Villains out to get you…

Hey, do you know what time it is!!!

Are you getting as many fraudulent calls as I am? Are those villains out to get you too? It seems this pandemic has let loose more crooks than ever.

My phone rings as early as 5:30 a.m.` telling me my computer needs repairs, or the CRA is after me for not paying my taxes, or my credit card

My credit card number you say???

has been used so would I give them the number.

Goodness, don’t those idiots even check what time it is in my part of the world before they call?

They certainly know we’re spending more time at home and: we miss our loved ones whom we can’t see during these trying times; that makes us lonelier than usual and a new romance would be a welcome diversion; we might also be bored because activities we participated in are cancelled; and we’ll risk talking to a stranger on the phone as a result of it all.

 

If you’re older (like me) you’re ripe for the picking.

Computer needs fixing? Take it to a shop who repairs them.

We tend to be patient and although I doubt it’s true, we often idealize yesterday when we ‘think’ people were kinder, nicer, more honest and caring. Sorry to let you down but there were always crooks around and if you think not, you’re dreaming.

The world isn’t going to the dogs. Dishonesty isn’t new.

Ugh! I want what he’s got!!!

The caveman probably raided his neighbour’s den to commandeer meat, berries and women while the other guy was out doing what he should — hunting a mastodon.

Out doing what he should, hunting a mastodon!!!

Scam artists, I understand, trade information the way kids trade baseball cards. Sadly the same person is often duped more than once and considered worth another try.

There ARE predators out there…

 

Stay alert, be aware, be suspicious.There ARE predators out there who prey on folks like us. Better safe than sorry.

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A Mere Change of Heart…

 

We shared a love of film and theatre

And talked about them passionately.

I saw us together melding our knowledge

Learning and growing and sharing and…

 

 

 

He talked of summer visits to Oregon friends

And taking two weeks to drive there — slowly.

I heard the promise of joyful times with him

Exploring tomorrow and tomorrow.

 

 

His eyes across the dinner table spoke of

Countless hours we’d spend together.

Then he could not understand why his

Mere change of heart hurt so deeply.

The devils I fall for…

photo by Chandra

Lately I’ve been reading some wonderful poetry in blogs I follow and I’m thoroughly enjoying them. Since I’ve written some myself through the years, I decided to go back and read some of my own. This one made me chuckle.

 

 

 

The devils I fall for

 

If the man is a cad

He’s bound to be charming

His false words will tumble

Like music from a fresh mountain stream

Right into my thirsty heart.

 

 

A broken heart

If the man is a scoundrel

I’ll find him delightful

My soul, trembling with desire,

Will hunger for him all the while

He is buttering up somebody else.

 

 

 

If the man is a rascal

The good men, my dear, are not half as exciting

He’ll be clever and entertaining

Because the good men, my dear,

Are not half as exciting

As the devils I fall for.

 

 

 

“Isn’t it awful that good men aren’t half as interesting as the rascals?” Joan Tess Smith

(This was the quote which inspired the above poem long ago. Today I have no idea who Joan Tess Smith was. If I did know once upon a time, I don’t remember now. Can you help? Mr. Google doesn’t seem to know her.)

Love through the ages

Lovebirds

It was Valentine’s Day this week. A time to think of romance and love and, for those of us who are older, to remember past loves. We all have a past.

If you think we’re boring and have nothing interesting to tell, you’re missing an opportunity to hear some fabulous love stories. Want to hear about long treasured memories of romantic love affairs? Forbidden loves? Lovers possibly lost, but recalled in old age with pleasure? Try asking.

A few days ago, my dear daughter-in-law Chandra did just that. I was caught off-guard, however, by asking me to tell her about a past love, she let me know she was interested in me. I liked that. I love her. Also, she had me think about someone I hadn’t thought of for many years.

A weary but beautiful Chandra with little Remy in 2007

We were all young once, and most young humans search for love. Certainly the cave man grunted his admiration for the gal who lived in the next cave and tried to impress her with his prowess before he carried her off.

Abelard & Eloise together at last at Pere Lachaise cemetery

The tragic love story of Peter Abelard (1079-1142) and Eloise captured my interest and for  years I read all I could find about the famous scholastic philosopher and his beloved. Not able to be together in life, their bones are now joined forever at the Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris.

They say there is nothing new under the sun. People have always loved. I love this poem written by a woman who lived during Medieval times. A UBC history professor gave it to me years ago. I like it so much, I still have and treasure it. Here it is:

 

‘Marriage is a sweet thing
I can prove it by my own example.
God indeed gave to me
A good and sensible husband.
Thank God for being willing
To save him for me, for I have truly
Experienced his great goodness.
Indeed the sweet heart loves me well.

And he said, with such tender words:
‘God made me live for you
Sweet friend, and I think that he had me raised
For your personal use.’
He did not stop raving like that
The whole night.
Without being any more immoderate
Indeed the sweet heart loves me well.

Prince, he makes me mad for love,
When he says that he is all mine.
He will make me die of sweetness,
Indeed the sweetheart loves me well.

Would you believe? A radar technician…

Airwoman 1st Class

My children gently tease me about being technologically challenged. Well, I’ll have you know, you young whippersnappers, believe it or not, I was a radar technician during the 1950s. It was the height of technology at the time and I did it for the Air Force! So there!

The Air Force Auxiliary paid more per hour than I earned at my office job and I was always interested in earning extra money. They provided a free air-force uniform, winter coat and shoes, plus trips to the mountains on weekends, which, because I didn’t date much, were boring anyway.

Arriving by bus — Mary, a devout Catholic, and I attended Church services every Sunday morning

It proved to be an adventure. They’d drive our ‘flight’ (class) to the Radar Station atop a mountain by bus. It was an interesting experience and I look back at it with pleasure.

I also had my very first marriage proposal (from a regular airman) whom, I believe, really meant it. I shall never, ever forget that! He was from Prince Edward Island and handsome in his uniform. I’ve never been to PEI, but have always wanted to visit there because of this memory. Perhaps he was attracted to me because I was the first virgin he ever dated. He told me I was, he respected me for it, and never attempted to change my status.

No, I didn’t get garbage detail, but already had a twisted sense of humor

Some other flight colleagues obtained jobs at Montreal’s Dorval airport. It was miles away from my home and I didn’t drive. The mere thought of bracing dark winters on public transit all the way out there didn’t appeal. I just didn’t have the courage. Thus, I was perhaps saved some health issues.

My friend Philip was a WWII pilot. Now, he chuckles when he tells me that on the way out on flying missions, he’d turn hot and cold, a cold hand would clutch his innards and oops, the poor guy would throw up — in the cockpit. It was embarrassing and humiliating for him, and unpleasant for others. Surprise, surprise — they didn’t want to fly with him. So Philip was grounded — and he believes probably survived the war as a result.

Recently, I heard on CBC Radio that Radar Technicians from the 50s are trying to get compensation from the government for health issues resulting from electromagnetic rays they experienced from those early radar screens. I could have been one of them. The only reason I’m not is — I was chicken.

Former radar technicians complain of ‘headaches, fatigue, weakness, sleep disturbance, irritability, dizziness, memory difficulties, sexual dysfunction and occasionally shortness of breath after exertion……

‘During the 1960s and 1970s, ophthalmologist Milton Zaret, under contract with the Army and Air Force, examined the eyes of thousands of military and civilian personnel working at radar installations in the US and Greenland. Large numbers of them, he found, were developing cataracts….caused by chronic exposure to radiation of the eye at power densities around one milliwatt per square centimeter — a level which is regularly exceeded by each of the two and a half billion cell phones in use today.’ (Birenbaum et al. 1969, Zaret 1973)

I did develop early cataracts, which my eye specialist called ‘juvenile cataracts’. But they were probably as a result of my juvenile brain rather than being caused by 1950s radar screens.

Okay, so I don’t know how to scan these and get them straight, but I’ll learn

I looked for some of the photos taken then with one of those Brownie cameras, (remember?) and also found my official R.C.A.F. Projectionist Certificate. Hey guys, look at me!!! This old gal was up on the newest technology of her time — the 1950s. Have some respect.

 

 

 

(For more information on older radar screens, microwaves, and televisions, try Google.)

If you notice me singing, do join in…

I often walk to my favorite cafe in the morning. Since my right knee complains with every step, I sing as I walk. My brain isn’t capable of multi tasking, so trying to remember the words of old songs seems to lessen the pain. It works to some degree. When someone comes by, I lower my voice so I won’t be heard. Yet, what fun it would be if strangers joined me in song just like they did in the old musicals I so enjoyed when I was a kid. Ta-da….

Judy Garland and Fred Astaire in Easter Parade

Even then I remember feeling a little silly as I watched some of those movies. The goings on onscreen could be unrealistic. For example, all the passersby knew the words of the songs and the dance steps and so were able to join Judy Garland and Fred Astaire in the ‘Easter Parade’ — dressed in their Easter best. Young as I was, I knew that didn’t really happen.

Yes, there were a few mindless plots weakly held together to

Gene Kelly in Dancin’ in the Rain

showcase the talent of the stars in them, and Gene Kelly did dance in the rain on the sidewalks of New York in ‘Dancin’ in the Rain’, but you can’t deny he was entertaining.

Were musicals all silly, mindless fluff? I think not. Many important issues were covered in Broadway musicals — issues which society would not have been ready to confront in any other format at the time. Just as comedy was, and continues to be, used to help us deal with the serious and even unbearable, musicals often sugarcoated difficult themes. Without realizing it, audiences were encouraged to look at and hopefully rethink their ideas and attitudes.

Thomas Carey and Carol Brice in Porgy & Bess, 1934

Gershwin and Heyward’s ‘Porgy & Bess’ is often regarded as the first great American opera. The music is brilliant but at the same time, the story makes a strong statement on the difficult position of blacks in America — as valid today as when it first came out in 1934, years before Martin Luther King came along.

Even earlier, in 1927, Kern and Hammerstein touched on black and

The great Paul Robeson, Showboat, 1936

white issues in another timeless musical classic ‘Showboat’. (In my opinion those who protested against the show in Toronto some years ago, could not have seen it.)

Then, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s ‘South Pacific’, which came out in 1949, tackled racial discrimination head-on. A real inter-racial love affair takes place on the stage/screen. It was a daring move which clearly defined the needless tragedy that results from racist thinking in Lieutenant

Mary Martin & Ezio Pinza in South Pacific

Cable’s romance with a Polynesian girl, Liat. The American Nellie, portrayed so well by Mary Martin, is shocked when she discovers Emile, a Frenchman, has children who are half-Polynesian. In the end, Nellie chooses to deal with her own prejudices and marries the man she loves. (By the way, Mary Martin, who washed her hair in each performance, claimed all that hair-washing did no harm.)

‘Hair’ about the hippy movement, free love and the drug culture, raised many an eyebrow with its passive nudity in 1968. I remember being shocked myself when I first saw it. Those scenes seem mild to us today. Modern audiences probably don’t understand what the fuss was all about.

I’m reminded of these productions when I find myself singing some of the old show tunes while I walk in the morning. If you catch me at it, do join in.

 

Beethoven as a lover?

A recent visit from a favorite Taiwanese family of former students reminded me that I learned much more from my students than I ever was able to teach them. Some students studied music — seriously. They had to learn about the lives of famous composers as well as how to play their chosen instruments. While they prepared for their exams, I learned too.

What did I learn? Beautiful music can be produced by people you’d never want as a lover or even a friend. For instance, consider the despicable Wagner,

Richard Wagner

who’d have taken large amounts of money from you and then dropped you like a hotcake, lived as a guest in your home and then thanked you by sleeping with your wife or turning against you without hesitation. I would have preferred to hate his music, but I can’t. The work has little to do with the person who creates it.

Then, how about the great Beethoven, another truly damaged and unpleasant man. If you

Ludwig van Beethoven

met him on the street, you’d have thought him to be a homeless bum and mad as a hatter. You’d not want to be his landlady, maid and certainly not his lover. The brilliant composer was a miserable, physically ugly, rather ill and difficult man. He was rude, prone to physical assaults and would smash anything in sight, including people or pianos.

Beethoven lost his mother, whom he loved, when he was 16. He was terribly abused by his alcoholic father — and developed into a vile-tempered, pathological, manic-depressed adult. Then, the deafness which plagued him from his early 30s and lead to total deafness by age 47 must have been devastating for him. (I wonder if his drunken father’s beatings around the head may have caused this.)

Did he have any lovers? We don’t know of any, although he did manage to contract gonorrhea, but most probably at a house of prostitution, a solution he professed to hate. He did propose to the young, beautiful, talented soprano, Magdalena Willmann, who turned him down because, as she said, he was ‘so ugly and half-crazy’. He never found Mrs. Right, always choosing women way above his station, much too young, and much too beautiful — and longed for love all his life. Beethoven could only see women as Madonnas or whores.

A younger Beethoven

The poor guy had pockmarked skin, no manners, spat in company, was terribly clumsy and badly coordinated. (Vestibular Disorder? Related to the beatings around the head?)  All his belongings were damaged because they got knocked over or broken. He was such a terrible tenant, he had to move from one place to another almost every year. Beethoven was just a disaster — in spite of his musical genius, he was unable to dance or even conduct in time to his own magnificent music.

Rossini in 1820

Nonetheless, there were those who understood and admired Beethoven. Rossini, known as a nice guy, was one of them. He was able to see the most appealing qualities in Beethoven and understood the great sadness the brilliant composer lived with.

Would we have such magnificent, beautiful music by Beethoven if he had actually found happiness during his lifetime? I wonder…..

Calling all virgins

After my piece about Doctor-assisted suicide, Steve suggested I write about wills. I started to, but decided two serious posts in a row would shock you. You know I like humour. In the as-yet unpublished post on wills, I suggest getting rid of stuff so loved ones won’t have to dig through all the many useless things we’ve accumulated through the years. Well, I decided to do that myself. What do I have a lot of? Papers… Copies of articles I’ve written, letters from readers, years of work by friends as well as my talented progeny. If you can think of it, I’ve got it.

Going through my files, I found an article I wrote in 1992 which made me chuckle. I had visited China in 1991 and by now, much has changed, so keep in mind this actually happened in 1992. Here’s what I wrote: ‘Calling all virgins” “According to a recent item in the Globe and Mail, ”Virgins only need apply: Air China demands trainee flight attendants be chaste — and no smelly armpits” by Andrew Browne, Reuter News Agency, Beijing, the call is out for virgins. Air China, it seems, is having difficulty recruiting chaste young women to train as flight attendants. Things are getting desperate! “We can’t have our girls fooling around with the passengers,” insisted Hao Yu-ping, director of Air China’s flight attendant school in Beijing.

Chinese Airbus, circa 1992

Virginity is not the only requirement. There are other restrictions as well. Not only do you need to be a virgin aching for only chaste, pure adventure, you also have to have perfectly formed feet. Pigeon toes or what Hao calls “duck feet” are not acceptable, nor “knock knees, bow legs, pimples, warts, moles, dark skin, squints, scars and bad breath.” Smelly armpits, which Hao describes as “a disease” would also disqualify you. Seems lady Hao is an expert when it comes to armpits and has smelled more than a few in the course of her career.

Apparently no one told Ms. Hao that virgins are an endangered species. The only one still known to exist, rumor has it, will never do since she has all the disqualifying features described above, which may be why she has remained chaste. And, how, I wonder, does Air China verify a prospective female attendant’s virginity? Are they interrogated days on end without food or water under a bare light until hunger and exhaustion make them confess? Are families, friends, former teachers and schoolmates called before a tribunal to testify about the applicant’s sexual behavior? Or, is each hopeful subjected to a thorough physical examination? And by whom?

Air China flight attendants, 1992

Then, I wonder, what would happen if a straight-legged, nice smelling, clear-skinned, attractive, virginal cabin attendant meets a similarly blessed young male and (heaven forbid) gives in to desire — in spite of all the rules? Would she then be tossed out a plane window over the ocean to become dinner for a crab? And, how would Hao find out? Will sex spies be planted amongt the passengers to watch for miscreants to give themselves away? Will these spies check for an unusual glint in the eye or a careless, telltale spring in the walk? Perhaps a ready smile when handing a passenger a meal of white buttered bread and a slender slice of preserved meat is a sure giveaway. In any case, Hao has a tough assignment and you, dear readers just might come to the rescue. Are there any virgins still out there? This could be the job for you.’

In 1992 I was surprised that my somewhat conservative, younger editor even printed it, and as for virgin readers, I got no response. Would I lie to you?

Falling in love, literally

If at all possible, I go out for breakfast in the morning. There are a few others in the neighborhood who do likewise. We’ve gotten to know each other and chat over coffee or tea. It can make for a stimulating, interesting, or amusing start to the day. Last week, Nancy and I, who talk about everything and anything, were sharing some of our embarrassing moments. Isn’t it amazing how years later we can laugh about things that seemed so awful at the time they happened?

Here’s one I shared: When I first met my husband, I thought him handsome and charming and mysterious. The ‘r’s’ rolled off his tongue and his accent was irresistible. He seemed to hang on to my every word as his hazel eyes gazed into mine. After meeting, our first date was on New Year’s Eve. He gave me only the obligatory kiss at midnight which was okay for a first real date. When he said goodnight, he invited me to go with him the next afternoon to the Arboretum. (A beautiful, large garden in Arcadia, California, where I had never been.) After that, he said, we would go out for dinner.

I was pleased. I accepted. That year on January 1st the sun shone brilliantly in Southern California. It was a perfect day for an outing. We strolled under the sunshine along an all-but deserted pebble path between colourful, blooming camellia trees. It was lovely. Great. Magical.

He kissed me, right there…

Suddenly, with no one else around, he took me in his arms and kissed me — right there. This was our first rrreeeaaalll kiss. I’m cool. I wanted to impress; to seem sophisticated; to act as if it were no big deal for me to be kissed like that right out there under the sky and the sun and the flowering trees in front of the whole wide, beautiful world. So, pretending to be absolutely collected and unfazed, with what I believed was proper dignity and decorum, I calmly turned from him to continue walking ahead along the pebble path and —– fell flat on my face.

He helped a somewhat shaken and very embarrassed, humiliated me to my feet. What would you have done in my place???? I could do nothing more than draw on what was left of my sense of humour to survive the devastating moment.

`”See what happens when you kiss me?” I laughed, though I didn’t at all think it was funny. I wanted to die at that very moment. I wished the earth would open up and swallow me whole, so I could disappear forever and ever and never have to face him again. And, surely, I had blown it anyway and would never hear from this man after that clumsy fiasco.

We were going out to dinner together, remember? Those were somewhat more formal days in my life. I was wearing a dress, pantyhose and high heels, appropriate restaurant wear, but frankly, not that great an idea for an afternoon in the park, but I had wanted to look my best.

My knees were dirt and pebble-encrusted and altogether a bloody mess. My pantyhose were shredded at the knees, hanging loosely with long decorative runs going in all directions interwoven with dripping blood running downwards as we walked, making matters worse.

In vain, I tried to wash my knees at the first public bathroom I saw, which had no soap, only cold water, and those dreadful, hard, brown paper towels they sometimes have in such places. There was no choice but to discard what was left of my damaged hose, and to continue on my way stocking-less in my high-heeled shoes. (I always did, and still hate to be barefoot in shoes. I don’t understand how anyone can do it. )

Nonetheless, he gallantly took a somewhat disheveled me, sans stockings — scraped, bleeding knees and all, out to dinner to a very romantic French restaurant up in the hills. We walked through the lovely garden grounds in the cool of the evening, and when he later dared kiss me again (miracle of miracles) I hardly felt the pain in those knees. (Later, they became infected and I had to go see my doctor.)

To me, he seemed a thoughtful, soft-spoken and good-looking Continental who recited French poetry with passion.

How could I resist….

(Not that I always understood it all, but it certainly sounded good.) Besides, he would tuck charming little notes under my front door, and buy me daisies because, he said, they are very French. How could I resist?

What happened next? I fell two more times in his company. (High-heels, I realize, were always a problem for me.) The third time, he announced that he’d just have to marry me because I needed someone to hold me up. And, after all, we did marry.

Some tips from a lady who has been there:  After marrying the person you choose, continue doing some of the lovely things you charmed him/her with in the first place. And, try to keep your promises.