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.
Saturday, 28 January 2012
Thursday, 19 January 2012
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."
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."
Friday, 13 January 2012
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 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.
Monday, 2 January 2012
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.
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
Friday, 23 December 2011
Memories of a Christmas Past
Christmas is supposed to be for children but during the Christmas season, we all become kids at heart. That is why the fond memories that we have of Christmas and the traditions that we carry over into our own families are rooted in our childhood and teen years.
I am born a Canadian but I was raised in a home in Edmonton where German was still spoken by my parents whenever my Grandparents were present and our family attended a German Baptist Church.
In the church, the Christmas season began with a Christmas Concert put on by the massed German and English choirs in which it was a tradition to sing excerpts from Handel's Messiah in German as well as other Christmas music. This was followed a week later by the annual White Christmas play presented by the young people to raise money to buy food hampers for the needy. The Christmas Eve Service was the highlight of the festivities with the children and teens in the Sunday School taking part in a program consisting of recitations, singing, and a Christmas play put on by the teens. The evening was concluded by a soloist singing 'O Holy Night' and a brief message by the Pastor. There was standing room only if you arrived late for any of these services.
The church sanctuary was decorated with a huge, twenty foot Christmas tree hauled in from the farm of one of the members of the church. The tree was set up in the orchestra pit and decorated with lights, tinsel, and glass ornaments that had been accumulated over many years. Candy bags filled with candies, nuts in their shells, an apple and two Japanese oranges were given to the children and teens. There was a time when even the adults received a bag until it got too expensive to maintain the tradition.
All December, my Mother kept busy baking Christmas cakes, cookies, and making the fabulous toffee that she made only at Christmas. She would get the house ready for the holidays by sending the family to a nearby Christmas tree lot to select a tree and bring it home. Occasionally the tree vendor had hot chocolate or hot apple cider available to ward off the cold while you were making your selection. At home, Dad would trim the trunk of the tree and fix it in its stand before bringing it into the house. The tree was allowed to stand for a few hours before decorating so that the branches could spread out and the tree fill the house with its fragrance.
I vaguely remember Mom using small Christmas candles to light the tree but only on Christmas Eve and later her buying strings of coloured electric lights that could be used for the whole Christmas season. There was a hitch though; if one light burned out, the entire set went out and you would have to search one by one for the dead bulb in order to replace it and light up the tree again. It eventually became my responsibility to put the lights on the tree but Mom still supervised the rest of the decorating.
Christmas Eve was spent making last minute preparations for the big day and by going to Church for the Christmas Eve Service. Our family never had a car until my two older brothers were adults and had cars of their own. There was something special about the family going to church on the bus that evening and then coming home and walking down the lane leading to our house. The snow crunched under your boots and seemed to sparkle more in the moonlight on that night than it did on any other day during winter.
Our family always opened our gifts on Christmas Eve. Even now, a pastor friend of mine, who has a German background, assures me that this is the proper way of doing things. Somehow the gifts already under the tree seemed to have multiplied while we were away. We gathered in the living room to open the gifts and then to enjoy the goodies that Mom had ready waiting on the dining room table. Then it was off to bed looking forward to the big Christmas dinner on Christmas Day when friends or relatives would join us. Mother always purchased the biggest turkey she could afford, usually a twenty pounder, because she wanted left-overs. To this day, I am fond of turkey-pot-pies!
I am born a Canadian but I was raised in a home in Edmonton where German was still spoken by my parents whenever my Grandparents were present and our family attended a German Baptist Church.
In the church, the Christmas season began with a Christmas Concert put on by the massed German and English choirs in which it was a tradition to sing excerpts from Handel's Messiah in German as well as other Christmas music. This was followed a week later by the annual White Christmas play presented by the young people to raise money to buy food hampers for the needy. The Christmas Eve Service was the highlight of the festivities with the children and teens in the Sunday School taking part in a program consisting of recitations, singing, and a Christmas play put on by the teens. The evening was concluded by a soloist singing 'O Holy Night' and a brief message by the Pastor. There was standing room only if you arrived late for any of these services.
The church sanctuary was decorated with a huge, twenty foot Christmas tree hauled in from the farm of one of the members of the church. The tree was set up in the orchestra pit and decorated with lights, tinsel, and glass ornaments that had been accumulated over many years. Candy bags filled with candies, nuts in their shells, an apple and two Japanese oranges were given to the children and teens. There was a time when even the adults received a bag until it got too expensive to maintain the tradition.
All December, my Mother kept busy baking Christmas cakes, cookies, and making the fabulous toffee that she made only at Christmas. She would get the house ready for the holidays by sending the family to a nearby Christmas tree lot to select a tree and bring it home. Occasionally the tree vendor had hot chocolate or hot apple cider available to ward off the cold while you were making your selection. At home, Dad would trim the trunk of the tree and fix it in its stand before bringing it into the house. The tree was allowed to stand for a few hours before decorating so that the branches could spread out and the tree fill the house with its fragrance.
I vaguely remember Mom using small Christmas candles to light the tree but only on Christmas Eve and later her buying strings of coloured electric lights that could be used for the whole Christmas season. There was a hitch though; if one light burned out, the entire set went out and you would have to search one by one for the dead bulb in order to replace it and light up the tree again. It eventually became my responsibility to put the lights on the tree but Mom still supervised the rest of the decorating.
Christmas Eve was spent making last minute preparations for the big day and by going to Church for the Christmas Eve Service. Our family never had a car until my two older brothers were adults and had cars of their own. There was something special about the family going to church on the bus that evening and then coming home and walking down the lane leading to our house. The snow crunched under your boots and seemed to sparkle more in the moonlight on that night than it did on any other day during winter.
Our family always opened our gifts on Christmas Eve. Even now, a pastor friend of mine, who has a German background, assures me that this is the proper way of doing things. Somehow the gifts already under the tree seemed to have multiplied while we were away. We gathered in the living room to open the gifts and then to enjoy the goodies that Mom had ready waiting on the dining room table. Then it was off to bed looking forward to the big Christmas dinner on Christmas Day when friends or relatives would join us. Mother always purchased the biggest turkey she could afford, usually a twenty pounder, because she wanted left-overs. To this day, I am fond of turkey-pot-pies!
Putting lights on the tree
Saturday, 17 December 2011
The Woman Rising From a Pot of Boiling Oil
I don't consider myself to be the gullible type but as a youngster I was attracted to things that stretched my imagination. When I saw an advertisement in The Edmonton Journal concerning a display at the annual Edmonton Exhibition that featured a real live woman rising up out of a pot of boiling oil, I was over the moon.
"We've got to see this," I said to my brother, Harvey, as I waved the newspaper under his nose, "do you think this is for real or are they putting us on?"
"It must be a gimmick," Harvey replied, "they would never allow you to do that to a real person. Where is this to take place?"
My eyes wandered down the newspaper page and I answered, "In the display hall underneath the Grandstand at the race track at Exhibition Park. It will be presented on the hour until ten o'clock each evening. The sponsor is Imperial Oil."
A few days later, we took a bus to The Edmonton Exhibition and upon arrival we headed directly to the location announced in the newspaper. The hands of a large clock sitting on the edge of a curtained stage announced the time of the next show. We were early but a small crowd was already standing around the stage waiting with anticipation for the event and so we joined them. An attendant made sure that no prying hands would try to pull back a corner of the curtain for a sneak peek.
At the appointed time, the curtain parted revealing a huge transparent cauldron filled with bubbling ESSO motor oil (at least it looked like motor oil). The cauldron was large enough to contain a person but, much to my disappointment, it was empty. Momentarily a figure began to emerge from the pot of bubbling oil causing a hush to fall over the crowd. The attractive young lady, obviously chosen for her looks, did not appear harmed by passing through the oil and the white dress that she was wearing was not soiled in the least. She stood absolutely motionless as she rose to her full height from the cauldron.
"It's just as I thought," my brother whispered, "she's not real. I'll bet that she is a store mannequin."
"But the newspaper said a real live woman," I reminded him, "let's wait and see what happens."
At that moment the woman sprang to life. She smiled at the audience and stepped down from the cauldron onto the stage and began to extol the merits of using Imperial Oil products. When she was finished, she stepped back into the cauldron, assumed the mannequin-like pose and slowly sank back down into the boiling oil.
Fortunately, the curtain was not closed immediately after the performance thus giving us a chance to see how it was done.
"Look," Harvey said, "It's an elevator platform surrounded by clear plastic tubing made to look like a cauldron and filled with something that looks like oil."
"Then the only danger that woman faced was in losing her balance on the platform as it moved up and down," I rightly observed.
"She is probably a professional model and knows what she is doing," Harvey replied.
"Even so, you've got to admit that it was well done! It looked like she was rising out of the bubbling oil."
"Grudgingly!" Harvey replied.
It was done well enough that I went back several times to see it again.
"We've got to see this," I said to my brother, Harvey, as I waved the newspaper under his nose, "do you think this is for real or are they putting us on?"
"It must be a gimmick," Harvey replied, "they would never allow you to do that to a real person. Where is this to take place?"
My eyes wandered down the newspaper page and I answered, "In the display hall underneath the Grandstand at the race track at Exhibition Park. It will be presented on the hour until ten o'clock each evening. The sponsor is Imperial Oil."
A few days later, we took a bus to The Edmonton Exhibition and upon arrival we headed directly to the location announced in the newspaper. The hands of a large clock sitting on the edge of a curtained stage announced the time of the next show. We were early but a small crowd was already standing around the stage waiting with anticipation for the event and so we joined them. An attendant made sure that no prying hands would try to pull back a corner of the curtain for a sneak peek.
At the appointed time, the curtain parted revealing a huge transparent cauldron filled with bubbling ESSO motor oil (at least it looked like motor oil). The cauldron was large enough to contain a person but, much to my disappointment, it was empty. Momentarily a figure began to emerge from the pot of bubbling oil causing a hush to fall over the crowd. The attractive young lady, obviously chosen for her looks, did not appear harmed by passing through the oil and the white dress that she was wearing was not soiled in the least. She stood absolutely motionless as she rose to her full height from the cauldron.
"It's just as I thought," my brother whispered, "she's not real. I'll bet that she is a store mannequin."
"But the newspaper said a real live woman," I reminded him, "let's wait and see what happens."
At that moment the woman sprang to life. She smiled at the audience and stepped down from the cauldron onto the stage and began to extol the merits of using Imperial Oil products. When she was finished, she stepped back into the cauldron, assumed the mannequin-like pose and slowly sank back down into the boiling oil.
Fortunately, the curtain was not closed immediately after the performance thus giving us a chance to see how it was done.
"Look," Harvey said, "It's an elevator platform surrounded by clear plastic tubing made to look like a cauldron and filled with something that looks like oil."
"Then the only danger that woman faced was in losing her balance on the platform as it moved up and down," I rightly observed.
"She is probably a professional model and knows what she is doing," Harvey replied.
"Even so, you've got to admit that it was well done! It looked like she was rising out of the bubbling oil."
"Grudgingly!" Harvey replied.
It was done well enough that I went back several times to see it again.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
The Toboggan Run
One of my favourite places to visit as a child was my Uncle and Aunt's farm at Lamont, Alberta. It wasn't a large farm and they did not earn their living by it but they kept a few head of cattle, some pigs, a flock of chickens, and they grew hay. In the spring, they planted a huge vegetable garden that produced a bumper crop of vegetables especially a sweet, yellow corn of a variety no longer available and buckets of cucumbers for making dill pickles.
The farm was sadly lacking most of the amenities that modern farms now have but there was electricity and running water . . . you ran to the well to get it. Somehow that fascinated a 'city slicker' and I liked the novelty of pumping water from the well. Whenever my cousins came to town, the fascination was reversed and one of them, in particular, would spend the entire visit in the bathroom turning on and off the tap in order to watch the water come out.
What was especially nice about the farm was that parts of it were hilly. That meant that in the winter, my cousins could build a toboggan run that would provide enjoyment for them through the long winter months. They always chose the same spot high on the brow of a hill above one of the pastures that curved steeply and then more gently downward taking you into the farmyard past the barn and stopping short of a pig pen. They firmly stamped down the snow thus forming a grooved track wide enough for a toboggan and sprinkling it with water until it turned solid and gleamed like ice. A snow bank carefully built up along the outer edge of the run kept the toboggan on track so that there was no danger of veering off sideways and ending up in the pasture or in the trees on the other side of the run.
On one visit, three of my cousins, my twin and I were having a great time on that toboggan run. We had a three person toboggan and a two person sled and we would take turns using them. I preferred using the sled because you could steer it whereas with the toboggan you hung on for dear life and hoped for the best although it seemed to me that the toboggan always travelled faster than the sled. After several runs, some of us wanted a break so I decided to take the sled for a run by myself. Forgetting that only one person on the sled allowed it to go faster, I barrelled down that run at a break-neck speed having the time of my life. When I got to the bottom and passed the barn, I discovered that I couldn't stop in time to avoid the pig pen and scooted under the fence and got mired in the muck. The old sow in the pen was as surprised to see me as I was to see her and my cousins had a good laugh.
The farm was sadly lacking most of the amenities that modern farms now have but there was electricity and running water . . . you ran to the well to get it. Somehow that fascinated a 'city slicker' and I liked the novelty of pumping water from the well. Whenever my cousins came to town, the fascination was reversed and one of them, in particular, would spend the entire visit in the bathroom turning on and off the tap in order to watch the water come out.
What was especially nice about the farm was that parts of it were hilly. That meant that in the winter, my cousins could build a toboggan run that would provide enjoyment for them through the long winter months. They always chose the same spot high on the brow of a hill above one of the pastures that curved steeply and then more gently downward taking you into the farmyard past the barn and stopping short of a pig pen. They firmly stamped down the snow thus forming a grooved track wide enough for a toboggan and sprinkling it with water until it turned solid and gleamed like ice. A snow bank carefully built up along the outer edge of the run kept the toboggan on track so that there was no danger of veering off sideways and ending up in the pasture or in the trees on the other side of the run.
On one visit, three of my cousins, my twin and I were having a great time on that toboggan run. We had a three person toboggan and a two person sled and we would take turns using them. I preferred using the sled because you could steer it whereas with the toboggan you hung on for dear life and hoped for the best although it seemed to me that the toboggan always travelled faster than the sled. After several runs, some of us wanted a break so I decided to take the sled for a run by myself. Forgetting that only one person on the sled allowed it to go faster, I barrelled down that run at a break-neck speed having the time of my life. When I got to the bottom and passed the barn, I discovered that I couldn't stop in time to avoid the pig pen and scooted under the fence and got mired in the muck. The old sow in the pen was as surprised to see me as I was to see her and my cousins had a good laugh.
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