhaps the magic of a time. But I'm afraid that -that time -has gone.
Ah -but we can remember!
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Jacob Sings "Over Malta"
This clip is taken at the "Grannies For Africa" Beaver Lake Picnic
Jan McConnell, Dr.Klaus Mindi, Dr.Nina Mindi, Linda, Hazel Finlay appear as Jacob sings one of his originals. He did a set of 10 songs ranging from covers to his own works.
This clip is taken at the "Grannies For Africa" Beaver Lake Picnic
Jan McConnell, Dr.Klaus Mindi, Dr.Nina Mindi, Linda, Hazel Finlay appear as Jacob sings one of his originals. He did a set of 10 songs ranging from covers to his own works.
Grannies from Canada along with the Stephen Lewis Foundation send supplies and support to the Grannies in Africa who have become the parents to Grandchildren. The Parents of the children have been massacred by AIDS. A whole strata of their society has simply vanished and continues to vaporize. While the cure exists to a great extent and the preventive knowledge is there, cultural, economic, commercial, physical and political realities subvert the timing of solution.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Life is short
and fragile.
Take care of the gift -the spark inside you
and those sparks inside the ones
who care for you.
As the trajectory
of the firefly etched upon the dark
or shooting star upon the night
the way is lit but not long
to our sight.
Take no one you love
for granted -
treasure, share and respect each moment of their being.
Avoid those things that would cause you
to lose your way.
LM
and fragile.
Take care of the gift -the spark inside you
and those sparks inside the ones
who care for you.
As the trajectory
of the firefly etched upon the dark
or shooting star upon the night
the way is lit but not long
to our sight.
Take no one you love
for granted -
treasure, share and respect each moment of their being.
Avoid those things that would cause you
to lose your way.
LM
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Do You Know the Inner You?
(I ask myself...)
So, how can one change the world if you have no controls on the world within?
If the outer YOU is nothing more than a 'persona', connected to the outer world through behavioral responses we like to call 'personality', then who or what is inside, driving this outer presentation shell?
Have you taken the quiet time to get to know that inner self?
Or is that "inner being" doing things in a reactive pre-programmed way? You know, -go to work, make money, pay the mortgage, buy food, meet Mr. or Mrs. Right, have children (fulfilling the prime objective), then get fancy by becoming competitive to see how much better than others one can be at growing our own little ball of dung and perhaps doing some traveling?
That stuff is there by default, part of the prime objective.
I suspect there is something more once we get to know the inner essence that drives the vehicle of our body.
Since the "thinking I " is the inner being, and not simply the ego sensor that perceives the world, the key would be to develop methods of being in control of this "I "; to minimize the reactive and accentuate the proactive. Say like knowing through our collected information that smoking is not good for the body.
Pro Active is actually being at the inner center of self and making positive healthy decisions that lead to positive healthy action. It is taking control of self.
Pro-active is overcoming the 'temptation' to have another chocolate chip cookie when no one is looking, or understanding that by smoking, one is simply a part of the cash flow equation for a cigarette company while slowly killing oneself.
Pro-active is deciding to get in shape and then taking the right actions.
Pro-active is taking one's life in hand and doing the best that one can do with it.
Pro-active is refusing to give in to the temptation that delusion offers -saying one is too old to lose excess weight, or "this is the way I am so if you don't like it bug off".
Pro-active is turning off the TV and writing the book, screen play, calling your relative who you know would love to hear from you, doing some simple stretching, or walking or training to run a marathon.
Pro-active is consciously acknowledging you have a habit of eating chips, drinking beer and then making the decision to stop.
The big problem is, that if we cannot take control of ourselves and save our own inner and outer world, how can we ever hope to change the the earth? The scientists and activated individuals cannot do it by themselves. We cannot just let others do it. We are all part of the greater whole.
What do we want to teach our children?
- That we inevitably are going to kill ourselves and our planet so get used to it?
Or is there something else we can do?
I suspect it begins with acheiveing the little things within the self.
Can you quit smoking? Can you exercise?
Can you control the temptation to say something bitchy or to laugh at someone else?
Can you stop the small habits that lead to big problems later?
I suspect that by setting these kinds of goals from the simple to the more demanding, we learn the power of "NO" with temptation and earn the discipline to take control of ourselves. I am inspired to run by the lesson my fifty-two year old sister Gaye has shown - running the Boston Marathon -twice! Up until a few years ago she never ran at all.
These are some of the things that I hope are being taught in school these days... understanding who and what the inner being is and the relationship that exists between it and the planet.
(I ask myself...)
So, how can one change the world if you have no controls on the world within?
If the outer YOU is nothing more than a 'persona', connected to the outer world through behavioral responses we like to call 'personality', then who or what is inside, driving this outer presentation shell?
Have you taken the quiet time to get to know that inner self?
Or is that "inner being" doing things in a reactive pre-programmed way? You know, -go to work, make money, pay the mortgage, buy food, meet Mr. or Mrs. Right, have children (fulfilling the prime objective), then get fancy by becoming competitive to see how much better than others one can be at growing our own little ball of dung and perhaps doing some traveling?
That stuff is there by default, part of the prime objective.
I suspect there is something more once we get to know the inner essence that drives the vehicle of our body.
Since the "thinking I " is the inner being, and not simply the ego sensor that perceives the world, the key would be to develop methods of being in control of this "I "; to minimize the reactive and accentuate the proactive. Say like knowing through our collected information that smoking is not good for the body.
Pro Active is actually being at the inner center of self and making positive healthy decisions that lead to positive healthy action. It is taking control of self.
Pro-active is overcoming the 'temptation' to have another chocolate chip cookie when no one is looking, or understanding that by smoking, one is simply a part of the cash flow equation for a cigarette company while slowly killing oneself.
Pro-active is deciding to get in shape and then taking the right actions.
Pro-active is taking one's life in hand and doing the best that one can do with it.
Pro-active is refusing to give in to the temptation that delusion offers -saying one is too old to lose excess weight, or "this is the way I am so if you don't like it bug off".
Pro-active is turning off the TV and writing the book, screen play, calling your relative who you know would love to hear from you, doing some simple stretching, or walking or training to run a marathon.
Pro-active is consciously acknowledging you have a habit of eating chips, drinking beer and then making the decision to stop.
The big problem is, that if we cannot take control of ourselves and save our own inner and outer world, how can we ever hope to change the the earth? The scientists and activated individuals cannot do it by themselves. We cannot just let others do it. We are all part of the greater whole.
What do we want to teach our children?
- That we inevitably are going to kill ourselves and our planet so get used to it?
Or is there something else we can do?
I suspect it begins with acheiveing the little things within the self.
Can you quit smoking? Can you exercise?
Can you control the temptation to say something bitchy or to laugh at someone else?
Can you stop the small habits that lead to big problems later?
I suspect that by setting these kinds of goals from the simple to the more demanding, we learn the power of "NO" with temptation and earn the discipline to take control of ourselves. I am inspired to run by the lesson my fifty-two year old sister Gaye has shown - running the Boston Marathon -twice! Up until a few years ago she never ran at all.
These are some of the things that I hope are being taught in school these days... understanding who and what the inner being is and the relationship that exists between it and the planet.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Center Circle
Have you ever taken a quiet moment to ask yourself Who you are?
Think about it for a moment.
Our outside persona is made up of a transport system, equipped with tools that enable us to travel and gather data about our world. We 'do' all kinds of things and collect experience like ants collecting prize bits of leaves or chunks of cookie droppings.
The data is transmitted bio-electronically through to our central processing units (brain) for decision making.
Our primary 'goal-setting default or bias' is biologically 'set' towards continuing the species and surviving individually. Emphasis on "individually".
Our 'ambulatory' or walking transport systems have a fuel entry point and a spent fuel refuse ejection system.
We are gifted with arms and hands to manipulate the world around us and our meagre creations and re-creations. Our eyes and noses further refine the vision, quantifying and qualifying our findings, the most notable saved for adulation, discussion and academic digestion.
But all this describes the outer shell of our 'being'.
So who are we?
We are individually oriented so that as we attain our inevitable passing from this sphere, those left behind can continue on without too much bother.
We are therefore 'self centric' and endeavor to be self sufficient within the systems we have created for ourselves on this planet. Again, the outside 'shell'.
Who am i?
If my body (and it's internal parts that support the ambulatory vehicle) make up the outer side of a circle, the inner me would be the inside of the circle.
So the 'i' or inner voice within the circle would be the center transmitting desire and direction to the outer me via synaptic pathways . But 'who', is that 'i' or inner voice?
Where does it live?
In the brain? The heart? The chakras? The solar plexus?
That 'consciousness' carried about within the bony container, the 'i' or 'me' cannot be seen.
It,-- that invisible center of the inner circle, is evident, only so long as the outer shell is 'alive'.
So, that consciousness at the center within, drives the outer vehicle- with the intent of getting from here to there through space to achieve self oriented goals of survival and continuation as a point of necessity.
Is that inner 'me'-- my personality? Soul? Spirit? or just arbitrary electrical impulses?
Once I stop 'doing', cease activity, calming the outer and inner motion, who am I?
Yes- the outer shell is still recognized by others by it's given name, social status and difference to others. But what of the inner core?
Have you ever tried to - stop all doing- even for 30 seconds?
Try it! Stop all movement, seeing/looking, talking, thinking, planning next steps -all activity... except for breathing.
Now shine the flashlight of your mind on where the identity of 'you' is .
Where are "you"? - locate it .
Stop the needs voices " What shall I make for dinner, I wonder if he/ she still loves me, What should I get at IGA...stop shhhh! (Make the thoughts stop just for a few seconds. )
Where is the 'i'? Where does it go when your body sleeps?
The outer identity vehicle is in bed...but where is the 'i'?
Perhaps the question might better be...'What' is 'i'.
I 'think' I know you. You 'think' you know me.
How presumptuous of us all! I am still trying to understand who or what I am and where my 'attitude' originates. Why do I knee jerk 'react' to some things while with others I am able to calmly 'respond' with applied inner discipline?
Such clever beings are we, gifted with the ability to 'discern' that which is agreeable and that which is not...gifted with the ability to choose what action we will apply in this life and those actions we will not.
What is the purpose of 'i'...
another question...
How will WE save our world?
Have you ever taken a quiet moment to ask yourself Who you are?
Think about it for a moment.
Our outside persona is made up of a transport system, equipped with tools that enable us to travel and gather data about our world. We 'do' all kinds of things and collect experience like ants collecting prize bits of leaves or chunks of cookie droppings.
The data is transmitted bio-electronically through to our central processing units (brain) for decision making.
Our primary 'goal-setting default or bias' is biologically 'set' towards continuing the species and surviving individually. Emphasis on "individually".
Our 'ambulatory' or walking transport systems have a fuel entry point and a spent fuel refuse ejection system.
We are gifted with arms and hands to manipulate the world around us and our meagre creations and re-creations. Our eyes and noses further refine the vision, quantifying and qualifying our findings, the most notable saved for adulation, discussion and academic digestion.
But all this describes the outer shell of our 'being'.
So who are we?
We are individually oriented so that as we attain our inevitable passing from this sphere, those left behind can continue on without too much bother.
We are therefore 'self centric' and endeavor to be self sufficient within the systems we have created for ourselves on this planet. Again, the outside 'shell'.
Who am i?
If my body (and it's internal parts that support the ambulatory vehicle) make up the outer side of a circle, the inner me would be the inside of the circle.
So the 'i' or inner voice within the circle would be the center transmitting desire and direction to the outer me via synaptic pathways . But 'who', is that 'i' or inner voice?
Where does it live?
In the brain? The heart? The chakras? The solar plexus?
That 'consciousness' carried about within the bony container, the 'i' or 'me' cannot be seen.
It,-- that invisible center of the inner circle, is evident, only so long as the outer shell is 'alive'.
So, that consciousness at the center within, drives the outer vehicle- with the intent of getting from here to there through space to achieve self oriented goals of survival and continuation as a point of necessity.
Is that inner 'me'-- my personality? Soul? Spirit? or just arbitrary electrical impulses?
Once I stop 'doing', cease activity, calming the outer and inner motion, who am I?
Yes- the outer shell is still recognized by others by it's given name, social status and difference to others. But what of the inner core?
Have you ever tried to - stop all doing- even for 30 seconds?
Try it! Stop all movement, seeing/looking, talking, thinking, planning next steps -all activity... except for breathing.
Now shine the flashlight of your mind on where the identity of 'you' is .
Where are "you"? - locate it .
Stop the needs voices " What shall I make for dinner, I wonder if he/ she still loves me, What should I get at IGA...stop shhhh! (Make the thoughts stop just for a few seconds. )
Where is the 'i'? Where does it go when your body sleeps?
The outer identity vehicle is in bed...but where is the 'i'?
Perhaps the question might better be...'What' is 'i'.
I 'think' I know you. You 'think' you know me.
How presumptuous of us all! I am still trying to understand who or what I am and where my 'attitude' originates. Why do I knee jerk 'react' to some things while with others I am able to calmly 'respond' with applied inner discipline?
Such clever beings are we, gifted with the ability to 'discern' that which is agreeable and that which is not...gifted with the ability to choose what action we will apply in this life and those actions we will not.
What is the purpose of 'i'...
another question...
How will WE save our world?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
Saturday, March 07, 2009
All That Glitters is Not...
What is it about the past that has us so fascinated?
On Facebook we are fascinated and amused, for a short while at least- especially with the pictures. This place allows one to be a social voyeur, peering at pictures of those we knew or sometimes thought we might have considered 'getting to know' - but way back then.
Reality hits home and quickly. Those people are just not adding up to how we see them in our memory mind's eye. They have become older, mundane and far less fascinating. In short, (I) we have become, dare I say it, -'normal' in our middle to upper middle age. Many of us are down right boring compared to the Shakespearian Midsummer night's Dream- like hyper sexual selves we flaunted from the Age of Aquarius. (Steve Poirier is now saying -"Speak for yourself".) But those inner fantasy projections were worn by youthful beings striving and rebelling to emerge from a chrysalis childhood to a new world of awareness yet having to wear school uniform and keep hair short.
So therein lies the rub! The real nostalgia is about who we once were and not who we are now. It is perhaps about who we wanted to be and how we wanted to be seen.
I guess this is why a reunion is most effective perhaps every ten years or so and not every two or three. At age 16, fundamental change occurs every two weeks or so while at age 45 and onward change is somewhat less sought after. (I am a rock, I am an island -and an island never cries.)
The memories are golden or horrific depending upon the reality that we sprang from. And there is no going back. That is the value of memory. (All That Rises Must Converge.)
Greeting/'poking' people with ditty Facebook comments replaces taking a walk in the Chateauguay Shopping Centre ('mall' nowadays) or strolling down the hall back in Billings-mode, familiar faces passing by. But if they were never really your friends or even acquaintances, you're not about to invite them home right? One can nod and just keep on going. Actually not so with Facebook, depending on how you set it up, your family life and pictures and real friends are now open to others to gawk (or steal pictures without asking) whether you like it or not.
Hmmmm time to adjust my FB settings.
To remember in a moment of nostalgia is one thing. To meet up with those who never really had anything in common(in cyberspace), is something else indeed. ('Un Nouveau Monde', mais faux!) It distracts from the activities in life that we really value - that is, if one has a life with valued activities.
But then my real friends communicate by phone or direct e-mail or yes!- even hand written mail which still contains it's archaic charm.
What is it about the past that has us so fascinated?
On Facebook we are fascinated and amused, for a short while at least- especially with the pictures. This place allows one to be a social voyeur, peering at pictures of those we knew or sometimes thought we might have considered 'getting to know' - but way back then.
Reality hits home and quickly. Those people are just not adding up to how we see them in our memory mind's eye. They have become older, mundane and far less fascinating. In short, (I) we have become, dare I say it, -'normal' in our middle to upper middle age. Many of us are down right boring compared to the Shakespearian Midsummer night's Dream- like hyper sexual selves we flaunted from the Age of Aquarius. (Steve Poirier is now saying -"Speak for yourself".) But those inner fantasy projections were worn by youthful beings striving and rebelling to emerge from a chrysalis childhood to a new world of awareness yet having to wear school uniform and keep hair short.
So therein lies the rub! The real nostalgia is about who we once were and not who we are now. It is perhaps about who we wanted to be and how we wanted to be seen.
I guess this is why a reunion is most effective perhaps every ten years or so and not every two or three. At age 16, fundamental change occurs every two weeks or so while at age 45 and onward change is somewhat less sought after. (I am a rock, I am an island -and an island never cries.)
The memories are golden or horrific depending upon the reality that we sprang from. And there is no going back. That is the value of memory. (All That Rises Must Converge.)
Greeting/'poking' people with ditty Facebook comments replaces taking a walk in the Chateauguay Shopping Centre ('mall' nowadays) or strolling down the hall back in Billings-mode, familiar faces passing by. But if they were never really your friends or even acquaintances, you're not about to invite them home right? One can nod and just keep on going. Actually not so with Facebook, depending on how you set it up, your family life and pictures and real friends are now open to others to gawk (or steal pictures without asking) whether you like it or not.
Hmmmm time to adjust my FB settings.
To remember in a moment of nostalgia is one thing. To meet up with those who never really had anything in common(in cyberspace), is something else indeed. ('Un Nouveau Monde', mais faux!) It distracts from the activities in life that we really value - that is, if one has a life with valued activities.
But then my real friends communicate by phone or direct e-mail or yes!- even hand written mail which still contains it's archaic charm.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
A Whispered Dream
Sometimes
I close my eyes
and I'm back there.
The night closes in
and the magic plays
and I'm back there.
Sunshine On Your Love
Born to Run, Thunder road,
And I'm back there.
I'm on the bus
I'm in the pines or behind the trains
And I'm back there.
I smell your hair,
the autumn to winter air
And I'm back there.
The waxed floors in the halls
The lockers, the dance, the high gym walls.
And I'm back there.
The twinkle smile in your eyes-
the moment frozen and with you, gone.
And I'm back there.
L.McConnell
March 4 2009 link to 1969-70-71 & 72
Sometimes
I close my eyes
and I'm back there.
The night closes in
and the magic plays
and I'm back there.
Sunshine On Your Love
Born to Run, Thunder road,
And I'm back there.
I'm on the bus
I'm in the pines or behind the trains
And I'm back there.
I smell your hair,
the autumn to winter air
And I'm back there.
The waxed floors in the halls
The lockers, the dance, the high gym walls.
And I'm back there.
The twinkle smile in your eyes-
the moment frozen and with you, gone.
And I'm back there.
L.McConnell
March 4 2009 link to 1969-70-71 & 72
Sunday, January 18, 2009
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...
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...
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.
----------
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.
-----------
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.
-------------------
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.
-----------
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.
-------------------
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.
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