Home  >> Stories  >> The Tale Spinner #2012-12

---

IN THIS ISSUE

• Kate Brookfield continues her account of a sabbatical year
• Betty Audet and Kate point out errors in last week´s issue
• Barbara Wear sends a hint about keeping berries fresh
• Catherine Nesbitt adds to the conversation about clotheslines
• Pat Moore forwards a story about the benefits of swimming
• Bruce Galway sends examples of what makes English so hard to learn
• Carol Shoemaker´s story is about job classification
• Sites are suggested by Bruce, Carol Hansen, and Gerrit deLeeuw

Kate Brookfield and her family come up against bureaucracy en route to

A YEAR IN INDIA

I refused to accept that it was impossible for our children to visit Russia. Intourist was a government-owned travel organization for the Soviet Union. There would be no refunds for cancelled trips, so I phoned the Embassy in London to explain the problem.

I made it clear that it was an error by the Russian Embassy in Canada, which received the children´s Canadian passports but failed to stamp them with the entry visa. I insisted that they sort out the problem; they insisted that there was no way anyone could enter Russia without a visa. I told them that there was no way we could leave our children in England and did not see why the children could not travel as they were listed on my British passport, which did have a visa for Russia.

Eventually, I was told that if I could have my passport at the Embassy by 8:00 a.m. the next morning, a person who was meeting with the Ambassador at that time could take it to him in person, for a special request. But they were making no promises.

My visit with my mother was brief. We left soon after the phone call. The idea was for me to drive to Harrogate and go to bed early and make an early start to drive to London. So at 4:00 the next morning, I was on my way. I got into north London with the rush-hour traffic. Fortunately, I knew this part of London as I had lived and worked in Hendon for six years. The traffic was barely moving and it was nearly 7:30 a.m. when I saw a parking sign at Highgate underground station. I decided to ditch the car and take the tube.

It was very strange to be in a rush-hour crowd in London so soon after leaving Canada. But I survived the pushing and was shoved out at my stop for the Russian Embassy. It was 7:55 a.m. when I panted up the steps and deposited my passport on the desk. I was told to come back at 4:00 p.m.!

What was I going to do to fill my day? It was a lovely sunny day, too nice to spend in the hustle and bustle of London, so I took the underground back to Highgate station and my car. I decided to go to Hampstead. I could always walk on the Heath.

When I lived in London in the ´60s, Hampstead was the place to go for fun and parties. My friends and I would go and listen for the noise of a party and then join it! Also, the Dick Turpin pub was a general meeting place. It was strange to be back there, alone and in daytime. In the twenty-year interval, Hampstead had changed and so had I. Then I remembered that Keats lived in Hampstead and I had never visited his house, so that is how I filled my day. I had a lovely relaxing time walking in the home of one my favourite poets, seeing all the memorabilia associated with his short life, and sitting in the beautiful garden. Before I knew it, it was time to return to the Embassy. I was delighted to get the passport with the additional visas.

When I phoned Mike to tell him it was settled, he gasped. He couldn´t believe I had fought the Russian bureaucracy and won. For once, I was congratulated for my refusal to take no for an answer.

The drive through southern London to Gatwick airport was a shock to me. The Northern Circular road around London was always busy, but it had got much worse since the 1960s. I got the feeling that if one car did accidentally bump the one in front, it would have a domino effect, passing along all the cars in front and maybe ending up in the back of the car that started it! The "green belt" of the Home Counties around London was no longer as green and as clean as I remembered.

I did not have time to investigate the places I remembered, like Box Hill and other once-pretty rural towns and villages. I stuck to the main motorway out of London, but it all seemed a lot more run down than I remembered. I was thankful that I didn´t live there anymore, and happy that I had enjoyed it before a mass of roads with sprawling suburbia had taken over the famous Green Belt. On my return journey, after a year in India, this same countryside looked like paradise. As they say, everything is relative.

I met up with my husband and children in the hotel at Gatwick airport and we were on our way to Russia.

To be continued.

CORRESPONDENCE

Betty Audet, on St. Patrick´s day, wrote: I presume others have told you the heading on Lyle Meeres´ story had slipped from Caribbean to Mediterranean. When I hit the word Granada, I jumped, for we had also done a Southern Caribbean Cruise. It was not one of our memorable holidays. Our best stop on it was Venezuela.

You should see my visiting Leprechaun Morris O´Day. This afternoon he will tour the Royal Terrace nursing home while I visit on the retirement side.

ED. NOTE: No-one but Betty mentioned the blooper in confusing the Mediterranean with the Caribbean, so perhaps it slipped past other readers as well as the editor and two webmasters. My apologies to Lyle for the mistake!

The Leprechaun mentioned was of course Betty´s husband, Morris, who engaged in his usual efforts to cheer the sick at the nursing home. He and Betty are to be congratulated on their volunteer work in an often neglected area.

Kate Brookfield writes: I missed the 3:00 a.m. [when she arrived to visit her mother in England]! Of course it was 3:00 p.m. I did not wake my mother in the early hours of the morning. She might not have been so tranquil at that hour!

Barbara Wear loves berries, so she is going to try this method of preserving them longer:

THE KEY TO PREVENTING MOULDY BERRIES

Berries are delicious, but they´re also delicate. Raspberries in particular seem to mould before you even get them home from the market. There´s nothing more tragic than paying $4 for a pint of local raspberries, only to look in the fridge the next day and find that fuzzy mould growing on their insides.

Wash them with vinegar.

When you get your berries home, prepare a mixture of one part vinegar (white or apple cider probably work best) and ten parts water. Dump the berries into the mixture and swirl around. Drain, rinse if you want (though the mixture is so diluted you can´t taste the vinegar), and pop in the fridge. The vinegar kills any mould spores and bacteria that might be on the surface of the fruit, and voila! Raspberries will last a week or more, and strawberries go almost two weeks without getting mouldy and soft.

So stock up on those pricey little gems, knowing they´ll stay fresh as long as it takes you to eat them.

Catherine Nesbitt reminds us of another aspect of the old-fashioned clothesline:

THE TELLTALE CLOTHESLINE

A clothesline was a news forecast
To neighbours passing by.
There were no secrets you could keep
When clothes were hung to dry.

It also was a friendly link,
For neighbours always knew
If company had stopped on by
To spend a night or two.

For then you´d see the "fancy sheets"
And towels upon the line;
You´d see the "company table cloths",
With intricate designs.

The line announced a baby´s birth
From folks who lived inside,
As brand-new infant clothes were hung
So carefully with pride!

The ages of the children could
So readily be known.
By watching how the sizes changed,
You´d know how much they´d grown!

It also told when illness struck,
As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe too,
Haphazardly were strung.

It also said, "On vacation now"
When lines hung limp and bare.
It told, "We´re back!" when full lines sagged,
With not an inch to spare!

New folks in town were scorned upon,
If wash was dingy and grey,
As neighbours carefully raised their brows,
And looked the other way.

But clotheslines now are of the past,
For dryers make work much less.
Now what goes on inside a home
Is anybody´s guess!

I really miss that way of life.
It was a friendly sign
When neighbours knew each other best ...
By what hung out on that line.

Pat Moore sends this story about the benefits of swimming:

HEALING WATERS

"Do you swim?"

The neurologist´s question caught me off guard. Unexplained back pain plus a strange tingling sensation in my right foot brought me to our family doctor, then alarmingly, to this specialist.

"Well, no. I mean, I can swim, but it has been years."

"It really is the best thing for your back."

Stalling, I opted for on-land physical therapy sessions, which of course did little to alleviate the numbness in my toes. Who knew that a herniated back disc could affect the feet?

"You really should try swimming," the therapist reiterates. "It can do wonders for injuries like yours."

So - Flip-flops squeaking against the wet tile floor, towel in one arm, goggles perched upon my head, I scan the pool deck for a free lap lane.

Looking down at my faded bathing suit, the one with the little white elastic pieces sticking out of the inseam, I feel everyone´s eyes upon me.

A thirty-something mom, my exercise regime involves breathless morning sprints to the bus stop. But competition-style lap swimming? I think not.

Sure, I know how to swim, but splashing around with my kids on a sultry summer afternoon is just not the same as this - a 9:00 a.m. plunge into freezing water on a sub-zero February morning.

So here I stand poolside, a deer in the headlights, wanting to flee, yet paralyzed by the imagined stares of the other "real" swimmers.

Again I am a shy grade schooler, always picked last for the kickball team. My report card is excellent as always, but there is just one unsatisfactory mark - physical education. Again, I am an awkward teenager, hitting the volleyball into, rather than over, the net. Again, I am an aspiring teenaged figure skater, full of grace, but lacking the technique needed for any real success.

Just Do It! The cliched Nike slogan pops into my foggy brain, pushed there perhaps by some gentle prodding from a fellow swimmer, stopping mid-workout to smile my way.

"You are welcome to share this lane with me. The pool is awfully crowded this time of day."

Just like that, I find myself muttering thanks and sliding into the surprisingly warm water. I am off, pushing forward into a modified breaststroke (adapted by me, so I don´t actually have to put my eyes under water.)

Red, blue, yellow and green triangles hang from a banner high overhead, signalling my arrival at the three-fourths lane mark. My fingertips hit cold concrete - a tangible reward for completing an entire lap.

Out of breath, yet exhilarated, I continue this back-and-forth path. I shock myself by completing ten laps, on this, my first day as a swimmer. Tired, yet invigorated, I am bursting with accomplishment.

"I am going to do twenty laps on Thursday!" I boast to my husband over lunch later that day. "I think I will try a few strokes of front crawl, too."

What started as therapy for my back quickly turned into a workout that I actually enjoyed. Tuesday and Thursday mornings become my time. With my youngest daughter in preschool, I find myself looking forward to peaceful morning swims.

Gradually, I begin to complete greater distances. Ten laps become twenty, and remarkably, even thirty. Splashing forward, I am surprised to feel so free. My spirit soars with each stroke. Who cares if my form isn´t the model of Olympian perfection? In the water I am powerful and strong.

Adjusting my goggles, I dive beneath the surface. Insecurities are washed away as I set and reach new goals, like actually swimming under water!

Refreshed after each swim, I spend my afternoons enthusiastically rolling out sticky pink play dough and playing countless games of Candyland with my girls. Bubble wand in one hand, sidewalk chalk in the other, I laugh more and worry less. I lost a few unwanted pounds and feel healthier and happier both inside and out.

Long after my back pain subsided, swimming continues to be the balm that heals both my body and soul. In the water, I am a confident athlete, a woman of strength.

And someday, someday very soon, I will master that impossible flip turn.

Bruce Galway forwards some of the

REASONS WHY THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE IS SO HARD TO LEARN

1) The bandage was wound around the wound.

2) The farm was used to produce produce. (You may get an error here on your grammar check; even it´s confused.)

3) The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.

4) We must polish the Polish furniture.

5) He could lead if he would get the lead out.

6) The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.

7) Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.

8) A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.

9) When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes. (another grammar check)

10) I did not object to the object.

11) The insurance was invalid for the invalid.

12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.

13) They were too close to the door to close it.

14) The buck does funny things when the does are present.

15) A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.

16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.

17) The wind was too strong to wind the sail.

18) After a number of injections, my jaw got number.

19) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.

20) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.

21) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

Carol Shoemaker sends this story about job titles:

I´M JUST A MOTHER? EXCUSE ME!

A few months ago, when I was picking up the children at school, another mother I knew well rushed up to me. Emily was fuming with indignation. "Do you know what you and I are?" she demanded.

Before I could answer - and I didn´t really have one handy - she blurted out the reason for her question. It seemed she had just returned from renewing her driver´s license at the Motor Vehicle office. Asked by the women recorder to state her occupation, Emily had hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself. "What I mean is," explained the recorder, "do you have a job, or are you just a ...?" "Of course I have a job," snapped Emily. "I´m a mother."

"We don´t list ´mother´ as an occupation ...´housewife´ covers it," said the recorder emphatically.

I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself in the same situation, this time at our own Town Hall. The clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient, and possessed of a high-sounding title like "Official Interrogator" or "Town Registrar".

"What is your occupation?" she asked.

What made me say it, I do not know. The words simply popped out. "I am a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations."

The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in midair, and looked up as though she had not heard right. I repeated the title slowly, emphasizing the most significant words. Then I stared with wonder as my pronouncement was written in bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.

"Might I ask," said the clerk with new interest, "just what you do in your field?"

Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice, I heard myself reply, "I have a continuing program of research (what mother doesn´t) in the laboratory and in the field (normally I would have said indoors and out). I am working for my Masters (the whole darned family) and already have four credits (all daughters!). Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities (any mother care to disagree?) and I often work 14 hours a day (24 is more like it). But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers and the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money."

There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk´s voice as she completed the form, stood up, and personally ushered me to the door. As I drove into our driveway, buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was greeted by my lab assistants - age 13, seven and three. Upstairs I could hear our new experimental model (six months) in the child- development program, testing out a new vocal pattern. I felt triumphant: I had scored a beat on bureaucracy! And I had gone on the official records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than "just another mother".

Motherhood ... what a glorious career. Especially when there´s a title on the door.

Does this make grandmothers, "Senior Research Associates in the field of Child Development and Human Relations", and great-grandmothers, "Executive Senior Research Associates"?

I think so.

SUGGESTED WEBSITES

It will soon be golfing weather (if it isn´t already), and Bruce Galway sends a link to a video showing why European tour players have a lot of fun:

Bruce also forwards a link to a video of musicians with a different style. The video starts slowly but ends in exaltation:

Carol Hansen reminds us of this historical painting, which has been computerized so that when you click on it, a larger version appears. If you run your computer over the people in the painting, you can read their life histories. It would provide invaluable assistance to anyone studying history or biographies and is well worth saving for students:

Carol also sends this link to old Kodachrome transparencies from the home front in WWII. Note the lack of eye and hearing protection in these old photos:

Gerrit deLeeuw forwards this link to a video of a young Japanese girl who was born with daunting physical problems whose song expresses her joy in being alive:

Marcin Jakubowski, a young technologist, thought about which 50 machines would be needed for life to exist: tractors, bread ovens, circuit makers and the like. He wanted to create open-source designs for the most crucial machines - Do It Yourself versions that anyone can build and maintain at a low cost. The goal of the Global Village Construction Set is to create a repository of designs so complete that a single DVD is effectively a civilization starter kit:

Surprising but true: More women now die of heart disease than men, yet cardiovascular research has long focused on men. Pioneering doctor C. Noel Bairey Merz shares what we know and don´t know about women´s heart health - including the remarkably different symptoms women present during a heart attack (and why they´re often missed):

Elisabeth Rosenthal reports form rural Kenya, where cheap Chinese solar panels are providing decentralized small-scale electricity to towns that have little chance of being connected to the grid:

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