Home  >> Stories  >> The Tale Spinner #2012-37

---

IN THIS ISSUE

• Robert Brookfield writes about his recollections of India
• We get letters from Barbara Wear, Jean Sterling, and Kate Brookfield
• Pat Moore forwards a tribute to Terry Fox
• Bruce Galway shares some atrocious groaners
• Catherine Nesbitt forwards some cynical political advice
• Carl Sagan wrote this description of our earth
• Sites are recommended by Catherine, Jay, and Kate Brookfield

Kate Brookfield´s son, Robert, has kindly sent us his memories of their

YEAR IN INDIA

As I recall, we arrived in India at the end of the summer (August, probably). My birthday is August 29th, so it was probably when we were there, but I don´t honestly recall. We arrived in New Delhi and stayed for a while (a week, maybe?) before taking the train to Chandigarh.

My clearest first recollection of India was when we arrived in New Delhi, staying off Connaught Place (a large round road around which were comparatively fancy stores). We went back there several times over our time in India, and while I don´t remember much, two places stick in my mind: the pizza place and the bookstore. The pizza place I remember at first being not very good, but as time went on and I grew more homesick (and perhaps less fussy for more familiar food), it seems to have become tastier. The bookstore I remember for getting new English language science fiction and fantasy books, and some good old ones as well.

Those two themes, food and books, I think were significant for me during our eight months or so in India.

Food memories varied. There were some dishes I had never had before that I came to love: tutti frutti ice cream (for some reason a popular treat in many restaurants, and something I often ordered); masala dosa (eaten first in Southern India, I think, but afterwards something I enjoyed); chapathis and parathas (soft and crispy bread products respectively); great fresh pineapples (at one point I ate so many that my lips burned from the acid); soft drinks that were similar, but not quite the same, as Western brands, such as Limka (lemonade) and Thums Up (a cola); and (oddly, probably, in India) wonton soup, that I often had at a Chinese restaurant. Other dishes I recall fondly even though I didn´t like them: the "mummy dust" ice cream we bought at a store near our house in Chandigarh, the cucumbers with salt prepared by our "chef" (a part-time employee who prepared food for us).

Books were important to me. People were very friendly: neighbours in Chandigarh and fellow students at school. But I was a rather quiet, withdrawn boy even in Canada, and in India where things were quite different, I retreated much more into my books. And they were harder to get. The used book store near our house in Chandigarh had a rather limited selection so I had to do with various fiction and non-fiction books that I would not have otherwise read. And when travelling, I remember some particularly odd choices I bought, like the organic chemistry text I bought (but never read) from the Soviet Book store. And of course as a consummate nerd, I had my Dungeons and Dragons books. I didn´t play it with anyone really - but I spent a lot of time reading it, and coming up with potential dungeons, new creatures, new devices, whatever.

As I recall it, we spent about 2/3 of the time in Chandigarh, the rest travelling around India (we being me, my Mum and my Dad - my sister staying in boarding school for part of that time). It was a great experience, and I think I was old enough to get at least some appreciation of it.

Particularly memorable moments include hiking in Kashmir, near the village of Pahalgam; staying at the ornate Raja castle in the middle of a lake that featured in the "Octopussy" movie; being scared by bats in a temple tower somewhere (I don´t know where); chased by monkeys at the "mini" Taj Mahal in Agra; eating basic lentils at Gandhi´s ashram; seeing a tiger from the back of an elephant (with my Dad nervously saying, "Okay, we´ve seen it, let´s go now!"); and looking at the quaint houses of the former British Raj at the "hill stations" of Simla and Oota Kamun (spelling probably off on that last one!)

School was also an experience. The grandly-named "International Public School" in Chandigarh was really a large house, with mostly local students, with a few people (mostly girls I think), whose Indian parents living in Canada or the US had sent the children back to India to live in boarding school. My classroom was essentially a dozen and a half small desks on a veranda. Our school bus was a van that I´m sure was factory built to seat half a dozen people, but that had 20-30 children squished into it.

But the quality of learning was not a joke. I was essentially put back a grade because I didn´t do well in math (one of my strong suits, actually): the level of rigour and difficulty there was very high. Other areas were less rigorous. I still remember my social studies teacher, after mentioning some difficulty, repeating her favourite phrase: "But the government is trying its best!" And I fondly recall the Punjabi teacher taking time out of teaching the rest of the class to teach me some remedial Punjabi. (I can still count to 20, though not a lot more). The Hindi teacher, in contrast, didn´t want to waste her time with me. Not unreasonable, I suppose.

At school I also learned to play cricket. An odd game, but when played casually with friendly schoolmates, not nearly as boring as it looks on television. And I got some insight into political upheavals. The school was about two-thirds Sikh students and faculty, with about one-third Hindi (plus me and my sister). Religion did not intrude much at all, as I remember, except for one innocuous element and one much more troubling.

The innocuous one was in a drawing competition. I was reasonably good at drawing, so was allowed to compete in a cross-city competition. Dozens of us went, sat down, were given paper and pencils, and told the theme. The word for the theme was incomprehensible to me. Friends from my school kindly explained that it was a Sikh ceremony involving dancing with sticks. I tried to draw something along those lines, but I´m sure I was far off!

The other incident was when Indira Gandhi was assassinated. She was killed by her Sikh bodyguards because she had ordered the Indian army to storm the Golden Temple at Amritsar. I think it is like the Vatican for Catholics in terms of significance, so a very touchy thing to do, but I think not entirely unreasonable, since militant Sikh separatists were holed up in it at the time. As I read more about it later, I came to think that Indira Gandhi did exercise emergency powers excessively during her period of rule. But at the time I just knew her as the democratically-elected head of the government. That was not the way some of my fellow students saw it, though. When one of the parents came to school to tell people what had happened, a number of them (Sikhs, not surprisingly) jumped around joyfully, yelling, "Our enemy is dead! Our enemy is dead!" Sobering to me.

It linked to other things we saw during that year, when political killings were regular: a machine gun post set up at the entrance to the University "sector" we lived in; and people wildly protesting in the streets in the thousands in Srinigar, Kashmir.

I could go on, but I think that is enough for now. I´ll end by saying that I think my year (or so) in India was an incredible experience, that I think broadened my mind and led me to have a greater interest in the world. I met many wonderful people, saw incredible things, and gathered more memories in that year than in almost any other time before or since.

CORRESPONDENCE

Wear Barbara writes:

I just read the article in Tale Spinner on 9/11 in Newfoundland, and I read a book a few years ago written by another author, "The Day the World Came to Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland." The author is Jim DeFede, and the book can be found on Amazon.

It is an amazing account of how the town´s people came out to help those stranded in Canada by this tragedy in New York. I feel it is a must read.

Jean Sterling remembers reading about the kindness shown to the stranded passengers on 9/11 by the people in Newfoundland.

My oldest son had a similar experience in North Bay, Ontario. He was on a flight from Hong Kong to New York, and the plane had to make a forced landing in North Bay due to a hydraulics problem. The North Bay airport was not equipped to handle foreign nationals, according to a news report I saved, so they had to spend the night in the airport until the airline sent another plane the next morning.

My son said they were very well cared for. The fire department came out to help people deplane, and they were provided with pizza and soft drinks as well as pillows and blankets. He said it was kind of weird to see their big 747 surrounded by piper cubs and other small planes, and that he remembered seeing townspeople peeking through a fence at the big plane.

I sing in a church choir, and one of our winter members is from North Bay. My son told her about his experience and said that he was very grateful to the people of North Bay, who treated him so well when he was stranded.

Kate Brookfield writes: I have just finished reading "The Day the World Came to Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland" by Jim Defede. It covers the stories of different groups on all the flights that were grounded, and the wonderful support and help they received from the small Gander community.

It covers the story of why the people on the Delta flight started the scholarship fund.

The annual Terry Fox run will be held on September 16 in New Westminster. Pat Moore sends this timely tribute to Terry by "Michael":

TERRY FOX

The broadcaster talked as they showed a young, curly-headed man dip his artificial leg into the Atlantic ocean in Saint Johns, Newfoundland, Canada. "Terry Fox," the man said, "is on a mission to raise money for cancer research. Terry plans to run across Canada to raise one million dollars." The camera followed Terry as he began to run west in a half skip, half jog away from the Atlantic toward the Pacific, more than five thousand miles in the distance

It was April 12, 1980, a cold and nasty time of year to run in Newfoundland. He ran alone. No one believed in him. A curious few stopped, stared, and then went about their daily lives. One or two donated spare change. Over the next few weeks, the news occasionally showed clips of Terry on his journey. He ran through snow, rain and bitter cold.

Terry rose at 4 a.m. every day, ran twelve miles in the morning, rested, and then ran another fourteen miles in the afternoon - a marathon every single day. Along the way, he collected meager donations from those who waited along his route. Followed by his brother and his best friend in a support van, Terry reached the end of Newfoundland on May 6, 1980.

Terry was eighteen when he was diagnosed with bone cancer in his right knee. After amputation and chemotherapy, he was left with memories of the kids he left behind at the hospital. He wanted - needed - to do something. Terry´s mother, when she learned of his plan to run across Canada asked, "Terry, why not just run across British Columbia?"

He looked at her. "Mom, not only people in British Columbia get cancer."

She couldn´t argue with his logic.

Terry trained fourteen months for his quest to save others. He ran with a gait that would be remembered forever.

He took the ferry to Prince Edward Island, ran there, and then returned and began his trek through New Brunswick.

The nation watched and cheered. He no longer ran alone. In every town, people ran with him. The donations increased. Terry was going to make it. He was living the dream we all dream - to do something special for others.

One night, the news showed Terry running up a long, lonely hill in New Brunswick. The rain soaked him. He was in the wilderness, following his dream. I cried for him - a lonely man, skip-running up that hill - running home. Terry became a household name. The crowds grew bigger; more money was donated; and Terry changed his goal. "I want to raise one dollar for every Canadian. Wouldn´t it be nice to raise one dollar for every living person in Canada?" His goal was twenty-four million dollars.

On September 1, 1980, Terry approached the city of Thunder Bay, Ontario, after running 3339 miles in 143 days, the distance from Miami to Seattle. He was in pain. He coughed. His chest hurt. He asked to be taken to a hospital.

After examination, the doctors returned with grim news. The cancer was back. Terry had been running with a tumour the size of a lemon and one the size a golf ball in his lungs.

Terry lay on a stretcher and shared the news with his followers. "The cancer has spread," Terry said through tears. "Now I have cancer in my lungs. And a ... we gotta go home and try and do some more treatment. But a...." He paused to choke back his sobs. "All I can say is, if there´s anyway I can get out there again and finish it, I will."

Terry was taken to a Vancouver hospital for new rounds of treatment. Days later, an impromptu telethon was organized which raised more than ten million dollars. With the two Terry had already raised, he was well on his way toward his goal of one dollar for every person in Canada.

Terry Fox died on June 28, 1981, at the age of twenty-two. His life is gone, but his memory is not. In Thunder Bay, Ontario stands a statue of Terry, in full stride, with his head up, facing west, running home.

Terry died doing what he wanted to do in life and was awarded Canada´s highest honour, The Order of Canada, the youngest to ever receive the medal. Every year a run in Terry´s honour takes place in more than fifty countries at more than six hundred locations. To date, almost three hundred million dollars have been raised for cancer research in Terry´s name. He may not be with us in body, but in spirit, Terry is with us, facing west, running home.

Bruce Galway forwards these groaners, some old, some new:

MORE BAD PUNS

I changed my iPod´s name to Titanic. It´s syncing now.

When chemists die, they barium.

Jokes about German sausage are the wurst.

I know a guy who´s addicted to brake fluid. He says he can stop any time.

I stayed up all night to see where the sun went. Then it dawned on me.

This girl said she recognized me from the vegetarian club, but I´d never met herbivore.

I´m reading a book about anti-gravity. I just can´t put it down.

I did a theatrical performance about puns. It was a play on words.

They told me I had type-A blood, but it was a Type-O.

PMS jokes aren´t funny; period.

We´re going on a class trip to the Coca-Cola factory. I hope there´s no pop quiz.

I didn´t like my beard at first. Then it grew on me.

Did you hear about the cross-eyed teacher who lost her job because she couldn´t control her pupils?

When you get a bladder infection, urine trouble.

I tried to catch some fog, but I mist.

What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary? A thesaurus.

England has no kidney bank, but it does have a Liverpool.

I used to be a banker, but then I lost interest.

I dropped out of communism class because of lousy Marx.

All the toilets in New York´s police stations have been stolen. The police have nothing to go on.

I got a job at a bakery because I kneaded dough.

Haunted French pancakes give me the crêpes.

Velcro - what a rip off!

A cartoonist was found dead in his home. Details are sketchy.

Venison for dinner again? Oh deer!

Catherine Nesbitt sends this timely advice on

ELECTION STRATEGY, THEN AND NOW

Phillip Freeman recently translated How to Win an Election, Cicero´s advice to his brother Marcus, who ran for consul in 64 BC, the highest office in the Roman republic. Carol Herman highlights how little has changed:

[Quintus Tullius Cicero´s] advice is blunt and to the point. A few of the choicer observations, highlighted by Mr. Freeman in his introduction are: "Make sure you have the backing of your family and friends." "Surround yourself with the right people." "Call in all favours." "Build a wide base of support." "Promise everything to everybody." "Communication skills are key." "Don´t leave town." "Know the weaknesses of your opponents and exploit them." "Flatter voters shamelessly." "Give people hope."

Scott McLemee thinks the advice - essentially "schmooze, smear, and make lots of promises you won´t keep" - should be obvious to anyone in politics:

Somebody who doesn´t already have an instinctive understanding of the points it makes won´t last long enough to become candidate for city council, much less president. No, its appeal is for the electorate, as a reminder of what we´re up against. Politicians may come and go, and campaigns ebb and flow - but election-year cynicism is forever.

Carl Sagan, an American astronomer, astrophysicist, cosmologist, author, science popularizer, and science communicator in astronomy and natural sciences, wrote about

THE PALE BLUE DOT

Look again at that dot. That´s here. That´s home. That´s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every ´superstar,´ every ´supreme leader,´ every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there - on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot.

Our posturing, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbour life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we´ve ever known.

ED. NOTE: This link to a video of the earth sent by Pat Moore is a look at our threatened home:

http://www.youtube.com/embed/nGeXdv-uPaw

SUGGESTED WEBSITES

Catherine Nesbitt sends this link to a light-hearted rendition of a classical piece by Pagagnini:

Pippa, the weather girl, loses her cool in this video recommended by Jay:

Kate Brookfield forwards this link to a blog by Patrick Latter which shows photos of the West Coast Trail, which was recently described in the Tale Spinner by Frank Pollock:

Kirthi Roberts, Vancouver School Board manager of energy and climate action, shares his passion and the story of a school district that is discovering the benefits of sustainability through their carbon neutral actions. Video by LiveSmartBC:

The Canada Party volunteers to lead America:

Rob Legato creates movie effects so good they (sometimes) trump the real thing. In this warm and funny talk, he shares his vision for enhancing reality on-screen:

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