Beating Old Man Winter

When you have youth on your side and a good automobile, you think that you are invincible and can challenge anything coming your way and come out the winner.  My brother thought so and in the process discovered how formidable an opponent Old Man Winter can be.

Kenneth was a travelling salesman working for Scott National Foods.  His home was in Regina, Saskatchewan but he travelled the length and breadth of that province stocking the shelves of grocers large  and small and the larders  of  restaurants  that  relied on the  products  his  company provided.



A dependable automobile was important in his line of work.  Having worked earlier at a General Motors dealership, he favoured General Motors products, usually a Cadillac.  I cannot say for certain if that was the model of car he had at the time of this story.  Whatever it was, his transportation let him down.

My brother's character also worked against him.  When we were growing up in Edmonton, our mother drummed into us the importance of dressing properly specially during the cold winter months on the Canadian prairies.  This sage advice fell on deaf ears where Kenneth was concerned and he absolutely refused to wear gloves and some type of head gear.  That type of clothing was for old people not the young and able.

What happened was that Old Man Winter caught him unprepared.  He was on a road trip in rural Saskatchewan when a sudden blizzard caught him.  It was bitterly cold and with the accompanying wind chill, a person could not remain exposed to the elements for long and survive.  His car stalled in the snow and he realised that he would have to hoof it for help.  Having only a light topcoat and no gloves or hat, he rifled through his suitcase in desperation..  He pulled out some wool socks to wear on his hands and a terrycloth bathrobe to wrap around his head.  He made it to a nearby farmhouse only to find that nobody was home.  Now what should he do?  He could not return to his car and since the door to the house was unlocked, he considered it an open invitation for him to go inside.  In the kitchen he found a fire burning in the cook stove and surmised that the homeowners would soon return unless they were also caught by the storm.  He put on a kettle to boil water for tea and sat down to wait for them.  Did they get a surprise to find a stranger with a bathrobe wrapped around his head drinking tea in their kitchen.  Kenneth had beaten Old Man Winter and that was all that mattered.

Beauty Everlasting

Flossy was the vainest butterfly that ever lived in my garden.  She never got tired of seeing her reflection in the water of the fish pool as she fluttered across it in search of a sip of sweet nectar from the flowers growing by the pond. Sometimes she even darted close to the house to catch a glimpse of herself in a pane of glass as she passed by.



Her vanity was not unfounded but that did not make it excusable.  She was a marvellous creation - a tiny flying jewel..  When she spread her delicate wings in the sunlight, her multiple colours became wonderfully iridescent.  There was sea blue, teal green, golden yellow, and a tinge of ruby red.  The edges of her wings were trimmed in blue black further enhancing the other colours.

"Don't you think that I am the most beautiful butterfly in the garden," Flossy asked a rather drab moth just passing her by.



"You certainly are, Miss," the moth replied, "but your bright colours make you an easy target for hungry birds so you had better keep alert.  That robin family nesting in the plum tree has three hungry babies."

"Pooh on them," Flossy replied, "I'm not afraid of any old robin.  Besides, they know that I would taste terrible."

Flossy fluttered off but the moth's remark started her thinking.  Even if she didn't get eaten by another creature, she would die one day soon and her beauty would be lost.  She did not want that to happen.

She fluttered over to a bed of blooming day lilies.  Hovering over one of the flowers was her friend Cecil, a dragon fly.  He was almost as beautiful as she was and his gossamer wings made a curious buzzing sound as he hovered.

"Cecil, you have got to help me. A horrible ugly moth reminded me that our lives are short but I want my beauty to last forever.  Is there anything I can do to make it last?"

"Ah, yes," Cecil replied knowingly, "creatures like us don't want our beauty lost to the world.  We are always looking for ways to preserve it.  It just so happens that I might be able to help you.  Go to the little cabin not far from here where an elderly wizard, Louis, lives.  Some people are afraid of him but he is perfectly harmless."

"You mean he works magic?"  Flossy trembled with excitement.  "Goody!  I will have him put a spell on me and I will live forever."

"We---ll," Cecil replied hesitantly, "he works magic but not that kind of magic.  He gets inspiration for his art work from creatures like you and me."

"Thank you, Cecil, you are a real friend."

With that Flossy fluttered off to see the wizard.  She was never seen again but the next time you look at a Tiffany Lamp look closely.  You might see Flossy immortalised in glass.

                                                                            


This story was an assignment from my Writers Circle.  We were to write about  frog, butterfly or rabbit so this post is a little different from my usual real life stories.

The Lavender Lady

I am not sure why I recalled this story but when I was growing up in Edmonton, it was a Christmas  tradition for the Lavender Lady to make her annual appearance in a corner of the cosmetics department of The Hudson Bay Store.  I call her the Lavender Lady because even after many years of seeing her there, I never learnt her name.  She was in the store for one reason alone and that was to sell lavender. ( Back then lavender was popular but nowadays lavender sachets are a bit old fashioned.) Sitting on a high stool and holding sway over a large open basket of dried lavender, she was a presence not easily missed as you walked through the store.

As I remember her, she looked a lot like Helena Rubenstein of cosmetic fame.  She wore a white smock over a multicoloured dress of black, white  and purple.  Her dark black hair was worn pulled back and not a hair out of place.  Her makeup accented her eyes and endowed her with rosy cheeks and crimson lips.  Two huge, faux diamonds glistened in rings on the ring finger of both hands and the crimson colour of her nails matched her lips.  If she was wearing perfume, it was masked by the scent of lavender surrounding her.

She never sold the lavender loose.  The lavender she had in the basket was so you could touch it, pick it up, and hold it close to your nose for a gentle sniff thus making it more likely that you would make a purchase.  She would dip her hands into the lavender and let it run through her jewelled fingers creating an additional burst of scent.

She sold the lavender in small sachets or the more popular little wicker baskets that could be placed in drawers or cupboards to scent their contents.  The baskets could also be displayed on a dresser or hung in a closet.  There were lavender soaps and talcum powders available but those were hardly within the budget of a twelve year old looking to buy a Christmas gift for a mother, sister, or school teacher. A couple of baskets of lavender would do nicely and because the scent was long lasting, it was a gift that would keep on giving for months after Christmas.

I do not actually recall ever purchasing any of the lavender myself but I had a friend who did.  Once he bought four of the little baskets to give to his mother and sister.  After bringing the baskets home and wrapping them up, he had a hard time finding a suitable place to hide them because the scent was so strong and his mother had a good sense of smell.  He solved his problem by hiding them in an old suitcase and slipping it under his bed.

'It's in God's Hands Now'

There are experiences that we go through in life wherein joy is suddenly turned to sorrow.  Our desire to know the reason why these things happen is not always satisfied but they go on to become part of those experiences we want to share with others hence my story.

Such was the occasion of the birth of my only son.  My wife and I eagerly waited for the passage of those long nine months at which time our child  would be born and many questions would be answered.  "Is it a boy or girl?  Who will the baby look like - Mom or Dad?  Which side of the family will the newborn take after? Did we pick the right name?"

Our son was born in a hospital in Discovery, South Africa, a suburb of sprawling Johannesburg.  When he was born, he was grunting and it was decided to place him in an incubator overnight to facilitate his breathing. Unbeknowst to the hospital staff, that incubator had been used by another baby ill with gastroenteritis and had not been properly disinfected.  As a result, our little boy became seriously ill to the point of death.  All the healthy babies in the hospital were sent home and the entire maternity ward of the hospital had to be shut down for cleaning.  Our joy had turned quickly into sorrow.

He only weighed in at five and a half pounds at birth and his weight quickly dropped to below five pounds and heading for four.  Each passing day saw more weight loss and the doctor warned us that if he did not gain weight soon, nothing being done for him could save him.

One of our friends waiting with us in the hospital was a nurse whose name was Ruth.  She suggested that we pray specifically that our son would gain an ounce of weight overnight.  We all had faith in God but we had never had our faith challenged like that before.  Could such a prayer be answered?  The doctor, while sympathetic, cautioned us that, under the circumstances, a weight gain could not possibly happen.  "It's in God's hands now," was the attitude taken as there was nothing more that the doctor could do.  Ruth prayed - we prayed - others prayed and we all waited anxiously for the doctor's report the next morning.  The news was good - our son had gained an ounce overnight!  It marked the turning point in his recovery.

It was a long recovery!  Although he was gaining weight, feeding him proved difficult sometimes taking  two hours to get an ounce of milk into him.  He cried all night and the only way we could get any sleep was to bring him into bed with us.  Then a doctor discovered that it was an umbilical hernia that was causing the problem.  He advised an operation to correct it and from the night of the operation, our baby slept through.  Soon he was a healthy and happy little boy for whom we are thankful not only to God but also to the doctors that ministered to him.

   

one year old

The Day a Mountain Exploded

On the Island of St. Vincent, W.I., at about 5:00 A.M. on Good Friday, April 13, 1979, I was awakened by a disturbance in the chicken coop at the bottom of the garden.  I thought a mongoose was after my chickens and so I got dressed and hurried down to investigate.  The chickens were frightened by something but it was not a mongoose.  I looked up at the sky and saw a huge, black, mushroom shaped cloud churning menacingly upward over the entire Island.  At that moment, my wife shouted down to me from the bedroom window that the radio was annoucing that the Island's volcano, 4000 ft. Mt. Soufriere, was erupting.  The chickens had been frightened by the tremor caused when the top of the mountain exploded in a deadly plume of hot gases, ash, and molten rock.

The eruption caused a panic across the island.  People were quickly evacuated from the sparsely populated north to the south.  Doom-sayers  made much of the fact that it was Friday the 13th and they were certain that doom was going to strike and there was nothing one could do to avert it.  The rumor mill soon made it known that the island was going to break into pieces and sink into the sea taking with it all the inhabitants.

Where does one go to escape an erupting volcano when you are living on an island that is only 130 sq. miles in size.  Where indeed!  The airport was the first choice but it was soon impossible to get a seat on any plane leaving the island.  The Grenadines, a chain of 32 small islands belonging to St. Vincent offered a way of escape if you knew people living on them.  The larger ones, Bequia, Mustique, Canaouan and Union soon had every bed and breakfast or larger tourist accomodations fully occupied.  For those not having a place to flee to, it was a tense waiting game.

A second eruption happened that same day, two more on April 14th, and then increasingly smaller eruptions on the 17th, 22nd, and 25th of the month.  Mercifully, no lives were lost but the north end of the island was devastated.  What saved the day for the south was the trade winds blowing most of the ash out to sea and the molten lava flow running down the west flank of the mountain into the ocean instead of inland.

The last major eruption on April 25th affected the south end of the island was well as the north.  There were no trade winds blowing that night.  It was midnight and we heard the 'boom' of the eruption and felt the house tremble as the mountain roared to life for one last blast.  We could hear the sound of cinders ( reminded me of hailstones) falling on the tin roof and we began to be apprehensive that what the people had been fearing most was about to happen.

At daybreak, we opened our windows and dared to look out.  There was not a blade of green grass to be seen. The roofs of the houses, the roads, and the gardens were covered in a thick layer of gray ash.  In the air was the smell of burning sulphur.  When we turned on the tap to get water for making a much needed cup of tea, the water coming out was black.

About a month later, we drove up north to view the damage.  We knew people living in Chateaubelair just  a few miles south of Soufriere.  The further north we drove, we began to see what the hot gases from the volcano had done to the vegetation.  Tall, stately coconut palms were bent over double from the heat.  The leaves of the banana trees had turned black as if they had been hit by a killer frost.  Nutmeg and clove trees lost their leaves but eventually recovered to produce once more their valuable spices.  It was a economic disaster for St. Vincent since they depended heavily on the export of their bananas.  However, there was a silver lining in the dark cloud hanging over the island: volcanic ash is a marvellous fertilizer and a year later that ash revitalized the crops on the entire island. 

Mild volcanic activity continued for about five months before Soufriere (sulphur in French) went dormant again.  I still have a vial of ash and a rock the size of a clenched fist as souvenirs from that day which Vincentians now call  Black Friday!

View of Mt. Soufriere

Credit: picture and map from Wikipedia

Becoming a Grandpa

As a parent, there were two things that I resolved not to do to my adult children.  The first was never to follow them around with a marriage license urging them to get married and the second was not to bug them afterwards about having children so that I could have a grandchild.  Having witnessed the result of parents doing so, the resentment it causes is never worth it.  I figure, that when they are ready to make those important decisions they might ask for advice but still make those decisions without any pressure from me.  Well, one of my children married but the other has not yet and in due course, I became a grandpa.

Without giving much thought as to when I would become a grandpa, I did wonder what kind of a grandfather I would be largely based upon my childhood experience.  My Dad's father I never knew existed until the day he showed up at our door to attend my Father's fifthieth birthday party.  Grandpa turned out to be a tiny, frail, old man already suffering from the debilitating effects of dementia.  His family never mentioned him the reason being that he had deserted them years earlier leaving them in difficult circumstances.  All that I remember him saying that night was,  "It is so good to be here!"  My other Grandpa, my Mother's father, I knew to be a bitter person largely due to some terrible tragedies he had experienced in life.  That may explain but not excuse the mean streak in him that caused him to play tricks on his grandchildren and then laugh at their childish gullibility.  Once, he sent me to the corner store to buy him some 'krumbumboli', a drink that never was, and then scolded me when I returned home empty handed.  These were decidely not the best role models.

Being Grandpa, or Opa as I prefer being called, has been a wonderful experience and I am determined to treat my grandchildren with love and respect no matter how young or old they might be. I can only hope that they will treat me the same way but it will be up to them to decide what kind of Opa I was to them.  If I can brighten their day, instruct them when it is mine to instruct, give them little surprises now and then, and help them in some way into becoming responsible adults, then I will have succeeded.

I still remember clearly the day my first grandchild, Gabriel, was born.  That middle of January day was dark, cold, and rainy.  We spent the whole night in the hospital but it was not until late afternoon the next day that Gabriel put in his appearance.  I can still see his Papa dressed in a green hospital gown holding his son for the first time.  Gabriel was wrapped in yellow and white receiving blankets and wearing a cap that made him look like a tiny smurf.  His eyes were dazzled by the bright lights in the recovery room and I am sure he was wondering what happened to him after being in the darkness of the womb for nine months.

What has blessed me in addition to being a grandpa is my son's love for his boys. He always told me when he was growing up that he didn't like children but I put that down to the inexperience of youth.  Gabriel, and later his brother Jacob, changed all that!

                                                                                       

Darryl and Gabriel (one hour old).

  Gabriel (one day old),

      Proud Opa and Gabriel

 Jacob and Gabriel now

    

 Gabriel and Jacob

(Puddles are meant for stompin'.)

                                         

                             

                                  

 Opa doing what Opa does best -  reading stories

The Strong, Silent Type

My Dad, Albert Kirsch, was raised on a farm in Springside, Saskatchewan just a few miles from Yorkton.  The German language was spoken in the home but Dad and his brothers and sisters were fully bilingual as they attended The White Sands Public School where English was the language of instruction.

Dad was a tall person of average build and always wore his hair combed straight back.  He depended upon my Mother to select his clothing which was ultra conservative meaning no jeans or bright patterns or colours.  He was not one to often voice his opinion but perhaps this was because his spouse willingly adopted that role.

The one thing that got his ire up enough for him to express himself was wasteful government spending. In his day, costly Royal Commissions were used to uncover wrongdoings of the government.  About these he would say, "It's only going to cost $100,000 to get to the bottom of it."  His emphasis was always on the word 'only'.  Today the same type of Royal Commission costs millions of dollars. 

The only time I ever heard him express a point of view that gave any insight into his personality was on the occasion of a wedding both parents attended.  The groom, a burly policeman, fainted during the ceremony and had to be taken into a back room in the church to be revived and then brought back into the sanctuary.  Concerning the groom's plight, my Dad observed, "When I saw the bride, and if I was the groom, I would have fainted too."

The follies of youth did not pass my Father by.  When he was sixteen, he was helping with the harvest on a neighbour's farm.  Becoming hot and thirsty, he went looking for some water to drink.  Finding a pail half full of a cold, clear liquid, thinking it was water, he drank some and discovered that it was moonshine.  He did not remember how much he drank but they found him lying next to a fence, passed out, with the pail beside him.

Most of his working days were spent at International Harvester Company, the maker of farm equipment and trucks. Some of the trucks had a design fault in that the ignition switch could suddenly cut out.  Dad invented a mercury switch that he thought would solve the problem.  He went to a patent office in Ottawa hoping to cash in on his invention and he was told that it was useless.  He made the mistake of leaving his invention there and somebody took it and after making a minor change, it did become the solution to the problem.  Dad was bitter over the way he was treated and  he never talked about it to anyone except to my eldest brother who told me the story years later.

I don't believe that my Father ever watched a complete television program.  He was a chanel surfer much to the annoyance of everyone else trying to watch a program.  In the same way, skimming over the pages was how he read books but his favourite author was Robert Frost.  Dad loved to quote from Frost's poem,  The Cremation of Sam Magee.  That poem created in Dad a fascination for the North that he carried with him all his days.

I would say that my Dad was the strong silent type.  He was a good husband, a good father and a good friend.  He never wore his faith on his sleeve but lived it out day by day in the way he treated others.

Dan                 Edwin              Albert

The Kirsch Brothers

A page from the Whitesands School Yearbook

Dad and his brothers names are on the list.

Mom and Dad Kirsch

(Florence and Albert)

Note:  This story was the result of an assignment in my Writers Circle in which we were to describe a parent.

                                                                                

A Heart of Stone

As a junior in Mount Royal College in Calgary, Alberta, I was required to participate in Gym class.  There was a variety of activities but one that I disliked immensely because I was a tall person was tumbling (gymnastics).  We had to take a run, bounce on a spring board and flip over a wooden horse.  I did it but when I landed on my feet after the flip, I landed with all my weight on my right leg.  There was a sickening crunch and down I went.  I had torn all the ligaments in my right knee.  That resulted in two weeks in the hospital, a near death experience due to an allergy to medications given to me, and then nine weeks with my entire leg from toe to thigh encased in a heavy plaster cast.  It ruined my year in college.

After the cast was eventually removed, the doctor decided that physiotherapy would be just the ticket to getting my knee moving again.  The arrangements were made and  I dutifully showed up at the therapist's office.  I did not know what I was in for but I should have been for warned when the therapist called out sternly as I walked down the hall, "You don't need to walk like that."  The therapist had not even seen me but must have had excellent hearing.

The therapist turned out to be an extremely beautiful young lady, the kind that makes your heart skip a beat, with a bright smile and a pleasant welcoming manner.  However, I soon discovered that it was all a facade and this vision of loveliness had a heart of stone.

She got me up on a table and slide a long plank liberally sprinkled with baby powder under my right leg. Then she took my foot and slowly pushed it towards my body so that my knee was forced to bend.  The pain was excruciating but I could actually feel the ligaments, still shrunken from the operation, begin to stretch like elastic bands.  This would restore the movement in my knee but for one awful moment, I was afraid that the ligaments would tear off again.  I don't recall how many times she repeated the movement but I still remember the pain and the fact she was not moved by it.

I was not the only patient in the room to experience her hard heart.  There was an elderly lady, probably in her eighties, who had been in a car accident and was in for therapy.  She was seated on a chair and had to lift weights attached to pulleys, with her legs.  The poor dear was in tears but our angel in white showed no mercy.

I did not know the nature of the woman's injuries but the therapist kept saying, "You will never regain your strength  to walk if you don't do these exercises."  The patients response was more tears.

I went back for several more sessions and with each one, my walking improved.  Now I realise, that on my own, I would have never accomplished that.  The therapist had to have a heart of stone in order to help her patients.

An Onion Sandwich

My father-in-law, John, was an  avid fisherman.  Nothing could make him happier than spending a day out on a lake in his boat except maybe being with his grandchildren. 

He had a camper that fitted into the box of his pick-up truck and the boat was carried on the back of the camper.  There was a small refrigerator and a propane gas stove on which you could cook an admirable meal.  Sleeping accommodations included a bed above the roof of the truck cab and other beds made up using the cushions from the seating.

My in-laws lived in Castlegar, B.C. in the southern interior, in an area notable for its many fishing lakes.  His favourite fish to go after were rainbow trout and kokanee, a small landlocked salmon.  Both are nice eaten fresh, smoked on a smoker,  or canned in jars.

My wife and I and our two children often visited Castlegar and it was on one such visit that Pops (his nickname) and I decided on an overnight fishing and camping trip.

"It will be good to get away from the ladies," he joked, "just us men.  I know a nice spot, a bit isolated but we won't come back empty handed."

I also enjoy fishing so he did not have to do much convincing.  The ladies (our wives) were agreeable and there was no hesitation in packing up the camper and heading for the lake.  Unfortunately, I do not remember the name of the lake but it was isolated.  There was a proper campsite but no general store and not even near a gas station where you might be able to buy basic supplies in an emergency.

We arrived in the late afternoon and after setting up camp, there was still time for a first run on the lake but we were disappointed in that we came away empty handed.

"There is always tomorrow," Pops said optimistically, "we'll make some supper and have some nice hot coffee and then go to bed so that we can get up at the crack of dawn."

"That hot coffee appeals to me!"  Then I asked, "What's for supper?"

"You can have your pick," Pops replied, "there's bacon and  eggs, tins of beans, Kraft dinner, and there's ham for sandwiches.  For myself, I am going to make my favourite  . . . a raw onion sandwich with mayonnaise and salt and pepper. "

"I think that I will stick with a ham sandwich.  Go ahead, make yours and then I'll make mine."

Pops got busy on his sandwich and soon the smell of raw onion filled the enclosed space of the camper.  When he went to put the coffee on to perk, he began fussing with the stove.  He looked back at me in exasperation.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't believe it," he moaned, "I forgot to have the cylinder filled with propane and there is no store around here for miles.  We can't cook any food or have a hot drink."

"What do you think we should do?"

"The only thing we can do . . . pack up and go home."

In an amazingly short time everything was packed up and we were headed home.  The onion sandwich was left behind and I think that if a raccoon came sniffing around the campsite that night it might have found an interesting meal!

Pops  (John Hauser)

No Tempest in a Teapot

My story begins with my family setting up our tent in a camp ground on Mabel Lake which is situated in the heart of Okanagan country in the interior of British Columbia.  Nestling between mountains, the lake is thirty five kilometers in length but rather narrow and subject to rapid changes in its weather pattern.  Strong gusts of wind sweeping through the mountain passes result in sudden squalls on the lake that make boating unsafe.  Boaters are clearly warned of the danger by warning signs posted around the camp.

Upon our arrival, we had taken a look at the dock and the campsite and I had talked to a man who was showing off his fresh catch of rainbow trout.  Seeing those beauties motivated me into setting up the tent quickly in anticipation of going after some myself.

About an hour later, as I launched our small row boat by the dock, I surveyed the lake.  The water was beautifully calm and the sky clear and bright with nary a cloud in sight.  My son was as eager as me to try his luck while his mother and sister wanted to explore the campsite.  The two of us put on life jackets, grabbed our fishing gear and headed out onto the lake.

We began trolling several hundred yards off shore moving slowly up and down the lake for about a kilometer.  I did not want to venture too far from camp as it was late afternoon and I was not eager to get caught in the dark.

We were on the lake for about twenty minutes when I noticed that a strong breeze was rising causing the water to become choppy.  Amazingly quick, sizable waves formed and were bouncing the boat around like a cork and I realised that we were in trouble.  We hauled in our gear and I had my son sit down on the floor of the boat.  Rowing became difficult as the waves pounded on us and my real fear was that they would capsize the boat.

I noticed my wife and daughter running along the edge of the lake shouting at us to come in.  Rowing was now useless so I surrendered the boat to the waves and hoped for the best.  We were carried down the lake to where there was a sandbar jutting out into the water and the waves pushed the boat onto it.  I got out of the boat and pulled it further onto the sand bar and the  two of us waded to shore where my wife and daughter were waiting.

We breathed a sigh of relief at our escape and offered a prayer of thanks.  That storm was no mere tempest in a teapot but a sobering reminder of the forces of nature.  What amazed me was that the sky was still clear and in a few minutes the squall was over and the lake as calm and beautiful as when we arrived. 

In no mood to go back on the water, we left the boat where it was and walked back to the camp.  There was no  fish that night but there was a hot supper and the family sitting safely around a cosy campfire.  The next day I went and rowed the boat back to the dock.

The Prime Minister's Shoes

My brother, Kenneth, was an active member of the Kinsman's Club.  Since the chapter he belonged to was involved in community projects, he attended many special events and consequently met the prominent individuals invited to them as the guests of honour.

On this particular occasion, it was a tree planting ceremony in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.  The guest of honour was the Prime Minister of Canada, the Honourable John Diefenbaker and he would be planting a tree commemorating the opening of a new park in the city. 

Kenneth greatly admired the Prime Minister and named his son after him and so for him it was a real privilege to finally meet the man and participate with him in the tree planting.

Mr. Diefenbaker was a tall, dignified gentleman with curly gray hair and distinctive jowls.  "My fellow Canadians" was the phrase he always used to commence a speech, shaking his head with great vigour causing those famous jowls to jiggle.  He was fussy about his personal appearance and always dressed to the nines in a dark blue or black suit along with black dress shoes so well polished they were like mirrors.  I saw him once at a book signing for one of his books in The Hudson's Bay store in Calgary and he appeared there as I have described.

Although Kenneth was at ease meeting people, he readily admitted that he was a little nervous about the meeting the Prime Minister.  It was a public event and the news media were on hand to record the proceedings.  As the moment came for planting the tree, Kenneth was to hand Mr. Diefenbaker the shovel which was standing sticking partly in ground that had already been loosened for the tree planting.  As Kenneth pulled the shovel out of the soil to hand it to Mr. Diefenbaker, loose dirt came with it and landed on the P. M.'s  well polished shoes.  "Dief" as he was called was not pleased but said nothing and shook off the offending soil. The tree was dutifully planted and he moved on to another appointment.

Kenneth was embarrassed but put the incident out of mind not realizing that it would come back to haunt him.  About a year or so later,  he had occasion to meet the Prime Minister again at a Kinsman's function.  As the two shook hands, Kenneth asked him, "Do you remember me?"

Mr. Diefenbaker, who was known for his remarkable memory replied, "I never forget a face.  You are Mr. Kirsch and you are the guy who dumped dirt on my shoes."

Recalling a Visit to London

My wife and I were relatively newlyweds when we left Canada for Uganda, East Africa in 1972.  The journey necessitated a weeks lay-over in London giving us an opportunity to see the sights of that historical city.  After purchasing a five day travel pass on the London Underground, we had a cheap and easy way to get around.

The first thing I noticed about London was the age and durability of the buildings.  In Canada, the average building rarely lasts past a century before it is torn down and replaced. This is largely due to the buildings wooden construction.  In London, the buildings built of stone or brick, are hundreds of years old.  St. Paul's Cathedral dates back to 1708.  After a disastrous fire, the Houses of Parliament were rebuilt in 1840 but actually date back to Medieval Times.  The construction of Westminster Abbey began in 1540.  It was while touring through the Abbey that the durability of these old buildings left a lasting impression on me.  I noticed that the doorway in The Poet's Corner has a deep groove worn in the floor from people passing through it over the centuries.

Another remarkable place steeped in history is The Tower of London.  There, we toured the apartments where royal prisoners were kept and saw the place where so many famous people were executed.  Even the block and axe are on display.  But the most impressive sight in The Tower is the display of the crown jewels and words cannot adequately describe their dazzling beauty.  They are kept in a vault beneath the Tower and displayed in well lit glass cases.  You walk along a ramp in front of the display and you are not permitted to stop walking or reach out and touch the glass which would trigger an alarm that would automatically seal all the doors in the vault.

No visit to London is complete without seeing Buckingham Palace and we got there just in time to see the changing of the guard. After much walking down The Mall from the palace, I urgently needed to find a restroom.  I saw a small building that looked to me like it could house a public restroom.  I passed through a tall gate and as I did so, a London Bobby came running up to me.  "You can't go in there," he said, "this is the entrance to the Queen Mother's residence."  What I thought was a restroom turned out to be the Guard House at the gate.  I was ushered out so quickly that I didn't get a chance to ask the Bobby if he knew where I could find a loo.

After visiting so many building and coming across many of the memorial plaques scattered around London that commerate historical events, Hyde Park was refreshingly different .  It is one of the largest green spaces in London.  We saw the famous Speaker's Corner where anyone can mount a soapbox and are sure of getting an audience.  If speaking is not your thing, you can stroll through the park admiring the gardens or rent a pedal boat and go boating on The Serpentine, the large lake (river) that cuts the park in two. Since it was another hot day, we rented a pedal boat and a vendor selling cold drinks suggested we try a Lemon Shandy to quench our thirst.  We took the drinks and went out onto the lake where it was pleasantly cool.  It wasn't long before my wife asked me if I was feeling okay.  I had to admit that I was feeling a bit woozy.  It turned out that Lemon Shandy can be  a potent beverage for those who don't drink.  We brought the boat back to the shore and found a bench under a shady tree where we could rest and let the effects of the drink dissipate.

The Blessing of a Green Thumb

Christmas is over and a New Year is begun.  On the west coast of Canada, where I live, thoughts will quickly turn to spring.  Indeed, as I am out walking nearly every day, I find myself looking closely at the gardens I pass by to see if any crocuses or early daffodils are peeking out.  The coming Spring reminds me that my Mother was blessed with a green thumb.  She had the knack of growing things.

Mother grew up on a farm near Bruderheim, Alberta, a town east of Edmonton founded by Moravian pioneers fleeing persecution in Bolshevik Russia but all were welcome.  The eldest of eight children, her lot fell to helping in the kitchen and working in the garden as well as caring for her younger brothers and sisters. That early experience helped her in her garden when she had her own family to look after.

When I was growing up in Edmonton, most houses had a vegetable garden in the backyard.  Our house, on 102nd Street had not only a backyard vegetable garden but also the entire front yard planted in potatoes.  Mother always claimed that the soil was not good enough to grow anything else but our neighbours were able to have nice green lawns so I suspect that the real reason was that she had four hungry boys to feed.

When we moved to the West End, my older brothers were gone and the first year we lived in that house we still had a vegetable garden in the back but there was a large flower bed and a nice green lawn that only Mother could mow in the front of the house . The next year, she eliminated the vegetable garden, except for one small bed for growing tomatoes,  and began planting her much loved flower garden in earnest.

She liked to tell the story of how one of her prize tomatoes mysteriously disappeared.  It happened during the time that the stucco on the house was being replaced with aluminium siding.  One of the workers greatly admired the tomatoes he saw growing in the garden so he became the likely suspect.  On the last day of the job, the workers packed up their equipment and left. Later that evening, Mother discovered that the largest of her prize beef-steak tomatoes was missing.  It had fallen victim to finger blight but there was no way to prove who was the guilty party.

Mother joined The Edmonton Horticultural Society and for many years she won first prize for her begonia display and other prizes for her roses and gladioli.  People from all over the city came to visit the garden and she made many friends.  It was a sad day for her when old age forced them to sell the house and move into a seniors apartment.  She claimed that working in the garden was the best cure for arthritis but the day came when the knees just wouldn't bend.  The people who bought the house were not interested in gardening and not long after they moved in, all the flower beds were replaced by lawn.  We never allowed Mother to drive by the house again.

Florence Kirsch & Honeysuckle vine

Prize Delphiniums

Begonia display

Petunia border

                                                                                 

Roses and Gladioli

                                                                                 

Giant Alium