Churayn?

"Churayn" is phonetically, "train" according to one of my former eight year old pupils. And phonetically, he was correct. But when I read the rest of his little tale that involved a love of trains, I understood. The little boy went on to become a scientist and I am not sure if his "spelling" has improved or not, but he is, apparently, a successful, train loving, adult I am happy to say. My son, just off on a train voyage from West to East, brings me to feeling sad and nostalgic, that trains are gradually becoming as long travel, a thing of the past. We have our urban trains, be they above or below ground, and they are here to stay as their popularity grows. They increase in scope to serve as  reliable, for the most part, ways better to go to work or school or other destinations, than individual vehicles that require road space and parking. Having traveled recently on Sky Train here in the West, I can laud their convenience and yes, frequency. As to comfort, the fact that we in Canada still admire good manners and consideration, the elderly and disabled may find somewhere to sit rather than hang onto a pole while in transit. The stations are outfitted with washrooms and elevators or escalators to aid those who can't manage stairs. Urban dwellers pay big taxes and complain, but truly, they oughtn't when one thinks of the benefits we access. But getting back to the trains, the kind that run all over continents, they remind me of land-locked whales who carry on their backs hundreds of passengers long distances while allowing them food, drink and accommodation and also, go in relative safety to their destinations. There are people who don't, for one reason or another, want to go by airplane and trains make it possible for them to reach their venue. But there is more to train travel than fear of flying. There are those simply, who love trains. They see them as more than a way of getting  there. When they hear a train whistle, their hearts beat a little faster, their dreams or memories of being on a train, come into their minds; they are in love with them. Getting on a train and settling into your compartment or other paid-for place, you feel "at home".  You feel safe. This small space is yours for as long as you and the great friendly giant that is whizzing you off, are a team. You feel the creature's body swaying and taking the curves, you hear the music of its unique "song", one that you put words to. You respect the servers who greet you, who make up your bed at night and call you to meals in the dining car. The dining car. There you see a menu that is as generous as those on a luxury cruise. Your table has a white cloth, your server is a gentleperson and your china and silver are elegant right down to the creamer and sugar bowl. All, in spite of constant movement. And you are not on the Orient Express with Monsieur Poirot! Down in the lounge car, you meet others with their tales and drinks and oohs and ahhs at the views. Up in the observation car, everyone points out what they see and head turn and friends are made, however temporarily. Trains, the great whales with their human burdens, plying the oceans of great lands, may they continue, always.

Real Reality

Reality is becoming unreal. We humans have enhanced our capacity for tech toys to the point that nothing is private, nothing is not calculable, nothing is not collectible, and beyond. To say that it's bad or good isn't helpful when computers, we are told, can think. But what does "think" mean? It's true that computers can collect, rather quickly, information from all kinds of sources and calculate outcomes, predict possibilities and store data for use at a time convenient to whomever wants to use it or for whatever purpose. There is something that computers can't do. They can't feel and it is unlikely they ever will be able to, but I hedge on that prediction also, because I won't be around long enough to test the theory. Something that is real, is my grandfather clock. It's a tall piece of wood that is showing its age. After all, it was fashioned in 1836. It ticks away with the same old pendulum, wires, metal bits and lead weights. It's not one of the pretty kind, all shiny and with brass-like curlicues and delicate carvings. The weights are large and rough and misshapen. Mr. Charles Leadbeater who made the clock beside his brother Thomas, didn't care much for beauty. He thought only about reliability and, indeed, he produced a product that has survived crossing the Atlantic, living in family homes from damp old England to damp young British Columbia-by-the-sea and ticking faithfully for all those generations. He has scars. Bits of veneer, that were so artfully inset, loosened with central heating and the rigors of time, and sometimes fell out during various moves by his family. They were glued back in badly. There are holes inside where one of the clan, decided to  hang tools in the case. Who would see them and they were so handy to find inside "grandfather". There are missing bits that are long forgiven and forgotten. The shiny brass globes that graced each side at the top and the tallest stand, are only faded memories to be found in photographs of Roselynn's parlour, the clock's first home in Cheshire, UK. But recently after a long respite, the phases of the moon and the days of the month, are back in service. The price to repair and adjust without replacing any part of the mechanism, was more than the whole clock would be worth on the antique market. It matters not the cost; no one in the family will ever sell it for any price. Once in my memory, a talented family gentleman, took all the metal bits apart and laid them on the dining room table, where they stayed for months while he tenderly cleaned each one, keeping note of how to reassemble all of them eventually. Not even our Siamese cat and her insatiable curiosity disturbed the array of old metal on the table's shiny surface. Thanksgiving dinner that year, was taken in the kitchen with respect for the past. When the power is off, the clock ticks on and accurately. Only during the changes for Daylight Saving to Standard Time, is an adjustment made but only by stilling the pendulum for the hour or a day, perhaps cautiously turning the hands. The old key has been lost, but  another was found far away and arrived by post. Ironically, it was bought with the help of my computer, on line. Like the ornate hands of my grandfather clock, with its comforting tick and the tweaking an old saying, what comes around, goes around.

Oh Nature Oh My

The natural world is something everyone thinks would be wonderful to return to. Some go camping and laud the fine time spent out in the woods under a tent laid on dirt and crawling around on hands and knees to dress and sleep and eat. Camping looks all very jolly on the outside, on good days, when it is not raining and cold, when you can find a hot shower in the evening and eat food that goes beyond canned meat, stale bread and pork and beans. The only people I know who truly enjoy actual camping as opposed to the kind that carts along a truck load of equipment and every amenity one can buy to make life as close to normal as possible in the woods, are those who adore being dirty, hungry, thirsty and cold. Who are those people? What is great about camping, is getting back home and remembering the days camping, when the sun shone, the lake water was warm and the camp fire circle was memorable. The rest we try to forget. Be honest campers. We are a spoiled bunch of humans because if we really liked true camping, why did we progress from cave to condo? If it was so rewarding and fine, we could have gone on for centuries reading paintings on the walls, fighting off and eating wild animals and digging up roots to eat. No, the first time Man picked up a sharp rock and shaved, the first time some raw meat fell into the fire and became barbecue, when he and she could find a dry cave to shelter in, Man began planning how to improve his lifestyle. Now, we don't bake bread without at least one machine to help out, clean without a cupboard full of fluids and equipment, eat without a table full of crockery and metal, sleep without a soft mattress and a pile of down, travel without a heater and AC and music, or go about without pricey clompers on our feet and designer labels on our backs. We've come a long way. Or have we? When we spoiled, self-indulgent beings have to go to a machine laden room to "exercise" or run miles for absolutely no reason, to deliberately starve ourselves skinny when there's plenty of good food to be had, drive big metal objects around that cost a whole year or two of labour and then turn around and get rid of them because there's a new model, whack little or big balls around for fun and get mad at them when they won't obey, dump a marital union that produced wedded promises and kids when nobody took the time to work at them and anyway, there's somebody else prettier to run to, then,  at the end of life as we know it, get smart and quit all the nonsense when it's too late and die. What in the world are we doing? Not camping.

Marriage Two

As often, or nearly always, happens a long marriage ends in the death of one of the partners. It's not only a hard time for the mate left in dealing with loss, it's even harder if the family disapproves of their parent becoming romantically involved again. They feel that the departed has been somehow betrayed and that their feelings have not been considered because their permission was not gained for the new relationship in happening. Their feelings are natural, but not correct. Looking at it from the outside, is easy. Being in it, isn't that simple. In one scenario, the new relationship person moved into the parental home and the children, now adult, feared some promised items there would be lost to them. They went inside and thieved them. Naturally, it became a serious rift. The items were of close personal value, so it wasn't about money. Better communication may have averted the crisis. In other cases, financial assets are in question. The bottom line is one of those in the marriage vows: "until death us do part". When one mate dies, that ends the marriage and estates fall to those in the will, usually to the remaining partner. Where older people who remarry are often confronted by their offspring, has much to do with material things rather than feelings. You assume that children who do not truly understand when it comes to the deep loneliness of someone widowed, would be overjoyed that their parent found someone else and their life is no longer painful. Unfortunately, it's rare. Feelings run deeply. In a situation I have encountered recently, two older people plan to marry and have not told their children but want to go ahead and make their vows and then make the announcement to family. They fear that telling may spoil their wedding. While I am overjoyed that each of them has found a wonderful new love to enrich and fulfill their lives, I do not agree, they should marry without speaking to family. They need not ask permission. They have considered their union thoroughly and have tested it as much as possible. They have spoken to friends about the wisdom of their choice and finally have gone ahead with their decision to marry. When I want to test a decision, I try to think of the other side and how that works. It's hard to do, but worth the effort. Thinking on the side of a family that receives a sudden announcement of  marriage by their parent to a relative stranger, could make them feel that they don't matter to that parent. It could bring out resentment. They may not expect to give permission but they do want to feel involved in their parent's happiness.  Family is part of a person's life even though that life is independent of children when it comes to relationships.The latter are the sole personal choices of an individual no matter how old the parent is. The family's job and need, should be to support and assist the choices of their elder parents who remarry and thus,allow them freely to regain the gift of someone to spend happily, the rest of their lives with.

Heels

One of a female's rites of passage is the introduction of high heels to a young lady's life. She usually takes up with heels when she is somewhere in her teen years. They begin in "trainers" of a couple of inches. From then on, the heels grow higher and higher. Some women wear heels that are so lofty that they have to learn how to walk all over again. Damages to ankles and toes notwithstanding. High heeled shoes are supposed to make one's legs look longer, thus more attractive. And what ambitious young woman doesn't want to be desired by her dream fella?  But in the real world, attractive to whom? Dreams are generally just that and no more. There is some idea that males apparently find high heels a turn-on. It seems that they fantasize, that with longer looking legs a woman is more model-like and thus more appealing. One thinks Barbie Doll. It is assumed that such males enjoy the Barbie Doll image, one that doesn't actually possess normal human proportions. To be fair, there are a lot of males "out there", who do not like high heels on women, but I don't happen to have met any. And considering equality, if men had to wear the kinds of high heels that women do, one try and they would grab their big runners and use them to make a fast get-away. Most of the ladies I know who do wear such ridiculous shoes, take along flat shoes to wear until they reach the restaurant or club or party destination, and then don them just before entering. It is all a pose and that's okay, because it's part of nature's plan that the birds and other animals do colourful things to lure their mates. But the suffering involved, is no fun at all. What woman doesn't come home after a time of wearing these ridiculous 4 or 6 inch inventions, and fall onto  the nearest couch or chair, removing the offending foot wear with groans of relief. Not only are these fashionable creations for the foot, high, but they are also made with little straps and ties  looking as though they can actually support the sizeable weight above, Jenny or not. Little Biters would be a good name for some of the lacings and bands of leather or plastic that cut into  tender insteps  also struggling with the heel height, as well. Logic does not rule over vanity, apparently. Even models whose business it is to parade down runways, often fall or stumble wearing torturous shoes in which they must not only attempt to point out their garments' best features, but also to wend a precarious way  through glaring lights and glittering audiences in shoes that defy natural movement. Commendations to them, but please fashionistas, don't expect any sensible woman to emulate you or your work, and certainly not your towering spiked heels.

Pomp

Pompous is not good but there isn't anything wrong with a bit of pomp at times. We do it at weddings these days bigtime. There are flowers and confetti and music and people striding about in elaborate, elegant attire they will wear only once. They rent halls and food preparers and servers and the champagne flows freely. Little expense is spared for the occasion. But today on television,  at a more auspicious occasion, the BC provincial Armistice ceremony, I saw crowds of public with uniforms spotting the hoards here and there, not in any special placement or order. A military band was squeezed onto a street side where only those in the immediate area could see them. The wreaths were made of ugly fake grass looking like someone ground them out in a plastic factory and mounted them on styrofoam.  A tiny space at the foot of a monument whose top feature, a soldier, the television audience never did get a chance to see on a zoom lens. The personnel standing at attention at each corner stood stock-still doing their work of honour, but media paid little artistic attention to them. Those laying wreaths did so in a miniscule space and while the guides leading them in their uniforms looked smart and did a fine job, their charges while placing the wreaths in the cramped area, struggled with the thin wire frames that were supposed to hold them. Noticeably, the wreaths were whisked away immediately by a partly visible hand that reached out and snatched them. Where did they go? Far away lined up so that they  were barely noticed, a row of gunnery, popped out once in awhile some loud reports. A distant view of the grand guns was seen through a misty display of recreational sailboat masts that blocked what they were, until one finally figured out that they were the saluting guns. The blob of those directly in front of the monument were squashed together randomly and of course, as always, the sound system broke down and was replaced with one that worked minimally until the real one blurted in  again. The ceremony petered out because there was no emcee to describe what was happening or when. In short, it was a tacky mess. Sorry, but the truth is, organization was missing. I am not one to like ceremony most of the time, but it seems that on this Remembrance Day occasion, a better job of managing it could have made it at least dignified.  The best part was  the military airplane flypast in formation. What was missing was "pomp". Couldn't the event be held in a large grassy area with grandstands and a ceremonial seating be set up? Everyone could see the marching bands, perhaps horse parades of the Mounties, veterans proudly honoured in a march passing the dignitaries. I realize that those presenting wreaths wanted to lay them at the monument but something representing it, could be placed for the occasion and wreaths in actual natural greenery be supplied and chosen by the various honoring bodies and that the offerings be later taken to the monument itself. The gunnery doing their salutes could be in view and the flags and trumpets and bagpipes and bugles could be seen and heard in proper order. It would give one the sense of honour in duty. Hopefully such an event would have been rehearsed proudly so the it all worked smoothly including the sound system. Poems and prayers and tributes could be heard and properly acknowledged. There is comfort in order. That kind of ceremony of honour would be satisfying and touching and worthy of remembrance and remembering.

Barely There

Regardless of my age, I am not a prude. Nor am I someone who aspires to behaviours that are morally and socially unacceptable. What others do, is their business and their freedom of expression. I don't have to like it, however. That is my freedom. Lately, in the broader media, I see photos of Hollywood actresses wearing garments that they must wear to please their employers. At least, I hope those are their reasons, because some of the outfits are horrendous and completely unsuitable to the pared-down bodies that are forced to wear them. Apparently, for these poor ladies, who I hope are ladies, it's all about money and working for those who pay it out. Some of the creations are almost not there. And even if flesh-toned undergarments lurk beneath bits of lace and net, they make women  look like something from unsavory locations that have less than savory clientele. Other garments actually do reveal far more than anyone wants to see at the opera or award ceremonies of any sort. I don't know about you, but sitting next to a guy with hairy legs in shorts at any event other than sports, has me looking for another place to sit. It makes me wonder if the same actresses have to sit through dinners at tables while dressed in creations that look good only on a ramp or at a pole. For example, an opera is no place for too much bare skin no matter how plumped up and pampered it is. One of the photos I saw the other day, showed a woman whose entire body was sparsely laced with stretches of fabric that had to be glued on from shoulder to ankle in order for them to stay in place. I pitied the young woman as she sashayed about for the hungry cameras shouting encouragement at her while she posed and grinned her stark white teeth, fluttered her fake lashes and glowered her glittering lipstick at them. No matter the mansion she inhabits, she must be embarrassed as mother and professional actress. It's hard to take anyone seriously when their rear end is hanging out, made-up, toned or not. My wondering is why not take it all off and be done with it. Guessing must be the issue and the bits of plasticized material no matter how many sequins adorn them, only make the display less attractive, not more intriguing. The lack of covering is no accident. Each garment is meant to elicit salacious tastes in hopes that it may accidentally- on-purpose, reveal something more than it ought. The word beauty flags. Beauty is good taste, purity of line and elegance. It's not blatant sexual titillation. The best designers should be showing off their talents in their calling, not degrading what they worked for all their lives. When you find a garment that is put together to flatter the human frame and is done with exceptional craft , intuition and ingenuity, it should inspire oohs and ahhs, not whoos and whoopsies.  Come on Hollywood, set an example so that your audiences can applaud the dignity and respect the acting profession deserves, not the present-day pandering to  juvenile pop media and peep show fans. Bare bores.

Condo Upsides

While there are definite disadvantages to condo living compared to owning a single family dwelling, there are also to be found, large advantages. After deciding that you are willing to put up with joint ownership of your home and the condo rules and living in close quarters with others,  look at the upside of condo life. First, as I have found, you will have wonderful neighbors. No one where I live is unpleasant, at least, I don't see any of that nature. Of course, there are folks who are rather unusual, but isn't that what makes our world interesting and challenging? We aren't sheep. Also, on the people end of things in condos, you can make very good use of these fine fellow condo owners. If you travel away for a time, you can make reciprocal arrangements for your buddies to water your plants, pick up your mail, be your security check and in some exceptionally generous cases, look after your dog or cat. The latter is naturally in exchange for the same service for their home and or animal unless you are simply a pet lover who doesn't own one. and have fallen in love with their little pal. Another very enjoyable experience in condo mondo, is the social aspect. If you are fortunate enough, as I am, to have various volunteer committees in your complex, there are parties arranged, dinners, social evenings and card nights. Gardening is available if you join that committee. Group living can be rewarding in sensing the old-fashioned or perhaps, "new fashioned" lifestyle, of sharing and caring for those in your immediate community. Bringing finances into the picture, one asks, where else can you have access to the benefits of services that are arranged by your management company: easy collection of fees and special assessments, places to report damage or repair needs, security issues, gardening and cleaning maintenance and safety checks that are necessary to large buildings and a host of other details you are happy to pass on to condo personnel. When you are elderly or somehow in need of immediate assistance at times, condo living is ideal. There is always someone nearby to offer help. It might be something minor or even major, but as I have found in those I live with and beside, there is nothing but well-meaning generosity of spirit and action all around me in this edifice. When I was laid up with a bad back, someone returned my library book. Another I had met only once or twice, brought me some homemade soup and an apple pie. Yet another dear soul went out and bought a medication that I had run out of and needed. Still others offered their assistance with advice and kind words. It made me very grateful that I lived with those who had caring instincts. I will repay their kindnesses by mirroring what they did. It is a world lesson that everyone could attend.  Again, you don't see this or other similar details about condo life in the fine print, but I recommend that you "read between the lines". If you do, you might be surprised at how great condo life can be!