Home  >> Stories  >> The Tale Spinner #2011-40

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IN THIS ISSUE

• Dalton Deedrick describes more of his volunteer month in Africa
• Carol Dilworth has a question for Jean Sterling
• Anne Rahamut tells the tale of their search for the perfect fireplace
• Stan French sends examples of notes left for milkmen
• Jay forwards suggestions for impressing women and men
• Never underestimate the value of good proofreading
• Don Henderson sends the moral of the porcupines
• Irene Harvalias has news for people watching what they eat
• Sites are suggested by Bruce Galway and Pat Moore

Dalton Deedrick continues his diary record of his volunteer

MONTH IN AFRICA

March 10 - Easy day in the clinic until 4 p.m., then a class of 50 grade-five children from a nearby school arrived, all to be checked. If there were obvious problems, they were sent home with a note suggesting they return to the clinic for treatment. Not many will be back, I´m afraid.

There was a happy incident last week. Just off the road to Thika there is a little lake which has a small resident population of hippos. They loll in the water all day, then come out at night to forage. One of them not only chewed up one of the local´s garden, but very nearly chewed up the owner who tried to shoo it off. The government game officer was summoned, and he shot the hippo. The echoes of the shot had barely faded when every resident within earshot arrived with his big ´panga´, or cane knife, and each one sliced off as big a piece of meat as he could. Within an hour there was not enough meat left to tempt the buzzard population. The common diet is mostly maize, corn and beans, and any meat is a luxury, and probably the only protein they see for months.

The clinic provides more than its share of frustrations. The chair pumps up and down OK, but if my knee touches the latch on the back, it suddenly drops to the fully flat position. Then there´s poor Michael, who tries his best, but one instrument looks like any other to him, and the concept of bacteria or infection was not one of his school subjects. We have lots of rubber gloves, and wearing them confers quite an elevated status to the boys. They change them occasionally, and rather like to wear them as they go back to their village by bicycle when the day is over.

Michael is a likeable lad, and has a good sense of humour. On several occasions when I have been tugging away at a tough extraction, he will look over my shoulder with a big grin and say, "Will it help if I push?"

I was a bit apprehensive when packing to come out here, as I was to be responsible for my own meals. In fact, it has not been a problem. Lipton´s "Soup In A Mug", an ample supply of greens and fruit from the roadside markets, and tinned meat takes care of the staples. I was emboldened enough to fry some potatoes last night, and was surprised to find that they tasted very much like the ones we have at home. As you may surmise, the culinary arts are not my forte.

The teeth we see here are all very darkly stained, caused by what I think must be heavy fluoride content in the water. Unfortunately, it hasn´t conferred total immunity to decay, probably due to the universal habit of sucking on sticks of sugar cane. The clinic is set up theoretically to do restorative work, like fillings. In fact, nearly all the patients are here because of severe pain from deep decay, so extractions are our only answer. Whenever possible, time permitting, we can do a few fillings.

March 11 - Saturday, a non-working day and Sister M.C. is going to Nairobi with me and three other sisters. The good sister has a little routine each time we leave the compound. "We will have a little prayer for a safe journey," she will say. For a journey on African roads, that is an eminently good idea. I close my eyes during her short recitation, and to date I have not had the temerity to peek and see whether she closes her eyes or not. I hope she doesn´t.

The "Westlands" shopping centre is much like our familiar Safeways, so I have a cart full of groceries to see me through the month. Also now have some Kenya stamps and some duplicate letters to send to friends.

There is a famous restaurant in Nairobi called "The Carnivore", and it is famous for serving African game on its menu. Our party of five went in and had a really excellent meal, today´s entree being zebra and impala. There was no gamy flavour I could detect, and it might have been slightly rare roast beef as far as I could tell. A lovely ice cream dessert. Reflecting on the situation of my friends, all of them bound by oaths of poverty and chastity, (the sentences to run concurrently), I felt duty bound to pick up the tab and put it on my Visa. After all, a lady should get a break now and then!

With the afternoon still unspent, Sr. M.C. hied us off to "the Bomas of Kenya", a government culture centre, with representative villages of all the Kenyan tribes, then a demonstration of the tribal dances in a big pavilion. A nice colourful presentation with acrobatics, and a limbo dancer who went under the flaming wand just supported by two coke bottles. A couple of the dances were, to my westernized eyes, pretty suggestive and erotic. To my surprise, my black-clad companions laughed uproariously!

Little sister M.C. is a treat! She drives like Jehu, (see Old Testament) but is safe, and certainly knows her way around Nairobi, which is not a city for the timid or inept driver. My only regret is that my ear is not tuned to her version of English, and I really only get about 25% of what she is saying.

To be continued.

CORRESPONDENCE

Carol Dilworth, referring to the site that purported to judge how long people are likely to live, and Jean Sterling´s report that she is estimated to live to 105, writes: I´m only going to live to 95! Do you get a lot of exercise?

ED. NOTE: Jean is a long-time swimmer, which undoubtedly affects her prospects.

Anne Rahamut tells the epic tale of their pursuit of

OUR PERFECT PERIOD FIRE

When we bought our house 30 years ago, the livingroom fireplace contained four short lengths of paper birch logs. According to the 60- year-old owner, she brought them back from a trip to Ontario´s cottage country when she was young, and they had lain in the old coal basket in the fireplace ever since, unburnt and yellowing.

Our first move on the fireplace was to go to the local coal-and-wood supplier - yes, indeed, they only went out of business a decade ago - where we bought an armful of firewood. Paper first, then kindling, small strips of wood, and finally a large log or two. We lit the fire and sat back with anticipation. I know what you´re thinking ... the damper, they forgot to open the damper, but that part was okay. It was the fire itself; the logs would not catch. We tried again and again. Finally, Pat got out his blowtorch and took aim. He drilled a small scorched hole into a log, but it merely sizzled and died. Really wet wood!

A kindly neighbour offered us wood from a tree he had chopped down, so we created "the wood bin" in the basement and stacked the wood to dry. One evening the following winter, we prepared a fire, and stretched out in our chairs watching its flaming tongues ... and its smoky breath. No, no, not the damper, again it was the wood itself. No matter what we did, the wood smoked like crazy. W-h-e-n we got the house cleaned up, we stacked the wood by the curb for the garbage. As I was wheeling out another lot, I saw a car do a u-turn and park by the woodpile. "No," I said, "You won´t want this," but he took it anyway. Good luck to him.

Twenty-five years ago came the fire log phase. Easily purchased, and ignited, fire logs seemed like the perfect compromise. But they were modern, artificial, and really tiny for the big coal basket. Besides, we worried about wax build-up in the chimney. So we settled on having a real fire from time to time, with wood we trusted ... until I said to Pat, "This is a coal basket, not a wood grate. The proper period fire for this fireplace must be coal."

So we topped off our wood fires with chunks of coal and, in theory, had the answer. After dinner, we would lay a fire, sip a digestif, and wait for the old 1920s household ambience to live again in the red glowing coals. The only problem was that it took hours for the fire to reach the glowing-coal stage. By then, I was marking papers and Pat was doing carpentry. As we passed the living room, we´d peep in, like voyeurs, and regretfully move on with our modern evening tasks.

Twenty years ago, we redecorated the living room. Away went the coal basket and all its dirty ashy mess. In its place stood a grate with artificial logs hiding a flaming gas bar. With a flick of a switch we had a very satisfying after-dinner hour of fire-watching ... until I said, "I miss the coal basket." So, Pat removed the wood grate, wrestled the gas bar into the old coal basket, piled on the artificial logs, and we carried on like that for awhile ... until I said, "I remember my grandparents´ gas fireplace, all filled with artificial glass coals. They glowed realistically and beautifully." And so the hunt began for artificial coals, in antique stores, fireplace shops, the Old House Journal. Years went by.

Fifteen years ago, on a trip to England, we admired the modernized gas-fired artificial coal fireplaces in our friends´ homes and located a dealer who sold us just the coals. We joked about what we´d say to the customs officer on our return to Canada, but we made it home, coals and all. These English coals were like black cubes of candyfloss, airy and light. They glowed nicely in the coal basket and Pat thought he´d done his last fireplace renovation. Alas, it wasn´t to be. As the coals glowed, they spat off bits of themselves which littered the hearth and dropped onto the gas bar, blocking the gas jets. End of English coals. And more years went by.

Last weekend, as we were returning to the city, I said to Pat, "Let´s make it a garage sale drive." So we looked at children´s games, broken tools, and unsprung chairs all along the road home. Finally, we stopped where a man was offering radio parts and blister-packed gizmos, filing cabinets ... and old glass coals! Playing it cagey- like, I asked what they were and he replied with great pleasure that they were fireplace coals, "really old." We carried off two bucketsful for a dollar.

I washed them down and examined them. They look like slag glass, big chunks the size of rocks, little chunks like ice cubes, in a wonderful brownish red colour which glows gorgeously against a light source.

This fall, Pat will clean the last of the black bits out of the fireplace, instal a metal grate to support the coals and sometime soon, we will be firing up the gas bar. Some champagne might be in order, or whatever they drank back in 1928 when our house was built. We may now have the perfect period fire. It only took us 30 years.

Of course, if this doesn´t work out, we can still go down to the basement and find those four old birch logs, re-install them, and be done with the good fight. I´m sending this account along to Tale Spinner now, before the big trial, so you all can share with us the anticipation of success and, later, the results of the event itself.

PS: Eight years have now gone by since I wrote this article, and now, Jean wants to know the results. So for old subscribers and newbies, here is what surely has to be the conclusion to our search for the "perfect period fire."

We filled the grate with the beautiful glass coals, lit the gas bar below, and watched as the the glass surfaces reflected an action- packed array of colours and dancing flames. For all of 30 seconds. Then the glass began to splinter and spit bits everywhere. After it was all cleaned up, my husband gently said, "Are you sure this is what your grandparents´ fireplace was like?"

Two years later, in an antique shop, I found the kind of firebox that uses glass coals. It is a combination of an electric heating element below and a lighting element above where all those glass coals I saved from the disaster experiment are now piled. The unit sits on four legs and can slide into the mouth of a fireplace to dispense warmth and "fire" light. We have it up at the cottage for cool nights.

Not at home? It´s not the final version of the 1920´s period fireplace? Nope. We wanted a real-flame fireplace. Friends of ours have a computer screen that fits into their fireplace and they run a fireplace program that looks very real. We wanted the real thing. Or to be fair about it, I wanted the real thing; my husband wanted to get the darned project done.

Our last effort paid off. We did what we should have done in the first place. We called round to all the fireplace shops in the city for a coal fire kit. Pat adapted the new gas bar again, and piled on the new artificial coals. The whole array looked really old-style original, so we risked another celebratory toast as we pushed the button to start the gas fire going. And then we took another toast as we watched the coals begin to glow just like the real thing, with little spikes of flame for accent. No pings, no spits, just an old- fashioned coal fire in an original old coal grate in our old 1920s house.

Worth one more toast? You bet!

Stan French forwards these

NOTES THAT WERE LEFT IN MILK BOTTLES FOR VARIOUS MILKMEN

Dear milkman: I´ve just had a baby, please leave another one.

Please leave an extra pint of paralysed milk.

Cancel one pint after the day after today.

Please don´t leave any more milk. All they do is drink it.

Milkman, please close the gate behind you because the birds keep pecking the tops off the milk.

Milkman, please could I have a loaf but not bread today.

Please cancel milk. I have nothing coming into the house but two sons on the dole.

Sorry not to have paid your bill before, but my wife had a baby and I´ve been carrying it around in my pocket for weeks.

Sorry about yesterday´s note. I didn´t mean one egg and a dozen pints, but the other way round.

When you leave my milk knock on my bedroom window and wake me because I want you to give me a hand to turn the mattress.

Please knock. My TV´s broken down and I missed last night´s Coronation Street. If you saw it, will you tell me what happened over a cup of tea?

My daughter says she wants a milkshake. Do you do it before you deliver or do I have to shake the bottle?

Please send me a form for cheap milk, for I have a baby two months old and did not know about it until a neighbour told me.

Please send me details about cheap milk as I am stagnant.

Milk is needed for the baby. Father is unable to supply it.

From now on please leave two pints every other day and one pint on the days in between, except Wednesdays and Saturdays when I don´t want any milk.

My back door is open. Please put milk in ´fridge, get money out of cup in drawer and leave change on kitchen table in pence, because we want to play bingo tonight.

Please leave no milk today. When I say today, I mean tomorrow, for I wrote this note yesterday.

When you leave the milk please put the coal on the boiler, let dog out and put newspaper inside the screen door. P.S. Don´t leave any milk.

No milk. Please do not leave milk at No. 14 either as he is dead until further notice.

ED. NOTE: This post claimed the notes were real, but as usual, there are no guarantees!

Jay forwards this invaluable advice:

HOW TO IMPRESS A WOMAN

* Wine her,
* Dine her,
* Call her,
* Hug her,
* Support her,
* Hold her,
* Surprise her,
* Compliment her,
* Smile at her,
* Listen to her,
* Laugh with her,
* Cry with her,
* Romance her,
* Believe in her,
* Cuddle with her,
* Shop with her,
* Give her jewelry,
* Buy her flowers,
* Hold her hand,
* Write love letters to her,
* Go to the end of the earth and back again for her.

HOW TO IMPRESS A MAN

* Show up naked.
* Bring chicken wings and beer.

THE IMPORTANCE OF PROOFREADING

- IMPORTANT NOTICE: If you are one of hundreds of parachuting enthusiasts who bought our Easy Sky Diving book, please make the following correction: on page 8, line 7, the words "state zip code" should have read "pull rip cord."

- It was incorrectly reported last Friday that today is T-shirt Appreciation Day. In fact, it is actually Teacher Appreciation Day.

- There was a mistake in an item sent in two weeks ago which stated that Ed Burnham entertained a party at crap shooting. It should have been trap shooting.

- There are two important corrections to the information in the update on our Deep Relaxation professional development program. First, the program will include meditation, not medication. Second, it is experiential, not experimental.

- In the city beat section of Friday´s paper, firefighter Dwight Brady was misidentified. His nickname in the department is "Dewey." Another firefighter is nicknamed "Weirdo." We apologize for our mistake.

- Our newspaper carried the notice last week that Mr. Oscar Hoffnagle is a defective on the police force. This was a typographical error. Mr. Hoffnagle is, of course, a detective on the police farce.

- Apology: I originally wrote, "Woodrow Wilson´s wife grazed sheep on front lawn of the White House." I´m sorry that typesetting inadvertently left out the word "sheep."

- In one edition of today´s food section, an inaccurate number of jalapeno peppers was given for Jeanette Crowley´s Southwestern chicken salad recipe. The recipe should call for two, not 21, jalapeno peppers.

- The marriage of Miss Freda van Amburg and Willie Branton, which was announced in this paper a few weeks ago, was a mistake which we wish to correct.

Don Henderson forwards

THE MORAL OF THE PORCUPINE

It was the coldest winter ever. Many animals died because of the cold.

The porcupines, realizing the situation, decided to group together to keep warm. This way they covered and protected themselves; but the quills of each one wounded their closest companions.

After awhile, they decided to distance themselves one from the other, and they began to die, alone and frozen. So they had to make a choice: either accept the quills of their companions or disappear from the earth.

Wisely, they decided to go back to being together. They learned to live with the little wounds caused by the close relationship with their companions in order to receive the heat that came from the others. This way they were able to survive.

The best relationship is not the one that brings together perfect people, but when each individual learns to live with the imperfections of others and can admire the other person´s good qualities.

The moral of the story is:

Just learn to live with the pricks in your life!

Irene Harvalias forwards this important info:

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO WATCH WHAT YOU EAT

For those of you who watch what you eat, here´s the final word on nutrition and health, and it´s a relief to know the truth after all those conflicting medical studies:

1. The Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Canadians, British or Americans.

2. The Mexicans eat a lot of fat and also suffer fewer heart attacks than the Canadians, British or Americans.

3. The Japanese drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Canadians, British or Americans.

4. The Italians drink excessive amounts of red wine and also suffer fewer heart attacks than the Canadians, British or Americans.

5. The Germans drink a lot of beer and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Canadians, British or Americans.

6. Ukrainians drink a lot of vodka, eat a lot of perogies and cabbage rolls and suffer fewer heart attacks than the Canadians, British or Americans.

CONCLUSION: Eat and drink what you like. Speaking English is apparently what kills you.

SUGGESTED SITES

Bruce Galway forwards this link to a video of a female ventriloquist and her wee Scottish granny:

Pat Moore sends this link to a video of a Harris Hawk being trained to fly with paragliders:

Pat also sends the URL for a site showing the greenest cities in the world:

To keep the grandkids (or you) amused for a while, try drawing a stickman:

Ron Gutman reviews a raft of studies about smiling, and reveals some surprising results. Did you know your smile can be a predictor of how long you´ll live - and that a simple smile has a measurable effect on your overall well-being? Prepare to flex a few facial muscles as you learn more about this evolutionarily contagious behavior.

Welcome to Paris, where an entire building is pulsing with lush green life and beauty. Patrick Blanc is a groundbreaking botanist and designer who creates magical gardens out of building exteriors in urban areas. See the ingenious wall system that recycles the water in a hydroponic loop:

To check out the features of the "freedictionary", which changes daily, go to