Tag: Canada

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The Bands Face West

People like order. I know that some would argue there are many who hate organization, and would rather live in their own mess, but usually these are younger adolescents who really aren’t sure what it is they want.

I was recently hanging clothes on the line with my grandfather when it struck me once again how much order matters to so many people. Having spent some time in the US Navy, my grandfather with his military style neatness is no exception. Everything around the house has its own place and function, and after an article or tool is used, it goes right back to the exact spot from which it came. Everything is labelled and put away in boxes to ensure that it is always there when it is needed. 

And so it was, that as I began to help him hang the clothes, we got to the underwear, and he reminded me that “the bands should face West.” Each pair of underwear had to be hung on its side, and all in the same direction, with the elastic band facing West, toward the old garage. I’m not quite sure why that orientation was chosen, but regardless, that was the way they were hung. The result, was a neat string of underwear on the line all facing west with no discrepancy between them. 

And the tendency towards order doesn’t stop there. The very fact that roads run in straight lines and rules are made to keep cars on them are testimonies to the value of order in the running of infrastructure. People shuffle along in lines, waiting for tickets to football games while others wait on a bench for the bus to arrive at its designated stop. We live in a country where things work and are designed to work like clockwork – and for the most part, they do. Buses and trains arrive and depart almost precisely when they were scheduled to. Even engines and machinery have to work according to a certain order and system, and if they don’t, they’re usually considered broken or finicky.

However, there are places where order is not the rule of thumb. It is there that you find all sorts of creativity in transport, from how much is transported, to how many are transported.  Buses tend to come at whatever time they arrive, and cues are usually replaced by mobs of elbows and fingernails competing to get to the desired booth or door. Electricity goes out for hours, and traffic lights are often dim poles that hang over the demolition derby below. Things do get done, but when is usually a mystery and how is usually a miracle. So, unless people would rather move and live to these places where life is generally a colourful chaos, which personally I enjoy – they should buckle down, clean their room and make sure their underwear band is facing West. 

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Galvanism is no Myth

I think Dr. Frankenstein had something going with his ideas of electricity bringing life through galvanism. Though Frankenstein dreamed big, wanting to animate a body and create a human, I think perhaps he would have done better to start small, and to choose a subject somewhat less destructive.

For me, this subject came in the form of a Danish pastry. Brought on the verge of its expiry date, it was then neglected in its box, left for time to harden its once soft and supple, delicious, sugary middle. To me, this poor Danish pastry was dead, there could be no remedy but the rubbish bin. However, that was not to be. I was quickly assured by Grandma that if zapped in the microwave, its hard and dead body would soon be brought back to life and would be edible again. Sure enough, after a short time of being zapped the microwave, the Danish pasty was soft and warm, its sides easing in as if exhaling from a living breath.

It would appear galvanism is no myth. My Grandma knows of its powers.

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Polite Canadians

Why is it Canadians are always so polite? While obviously a stereotype, there is still some truth in the general assumption that Canadians are polite people. Canadians will often say sorry if someone bumps into them, as if it was their fault for ever existing and being in someone’s way. Everything from ATM machines to receipts in Canada say thank you, and all this just because you used them.
I was part of an alumni soccer tournament this weekend, featuring two boy’s teams from my college as well as a team of past graduates, hence ‘the alumni tournament.’ During one of the games, two players from opposite sides vying for the ball in the air happened to knock heads. The student was fine and seemed completely unhurt, but the alumni, we were told later, had broken his cheek bone in three places. Immediately he started to bleed out of his nose. He will actually be undergoing surgery tomorrow because of it. However, despite the fact that the man had just broken his cheek bone into pieces, he walked off the field past the spectators saying, “Sorry if I bleed on you.” It still makes me laugh to think of how polite and considerate he could be despite being in pain and bleeding so profusely.

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SLOW

I went running today out at a small lake a ways from my house. I took my bike, rode through a winding path and eventually arrived at the lake where I chained my bike to a nearby bench. There is a path that runs around the lake and I had decided to run along the path and arrive back at the bench where I had left my bike.

I obviously need to go running more often, since I grew tired very quickly as I ran. I was getting especially tired when I passed the most aggravating sign. It read ‘SLOW.’ Perhaps under normal conditions this sign is merely a caution, telling cars or bicycles to travel slow as they go around the corner where the visibility was low. However, for me, travelling on foot, it served more as a declaration than a caution. How depressing it was to be breathing heavily, pushing myself along a small dirt path to see a sign telling me that I was going slow. Thank you very much! Maybe next time the town could think of something a bit more encouraging to say as I struggle along my run.

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The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree

I went over with my parents a few days ago to help clean out some of the food that my grandma had been keeping in her cupboards, and had long since expired. It was not a pleasant experience. She had boxes and boxes of food that she didn’t need, old spaghetti that had been forgotten and cans and cans of soup which she never ate.

I got the wonderful job of taking the jars of food that was past the expiry date and dumping them into the compost bin outside my grandma’s apartment. Standing in front of the bin with a cardboard box full of jars and a plastic spoon in my hand, I couldn’t help but wish I didn’t have to be there. I should have been eating my grandma’s homemade cookies or having tea with her in her sitting room. That would have been more normal. But instead, I was leaning over a compost bin, watching old salsa and jam plop into the pile of decomposing slop that already filled the bin.

I couldn’t decide if I preferred the runny jars or the solid ones. The runny ones would dribble out, splattering into the bin like vomit or diarrhoea, which was sickening to hear. But at the same time, the more solid ones would hit the bottom with a plop, their jelly sides wobbling as they oozed into the pile. And as I stood there leaning over the compost bin, dumping out a jar of pickled herrings that should have long since been eaten, I hoped I would never end up like my grandma in my old age, hoarding away food to forget about it and let it go stale with negligence. I know an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but I really hope that this one gets whipped far away by the wind.