Work and Play - Patricia Bain
Patricia Bain works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same
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When asked to volunteer backstage for the 52nd annual Fay Gleeson Dance recital I responded with an enthusiastic “yes!”. I was so in! And just so you know, working backstage means working backstage at Thunder Bay’s Community Auditorium. In terms of Thunder Bay’s performance venues, this is the top banana.
Images of cuing performers and managing the artists’ needs in the Green Room had me congratulating myself for landing yet another plum volunteer job. So it was humbling when I arrived to learn that working backstage meant babysitting the 2 to 9 year olds between their dance numbers. Literally I was responsible for keeping the kids amused, toileted, and quiet through the thirty-four dance acts and the closing finale. Sigh. “Poof” went the notion of any glamour in this gig. It evaporated right before my eyes.
To appreciate the scene you have to picture one hundred kids in costume and full stage makeup all buzzed up for their special moment on the big stage under the bright lights. Terrifying stuff. And then imagine these same kids in a fixed, confined space absent of any natural light. Then toss in a busload of parent delivered cookies and rice crispie squares and now you’ve got an image of scary land.
So one would be well advised to have a few tricks up the proverbial sleeve. We played nonstop movies and offered marker and crayon drawing stations for our multi talented artistes. We repaired costumes as they caved in from rehearsals and the two big shows using safety pins, glue guns and staples. And we stockpiled toilet paper for the never ending personally escorted bathroom runs.
But what do you do when the four year old dripping with tears refuses to wear her tap shoes onstage because her feet hurt? Somehow her feet had grown two sizes since September and jamming the shoes on her feet meant her toes had to be folded near down to her arches. Safe to say I wasn’t going to do any force fit. So I sent her onstage barefoot and tear free. She danced like Isadora Duncan. The kid was in a special place as she worked through her steps and played to her adoring audience.
And then there was the five year old in the pink ruffle leotard who’d arrived resplendent in some kind of wig supplement to her natural hair. It involved fake hair wrapped around a comb that was pinned to her natural pony tail. I think the child should have arrived with an explanatory note just for the volunteers. When that child’s hair hit the floor, the volunteers were left gasping.
Some kids had more than one dance number meaning we had to figure out the next costume and matching footwear. Did the dance require taps, clogs, ballet shoes or bare feet? How’s a volunteer to know? What footwear goes with a dance number called “Spice It Up”?
The two kids who stole my heart that night were two beautiful two year old toddler twins. Normally I don’t respond to the contrived cutie pie thing, but these wee girls were highly enjoyable. Stuffed backstage with their classmates and stranger volunteers, I marvelled at how good natured they were and how much joy they took from their experience. The girls were charming and relaxed and clearly having the time of their lives. And when one of them let loose with a river of pee that sent a couple of volunteers into nasty urine slides, the twins couldn’t have been more forthcoming with who did what and why. They were totally cute backstage. And they were past adorable onstage. The smell would have knocked you over, but cute? Dead on. Catch a children’s dance recital. It’s way up there on my life list. And congratulations Fay Steadwell on putting dance on the big stage for 52 years and for making performance dreams live and breathe.
May 2010
My friend Mary told me she had come across a few of my columns, and after some kind comments, she came to the point. She asked how I’d landed on calling the column “Work and Play”.
“I get the play part”, she said. “But where’s the work?”
Where’s the work? What a great question. What a solid question.
If you’ve read my column more than twice, you know that I take the job of having fun dead seriously. It’s true. I won’t dodge it. I could suggest to you that it takes a lot of work to have as much fun as I squeeze in a week, but you’re too smart for that.
My thin defence is merely this. I get tremendous pleasure out of my simple daily world and out of simple daily work.
When my cousin Steve hosted us in San Diego this winter, I noticed his vintage teak dining room chairs were in need of a makeover. The chairs had beautiful lines and were in impeccable shape, but there were no seat covers remaining.
They had been found in the late 70’s at a San Clemente flea market for a song, but after all these years, the seat material was in tatters.
On a whim and on the sly, my Sweetie and I made a sixteen dollar fabric purchase (80% off at a close out store) and when no one was looking, we delivered 90 focused minutes reupholstering the pieces to produce a small thank you gift – four recovered and transformed chairs.
Was it work? Not really. An hour and a half isn’t a 40 hour work week, but it was a project. And yes, we’d acted on impulse. We had wanted to surprise Steve and thank him for his awesome hospitality. It was in fact a total kick. But it was also a little scary. What if Steve hated the fabric I chose? Or, what if he felt we’d overstepped the bounds of houseguests?
But luckily it worked. Steve was thrilled. His grin and surprise were all we’d hoped for. He said the chairs were gorgeous. And for the minimal work involved, we had all that fun.
On another work note, the garden’s lilac trees had reached sixteen feet in height and were disastrously involved in the overhead hydro wires and our good neighbours’ clothesline operation.
Over three days my Sweetie and I whacked those suckers (hah!) down. It was slogging work. It took a chainsaw, clippers, and the task of bundling four half ton truck loads of branches with twine. But then…, whee… we had four trips to the dump in the borrowed 1986 Dodge Ram half ton. What a beautiful way to see all the signs of spring in our fair city.
So I don’t know if this explains it, but I want to thank Mary for the question. Frankly, I don’t remember how it came to be, but the title “Work and Play” still works for me. I hope it works for you
April 2010
The younger generations use “OMG” as an exclamation and as an acknowledgement on their email, Facebook and email messages. It works like “message received” but with more enthusiasm. Apparently the acronym stands for “Oh my God!”
My Sweetie and I have had some significant OMGs this past month. We left Thunder Bay in my nine year old compact car, packed with golf clubs, suitcases, books, food, the camera and my laptop.
Our first OMG came when I told Brian my mom was coming with us.
OMG #2 was driving south from snow filled Flagstaff, Arizona and, within fifteen minutes, finding ourselves in summer with the temperature 70 Fahrenheit and Saguaro cacti everywhere.
OMG#3 was playing golf for $15 US which included the electric cart and I’m not talking mini-putt.
OMG#4 was finding ourselves on the summit of Camelback Mountain in Phoenix after a 3 hour hike with a fitter friend. The trail map said 1.2 miles. We hadn’t figured it would be hand over hand vertical climbing through a sleet storm. Reaching the 1200 foot top was euphoric and the view was spectacular.
OMG#5 took place at Sunset Cliffs in San Diego. Perched high on a cliff we were enjoying the zealous surfers far below vying for the biggest wave on the great Pacific. I returned to my book and when my back was turned I was attacked by a wayward Hawaiian Kahuna wave that soaked me from head to foot and left me with a plugged right ear for three days.
Our next OMG took place at the Wild Animal Park, a 900 acre preserve outside of San Diego. Not to be missed, this park saves damaged creatures from around the world and protects them on the preserve. Their newest elephant calf had been born Feb 14 and at 300 pounds was as adorable as a 2 year old toddler – fat cheeks and all.
My Sweetie’s OMG was when we had our oil changed in California for the return trip. The little corner shop changed the oil, filled the tires to appropriate psi, topped up the washer fluid, vacuumed the interior and washed the exterior for….$29.95. Oh, and a 10$ off coupon for our next visit.
Today’s OMG is something for which I don’t think we could have ever prepared. Even with all the National Geographic photos and TV documentaries, the Grand Canyon is simply one of the world’s seven natural wonders. OMG.
March 2010
For ten years now my Sweetie and I have joined in a weekly, friendly game of bridge. Not contract bridge; just kitchen bridge. Lots of conversation, food and fierce competition. We host one night. They host the next. That’s what you’re called in bridge – “We” and “They”.
We host in our kitchen. They host in their dining room. We serve cheese and olives. They serve hummus and crackers. As neighours we can quickly put together a game depending on commitments, family and available time.
One night They came over with a commercial sized Italian salami. That salami was dutifully carted back and forth from house to house until it was done which took us to late fall. That salami was the inspiration for the name of our annual trophy – the Schlong Cup. At the end of each year, the winners’ names are added to the Cup and the losers treat the winners to a dining experience. Losers book the victors’ restaurant choice, perform chauffeur duties and pay for dinner. The winners buy the wine. The losers whine.
In the inaugural year They won. We won year two. The winning teams then alternated annually. And then We won three years in a row. They followed by winning the next two. This is our tenth season and our tenth anniversary is December 31, 2010.
The Schlong Cup has become the rich vein binding our lives together, where the conversation and laughter blooms. One year ( the kids were grown) we found ourselves so tightly scored at year end that we played all Christmas Eve Day trying to wrestle victory from each other’s hands. Thank God the Christmas trees were up and the gifts wrapped, or it would have been a chaotic scramble.
I’ve mentioned these are friendly games, and they are if you can call ten years of calling each other every foul, derisive name known to mankind “friendly”. We’ve even created a fresh, new syllabus of offensive expressions that are actually quite beautiful when you consider the “fittingness” of the new reference to the person being slurred. The creativity is breathtaking. Lenny Bruce has nothing on us when it comes to verbal shock.
And the more offensive the newly coined term, the louder we laugh. We have laughed so hard we’ve been unable to hold our cards. And because it’s outrageous, it’s something we only allow ourselves around the bridge table. It’s sacred.
We’re travelling this winter and were saddened to sacrifice our weekly round of cards; that is until They advised us they would be joining us for a week. And so the game continues. So I’m really hoping I can come up with just one more superlative and radically offensive slur. If We can’t win the Cup, we’re gunning for the creative language competition. Frankly, considering the material We’re working with, it should be a cinch.
February 2010
This bone chilling winter has kept me indoors more than out, so my window of observation has been smaller than usual, but here are a few things you may find interesting.
The Crumpling of the Golf Dome - The two adult sons took their Dad to the Golf Dome to try out the new Christmas golf weapons. When they arrived they were floored to discover the air support structure was down. Wondering what to do next, they inexplicably found themselves at the closest local electronics retailer. Naturally they caved in to the lure of the Siren’s call. They bought a new HD TV. Or rather, they bought a new HD TV for me. Puzzled, I watched as three men wearing matching grins carted a 40 inch box into the house. I remember them saying “Mom, they were practically giving them away”.
The Proroguing of Parliament – Last year at this time I’d never heard the word “prorogue”. Now I can even spell it. Let’s try using it in a sentence…. Does Steven Harper really believe Canadians think he has our best interests at heart when he prorogues Parliament twice in twelve months?
The New Retiree’s Update – My Sweetie had his first day of not working last week. I left at 9 a.m. for a fitness class and was home within two hours to discover the bed had been made; two loads of laundry had been washed, dried, folded and put away; and the dishes were washed. The next day he tackled the bathroom taps that have been backwards for twenty-five years ( you know ~ off is on and on is off). I’m hoping this mania lasts longer than mine did.
Velcro and Laundry - If you have a white jacket with velcro fasteners, and it’s just been washed, be sure to check for signs of hitchhikers before heading out for the evening. Number one son was out on the town. A friend, pointing at his jacket front, said “What’s that?” The son, looking down, was mortified to discover a barge sized pair of my white Jockey panties hanging off the front of his jacket’s placket.
Block Heater Plugs - My Sweetie is wringing his hands over this one. Last winter he replaced my car plug three times and I lost four extension cords. I have earned a reputation for failing to unplug. I drive off while still connected to the power supply. Many times the poor man has chased my car down the street trying to jump on the trailing extension cord to save it from oblivion. The good news is this winter I’ve only ripped off one plug, and with warmer climate plans imminent, perhaps this problem has solved itself!
So stay warm, dear readers. I’ll be in touch from away where I hope the window of observation provides some items for sharing. Don’t forget to unplug!
January 2010
I don’t know how we managed to do it folks, but here we are – full faced in the new beginnings of 2010. January’s winter teeth have already chewed through most of this month. Before we know it, February will take the January hand-off and we’ll be well into the race.
So here it is. I’m serving notice. This year I’ve committed to shaking up the normal. This year the regular calendar routine is being tossed to the winds.
I’m quitting winter.
Not forever, but yes, It’s decided. I’m not doing winter this year. This year is going to be winter free.
Yes, yes, winter is beautiful. Thunder Bay offers glorious living and play opportunities in the winter months. Skiers love it. The ice rinks are packed. And ice huts are popping up on the inland lakes.
But here’s the deal. I haven’t schussed the ski hills in 7 years. And I gave my ice fishing jig to a friend over the holidays. Don’t get me wrong. I love my winter community. I’ve accumulated a lifetime of gorgeous winter memories. All I’m saying is this year I’m taking a pass.
In a few days my Sweetie and I are going on our next road trip. We’re climbing into the car and driving southwest until we hit Arizona.
All we’re taking is a bag apiece, our tennis racquets and our golf clubs. Oh, and my mom. She loves road trips and she’s a beautiful golfer.
Don’t worry about Evil Claire, our kitty. She will not miss us a scrap. Claire likes our new tenants way more than she likes us.
So time to pack away the window scraper. I’ve given my salt pellets to my next door neighbour. There’s no need now to replace the block heater plug I tore off my car while backing out of the driveway last night (I always forget to unplug!). Yep, time for a new caper. Wish us well and I’ll stay in touch. May this New Year bring to each of you health, laughter, friendship, prosperity and at least one good caper. .
December 2009
Somewhere early in my life journey I was introduced to church teas – probably as a Brownie when my Pack was offered up to serve and clear. At the time I didn’t get the fuss. I didn’t understand the “spell of the tea” – women dressed to the nines in hats and gloves making an afternoon of tea, coffee and little sandwiches. Frankly, the whole event held zero appeal for me.
Teas were and continue to be held in church basements. Typically they’re hosted by women’s groups and coupled with bake table offerings and hand crafted goods. They’re held on Saturdays in the fall months before Christmas – and as a young friend once said to me “Mmm mmm mmm – I’ve changed my mind now”.
It took a while but I am a convert – in fact I believe I have become a tea zealot. A childhood friend brought me around. It’s not about getting dressed up or doing early Christmas shopping at the bazaar; or even climbing out of the everyday Rockports and into the dessert shoes. It’s about…. the sandwiches.
You know the ones I mean. They come by many names – dainties, tea sandwiches….. yes, and funeral sandwiches. They’re small, sometimes sliced in stacked finger length ribbons or rolled into swirls with fillings that are as imaginative as Christmas gift giving. Egg salad rounds with gherkin or olive centres, mystery meat stacked on alternating layers of white and brown bread; cream cheese tinted pink with maraschino cherry juice – and no crusts to be found. In short, they are works of art.
Each sandwich is made by the loving hands of working women who have carried on a tradition passed on to them by their mothers and grandmothers for over a hundred years. Tea sandwiches are amazing - soft and varied, beautiful on the plate and scrumptious to the palate.
It takes a full table serving intended for four people to satisfy the glutton called me. So I have taken to buying two tickets at a time so I can brave the dour looks of the Tea Police who patrol the tea room counting how many sandwiches each patron eats, and how long the seat is warmed. Some women gun straight for the sweet plates, but I’m a dyed in the wool, never look back Sandwich Girl.
From a business perspective teas are about turning over tables and generating revenue. The more tickets sold, the better the sales. In the limited church basement space, each table has to be turned over five times to meet revenue goals. It’s a brisk business. Malingerers are savaged (”Would you like a third cup of tea?”). You can savour your beverage at Tim’s – but not at a tea. Teas are for professionals. Here’s what you do.
1. Arm yourself with the newspaper’s tea section and circle the teas located within travelling distance of your home.
2. Calendar your chosen tea sites (note the plural).
3. Lasso a friend or three as fired up about sandwiches as you.
4. Commit.
5. Go early. Teas notoriously run out of the sandwiches first. The gasps I heard last week when the volunteers changed the sign at the entrance from $4.00 to $2.00 because all the sandwiches were gone was heart rendering. I hurried my mother out with our plan B (see point 2).
6. Eat your fair share of sandwiches and drink one cup of coffee or tea with the dainties.
7. Get out of the basement…or at least relinquish your chair to the next waiting patron.
That’s it. Seven little steps to a terrific experience. And if your sandwich Jones still hasn’t been satisfied, do what I do. Corral a church friend who has the recipes and know how. Enlist 4 friends for a 2 hour work party. Make every sandwich choice your group desires. Invite a houseful of friends for an afternoon luncheon the following day. Go nuts and bon appetit.
Patricia Bain works and plays in Thunder Bay. She invites you to do the same.
November 2009
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Sometimes we know too much. More often we know too little. With autumn, I thought I had it all figured out - Leaves changing to golds and orange with the odd touch of red here and there; lovely, warm, pretty and sad all at once making me wonder when the next season will brute its way in. But I was not prepared for the profound and wondrous experience I had travelling through Algonquin Park in October.
Driving through Sault Ste. Marie had me sitting on the edge of my seat, book abandoned so as not to miss a moment. The maples were screaming their reds, and the birch and tamarack turned on their golds heating the palest yellows to rich burnt orange. But nothing could have prepared me for the glory, blaze and wonder of Algonquin Park. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn someone dropped a tab of mescaline in my Timmy’s. I regret I’m unable to do justice to the power and beauty of those autumn colours – go yourself and be prepared to be captivated. It’s drop dead gorgeous.
And speaking of being upended, we were on the regular fall road trip to put the out-laws’ cottage to bed and spend Thanksgiving feasting with family. Next would be an Ottawa stop to see the two grown sons’ new digs. The son you know as the one who refuses to hang up his clothes, met us at his new address near Carleton U with face beaming, anxious to tour us through his new living space.
“Hey!” he said as we greeted and made our way into the apartment , “the shoe mat is there so you’ll take your shoes off before you enter!” Quite right, son. Sheepishly we removed our shoes.
The place was bright and clean. His bed was made. There were works of art on the walls -– some original! Who is this person?
Second son, the first born, lives further north in downtown Ottawa where the nightlife hops, where the walkways wend along the canal, and where people stream past his windows coming and going through the day and into the night. So charming, vibrant and exciting to be right in the thick of things.
You may remember Keidis my Grand Doggie from when he visited as a pup and chewed my prized azaleas in two, devoured several sofa cushions and ate a complete pair of Steve Madden shoes. Back then he took us for daily drags instead of walks. Today Keidis is a poised and well mannered giant of a dog, gentle in every way and responsive to verbal and hand cues. Well done, Keidis.
And Betsy, the twenty – one year old Pontiac Bonneville with 349,000 kilometres on her odometer; the car we use for towing at the cottage, well, she’s decided to self heal once more. She died and then revived just after Thanksgiving. See? We think we have things figured, and then it all gets upended. What a kick. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Patricia Bain works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
October 2009
Big changes are coming to the Work and Play household. Second son returned to school. Firstborn son decided to pursue another college credential (attago) in Ottawa. And current husband has decided to close his career by year’s end.
One of these changes wreaks terror like a cloud of flapping bats in my heart. I am nursing dark fears. My Sweetie is retiring.
And, of course, my fear is all about me. It’s all about my current bliss. And the fear is that my bliss is at risk.
Qualifying that my Sweetie is the most wonderful person I’ve ever known, what’s it going to do to my life having him off career schedule and seeing firsthand the daily home schedule? And what’s it going to do to his view of me seeing my bliss laden daily plans?
For years I’ve managed to sustain modest respect from the clan largely due to my planning skills, my home projects and probably most valued, my skills in the feast department – we like to eat well.
But what they don’t know, and what’s been my best kept secret for quite some time now, is that I normally knock all the chores off by 9:30 in the morning. The rest of the day is mine. Mine, mine all mine.
Are you catching the greedy guts feel of this correspondent’s writing? My deep seated fear is this. My cover is about to be blown.
After 9:30 I’m usually in a dance or fitness class, or I’m enjoying coffee with a klatch of friends who nourish me with their keen interest in books, music, movies, social causes, travel and their fascinating contributions to volunteer community service. I end up falling into all kinds of wonderful community experiences through these inspiring and dear friends.
And then there’s golf, and hiking and tennis and Book Clubs and photography and…. Well wait, I’d better stop here. I don’t want to let it all hang out.
So I started list making for my Sweetie so he can have something to focus on when he retires – some things to keep him engaged - occupied. I can’t tell you how crushed I was to learn that the Thunder Bay Model Railroad Group is disbanding – sigh. I was certain the Engineer would have jumped at that one.
But as I look back over the years, I’ve had to recognize that my fridge lists have gone largely ignored. So I’ve now nixed the list idea. I’ll just have to trust that as he uncovers the truth about this life I’m living, he’ll accept it with the same warmth and grace he’s demonstrated over the years when he’s unearthed yet another toad in my character inventory. Wish me luck.
Patricia Bain works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
p. s. Last month’s Work and Play column suffered a printing error in its final paragraph injuring the story’s intended ending. The paragraph should have read ” And when their celebration closed, and as they packed up to return to the city, there were tears. And when our wee circle of sixteen disbanded the following day, we cried too. So kudos to the woman who gave a year of her life to provide memories to her family of five hundred. It’s such a wonderful thing to get together and enjoy friends and family. And it’s not always easy to do. I’m thinking I’ll host next year’s reunion.”
The paper regrets the printing error.
September 2009
I was reading the other day of a woman who worked the better part of a year organizing a family reunion for 500 people. Some journeyed half way across the world to take part.
My Sweetie and I drove a thousand miles from Thunder Bay to Lake Simcoe for our annual friendship reunion. It’s been six years now without interruption, that we’ve managed to come together – a circle comprised of four families, including eight couples and eight children – a mere sixteen in number. Hardly a record breaking reunion.
Girls who had met in grade 7, now well past middle age and some retired, had stayed connected through the many years- through marriages, babies, divorces, career changes, the death of loved ones, retirement. We have never let go of each other. For years the friendships were nurtured through letters, cards and phone calls. Now it’s more email, Facebook, texting, winter travel, and this annual summer event.
Our children who have mostly lived in different cities still grew up together. The parents had babysat for each other and changed the diapers on whoever’s bum needed attention. The children, now grown, can’t remember a time when they weren’t in each others’ lives. Through the years they have developed their own rich histories that don’t include us.
Last year our gathering was on Big Rideau Lake. This year it was Lake Simcoe.
The sixteen of us came from across the province – St. Catharines, Toronto, Kingston, Montreal, Ottawa. Most drove. Two friends sailed in through the Trent Severn System.
The grown children wanted to know where they’d sleep. “In the hut” said our host as he walked them to a wee lakefront outbuilding that housed four sets of bunkbeds. The building had been put up in l932 and had seen four generations of a single family.
The “kids” promptly renamed it The Orphanage and settled in.
Throughout the weekend we talked, laughed and feasted. We played crokinole, badminton and bocce. Everyone swam and enjoyed the evening fires. By happenstance we stumbled on a fabulous community celebration being held in the park where hundreds of black people, New Canadians with histories from a shared North African country, were dressed in full length togas and dresses the colour of cotton candy. Grandmas and Grandpas and aunties and uncles and parents and friends and kids sang and danced in the afternoon sun to drum and bongo rhythms. Whole families right down to the infants in arms were garbed in the same happy hue of pink.
“And when their celebration closed, and as as they packed up to return to the city, there were tears. And when our wee circle of 16 disbanded the following day, we cried too.
So kudos to the woman who gave a year of her life to provide memories to her family of five hundred. It’s such a wonderful thing to get
together and enjoy friends and family. Not always easy to manage.
I’m thinking I’ll host next year’s return”
June 2009
My mom, this senior’s senior, has tossed many quotes and learning expressions my way. She has a history of strategically lobbing a quote at me from time to time to remind me of who I am, what the learning is and what I need to be to prepared for.
These quotes are sometimes dark or “dour” as we Scots say. And each quote has the power to grind me to a halt. Like grenades jettisoned into a foxhole, they are not to be ignored.
There’s “this too shall pass” meant in good times and bad to remind us that circumstances change, so be ready for the flip. There’s “beware of what you wish for in your youth, for in your maturity you may attain it” which I heard in grade 7 after lamenting that the “girls” were slow to make their debut. And there’s the unforgettable “pride’s painful” meaning what? - waxing hurts? I don’t know.
My mom says she got them from her mother’s mom - my great grandmother. I swore I would never repeat them, and here I am how many years later spilling these quotes across my lips on a daily basis.
So all of this is a preface to number two son’s return to Thunder Bay from his university year in Ottawa. He came home tired and ready for a break from studies. He came home to job hunt in a discouraging northwestern Ontario economy. He came home with laundry you could string from here to Kakabeka.
It was so amazing to have him home again. Our nest had been empty two semesters.
And then my computer workstation was commandeered. Apparently the Mac computer is “sick” (meaning cool) and a burgeoning guitarist/singer/songwriter can create Grammy worthy CDs in the kitchen. This doesn’t mean he cooks. It means I cook while he “creates”. To check email I now sign on for a login appointment.
Then I noticed that the kitchen dishes had disappeared. On a random home walkabout I found 12 dirty plates, 9 glasses and cutlery for 8 in his bedroom. My golf balls disappeared as did my tennis racquet and car. My box of hair colour is MIA.
So I took to the basement to fume and work off my ire through the purging of needless stuff whereupon I stumbled on some JK art circa 1992. I found a tiny green hand print under which was printed the following:
Sometimes you get discouraged because I am so small.
You always find my fingerprints on furniture and walls.
But every day I’m growing up and soon I’ll be so tall
That those wee handprints will one day be difficult to recall.
So here’s a special handprint just so you can say
This is how my fingers looked when I placed them here today.
Wow. What a mean trick. Guess who the JK teacher was? (Ba da bump!) ….. My mother! Yep, Mrs. Bain the Isabella JK teacher. So it’s hard to tell the manboy to go clean his room when I’m all too aware “this too shall pass”, but I’ll suck it up.
Patricia Bain works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
May 2009
For the first time I missed my newspaper deadline. Typically my column is turned in on time or even before it’s due. My editor considers me a “low maintenance” columnist. Well kiss that goodbye.
I awoke this morning with the ripping and gripping understanding that my column was due yesterday. Yipes. At 7:15 a.m. I’m sitting at my computer typing like a mad woman.
I won’t even allow myself to check email for fear my editor has grown horns and has fire coming out of his fonts.
You see, it’s not that I missed the deadline on purpose. Frankly, and this is the part I find interesting, I fully and completely forgot all about you. Sad isn’t it?
You see, I was so fed up with winter that when friends asked us to the desert for a dash vacation, I jumped. We spent every airmile we had. We clawed our way to the heat and palm trees, and to tennis and golf. It’s been a long winter.
And when our travel companions returned to Canada, we extended our trip and hopped over to Southern California to see some favourite cousins.
Who knew the desert was so great? I’ve always been passionate about the ocean, but I wasn’t expecting to be captivated by the desert.
Some favourite things…
98 degrees in Arizona feels like 72. Imagine sunny skies, balmy temperatures, and zip humidity. Eighteen holes of golf and three sets of tennis can be played drip free.
Golf for two with a power cart hit the plastic at $49.00 for eighteen holes. Unflippingbelievable.
Lip balm’s your friend, regardless of gender.
A mesa is a landform that is wider than it is high and a butte is one that is higher than it is wide. Go figure.
And did you know that the Saguaro cactus (the one that looks like a cowboy from the Road Runner cartoons ) grows as a single stump for fifty years before it gets its first arm? I love this kind of stuff.
This one kills me - a bottle of wine bought here for $18 can be had in Arizona and California for $ 3.99 (that’s US dollars mind you).
And did you know that avocados dropping off the trees in San Diego are a buck each? I don’t care what the currency exchange reads today – that’s about the same
April 09
Closeted since November, our cat Claire is even more mean spirited than usual. She has always been nasty; devoid of affection or kindness – hence her nickname Evil Claire. But after the longest and most brutal winter since 1995, Miss Claire has hit diabolical.
Claire came to us six years ago. We adopted her mom Della May from the stables and Claire tagged along as the last unplaced kitten from Della’s litter. Della was lovely. She was a wonderful mother, loving and sweet natured. At first we thought Claire was just spunky.
Everything got ugly when we decided to have mother and daughter spayed. A good friend and vet performed the procedures.
Della May died on the operating table. Twice. The vet revived her once and didn’t Della die a second time! Our friend and vet revived her yet again, and in the end Della survived and returned with daughter Claire to resume life with us. Except, Della was never the same.
Hey eyes wandered, her demeanour was radically changed and though still sweet, Della was operating well reduced from her former self. We lovingly called her Mortadella. It’s a dark Scottish thing. Forgive us.
Daughter Claire was traumatized over the changes and took it out on her mother. Vicious nips to Della’s exposed tush became the norm. Keeping the peace was a steady challenge.
Della lived four more years. Della died for the third and final time while we were away. Della up and died on our cat sitters. We were vacationing in Southern Ontario. Marg and Faye were tag team cat sitting.
I remember the call. The cell phone rings on my back swing. We’re on the fourth hole at Rideau Lakes Golf and Country Club. I regret to advise I was mildly irritated with the interruption.
“Patti?”
I can’t recognize the voice through the sobs.
“Yes?”
“The cat died”, says Marg.
“Which one?” I ask.
“Della May” gulps Marg.
Big pause. “Couldn’t you have killed the other one?” I say.
Dear reader, please know I recognize my remark was dark. Way dark. And insensitive. In point of fact, the words just flew out.
Marg erupts into laughter. I respond in kind. And after we’ve laughed ourselves to the “whews”, Marg says, “Claire is a piece of work, isn’t she?”
And my penance? Why Evil Claire, of course. She lives. She’ll live longer than I will. Claire has not once graced a warm lap, nor offered a friendly lick with her sandpaper tongue. Frankly she is ill tempered, vicious and bossy – the worst cat we’ve ever had. But she holds our hearts and love in those silver paws.
Mind you, if someone out there finds through this tale that they’ve fallen for the lovely Miss Claire, give me a shout and we’ll talk.
Patricia Bain lives, works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
March 09 
.
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My high school French has been parked for decades. So when I agreed to a Montreal rendezvous with my sons, goddaughter and dear friend, it crossed my mind that the French language might pose a challenge.
I rehearsed phrases like. “Excuzes-mois. Ou est la toilette?” and such.
We booked two hotel rooms in a scrumptious hotel at Sherbrooke and Peel - right downtown. We didn’t want to miss a beat of the Montreal feel and groove. What a town. Oo-la-la. The food, the entertainment, the stores, the style quotient. Wow.
The good sons let me pay for the hotel room, their new jeans (why are they so expensive if they come with holes?), dinner and breakfast.
The goddaughter, in her first year of Engineering at McGill, was thrilled with the Ontario groceries we brought. All was going swell until the hotel forgot who we were.
We checked in, found our rooms and headed out for an adventure. Upon return, I called the front desk with an inquiry and learned that I hadn’t check in and the five of us didn’t exist.
I was, however, calling from the room they had provided at check-in. Recognizing these things happen, I happily re-registered for our two rooms.
But when I tried to call my sons’ room I was advised “Ce n’est pas possible, Madame” … (en francais) …”there is no such room as 2023.” Hmmm.
So I registered again (trois fois if my French serves me right). There, that should do it. Done.
The next day we were leaving. We’d had such a wonderful time. The laughter had been non-stop. I tell you, there’s nothing like spending time with the creatures you brought into this world and rediscovering yet again that they are and always will be….themselves. Delicious. Their stunning humour, the way they tweak our flaws – gently, with love – with killer instinct. What a time.
However, running behind schedule, I called the front desk to see if we could extend our check out time from 11 am time to 1 pm.
And again the front desk was unable to recognize us as guests or our rooms as being part of their establishment. And that’s when the last laugh from our magic weekend was launched.
In my lame French I said “Well Madame. If we don’t exist, and our rooms don’t exist, you won’t mind then if we stay on a few more hours?” Her laughter was as loud as ours. Merci, Montreal. Until next time… is that ” ? bientôt” in French?
Patricia Bain lives, works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
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February 09
“Hello?” I gasped into the telephone.
Moments earlier I’d been buried head, shoulders and hips in my basement chest freezer. My legs were sticking up in the air when the phone rang. I was rummaging around for a random block of frozen mystery meat for dinner.
So when the phone rang, it took some effort to extricate myself, hit the stairs and get to the call before it went to voicemail.
“Hello?” I panted.
“Is this Patti Bain?” said the voice.
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
And the fastest talker I’d encountered in a very long while launched…..
“Well,myhusbandisahousepainter,andsomeonenamedPattiBaincalledforapaintquote,andIsaid‘PattiBain!CouldthatbemyPattiBain?’SoIjusthadtocall.AndsoIcalledher,butshewasn’tthePattiBainIknew,soIgotcuriousandhitthephonebookandI’mwonderingifyou’rethePattiBainIknow,andifyouare,doyourememberme? MynameisStaceyParks….”
Stacey Parks. Ba-da-boom.
I stopped short.
“Stacey Parks! Is that you? Stacey, it’s been over thirty years. Where the hell have you been? Are you in Thunder Bay?”
Yes, was the answer, and it had been, in fact, thirty-six years since we’d connected.
A hundred years earlier our parents had been high school friends. When our parents married, and had their babies, we were raised alongside each other.
We shared clothes, Christmas celebrations and every summer we shared two delicious weeks in a rustic little cabin on Lake Agimac in Ignace, Ontario. Each day we swam for hours in the shallow, warm and white sand bottomed lake. We built bridges and dams, trapped minnows, made forts, fished and hiked to the store a mile each way to buy candy. We’d saved all winter to have two dollars in “tuck money” for camp, and each day, after the blistering hot walk up the highway, we would make torturous decisions about what we would buy.
When we were about 15 Stacey’s dad offered to drive us and Stacey’s brother and friend to Toronto in an ancient station wagon so we could attend sports camp. This would never have happened had it not been for Mr. Parks.
We drove fifteen hours that first day – which seemed an eternity for four kids riding in the back and the “back-back” as we called it. Of course, there was no air conditioning. When we stopped for the night, we learned from our driver and leader that we kids were to put up all tents, make the fire and cook dinner for the driver. Fabulous learning.
So suffice to say Stacey and I share a ton of history. Girl talk, teenage angst, “Let’s Put on a Play” stuff, complexion and boob comparisons…
Stacey was a year older and went to nursing school. She took her first job in Newfoundland. There she married, raised a family, and twenty years later, moved to North Carolina where she nursed for another seventeen years. A year ago Stacey returned to Thunder Bay to be closer to her mom.
Through the years our letters fell off, and then, yes, even the annual Christmas card. But last Saturday night Stacey and her sweetie Harold came to our home for dinner. They met our Thunder Bay friends and we dined, drank wine, told umpteen stories and laughed ourselves silly. It was a night of magic. Thirty six years were erased before our eyes.
Don’t you just love how a day can surprise the socks off you and bring you a gift so big and brilliant? Giddyup 2009.
Note to Reader: The name Stacey Parks is fictitious. My long lost and newly found friend, however, is not.
Patricia Bain lives, works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
Jan. 09
I’m mad as hell. My account has been hacked and I’ve been taken for a significant sum of money.
And if that’s not enough to frost my cakes, the fitness facility where I’ve been a member for 30 years told me that if I didn’t let them take my photograph for their membership records, my paid membership might be in jeopardy.
My mad just doubled.
Here’s the story.
I went to an ATM to take out a few bucks. I was denied. When I called my bank, the staff confirmed that my account had been compromised by an untraceable perpetrator.
Two suspicious withdrawals were on record. Each withdrawal was in the same amount. Each came out of my personal account. And each transaction sailed through in a nanosecond. The second withdrawal was within five minutes of the first.
My bank was first to notice the fraud (good news); hence the freeze on my account. The bank rep advised that the money would be replaced (big whew and thank you).
They were, however, unable to advise as to how this had happened. They speculated on a number of scenarios, none of which rang true for me. The bank suggested I change my password, and avoid wireless online banking and electronic money transfers – a tough piece of advice in today’s web world.
Interestingly, the bank assured me that a police report wasn’t necessary – does anybody else find this curious? How can the magnitude of online fraud be assessed if victims are counselled not to register the crimes with police? I found this bit unsettling).
So since then, and understandably I believe, I’ve become nervous about releasing any personal information where I believe it to be unnecessary.
Those who collect information are charged provincially and federally with safe keeping the data. My experience has been this ain’t happening – at least to my personal standard. Remember the major retailer whose online security system was hacked a few years ago? Well now when I make a purchase and I’m asked “Phone number?”, hot fired coals couldn’t bring me to utter those digits for their database. And in answer to postal code or address, I merely say I don’t provide personal information. I’ve met with resistance but to date, it has not been a problem.
And as for that digital photo to access a fitness facility, I ask you, how could this possibly be “necessary”? If my membership card without a photo won’t do and the staff members don’t know my face, I would be pleased to produce my driver’s license or my medical card, both of which have photos proving that I am indeed me. That should do, don’t you think?
But back to data, folks. Hang on to it. Protect it. Mind it. Report missing/lost/stolen documents. Don’t reply to queries for your credit card numbers or your SIN. Never relinquish a password. And when someone asks you for personal information, ask them why they need it. Then judge for yourself.
Patricia Bain lives, works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
December Issue
Last week my ophthalmologist directed me to the hospital for an eye angiogram - something about an unstable eye.
First they put drops in my eyes and had me wait eyes closed for twenty minutes. Then I was led into a back room where they injected dye into my arm.
All this was in readiness for a digital photo taking procedure. Digital images would be captured on file as my eyes were exposed to brilliant flashes of strobe lights trained through my dilated pupils to the back of my eyes’ retinas. Intense.
The technician says “your pee will be fluorescent for two days and your skin will be orange”, which prompts her assistant to say “remember when that 82 year old man brought in photos of his name written across the snow in bright neon yellow?” We all laugh.
And then there’s a sequence of disturbing sounds as we continue our way through the eye test. I hear creaking, and crashing and crunching. I ask “what’s all that racket? Is there an MRI close by?”
“Nah, that’s just the clock. When the clocks fell back a few weeks ago, every clock in the place reacted badly. Our clock keeps making these bizarre sounds. Keeps good time though”. And we all laugh.
Then the assistant says “Well, I think I’ve earned my assertiveness certificate today”.
The technician inquires “how’s that?”.
And the assistant goes on… “We haven’t had hot water in this wing for two days now, so I haven’t been able to warm the speculums. The patients have not been pleased. So today I took the bull by the horns and sent an email to administration.”
“Good for you” said the technician.
“I signed your name” said the assistant. We all laugh.
Isn’t it wonderful how making someone smile or laugh can take the dread and edge out of a hairy situation? And don’t you just love the folks who get this and make an effort to bring humour into these kinds of situations. God bless these special angels. May your speculums (specula?) always be warmed!
Patricia Bain lives, works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
“Vern, how many kilometers have you racked up on this car?”
Each fall we journey Kingston way to help the out-laws put the family cottage to bed. Me, my Sweetie, his brother and my father-in-law are driving up from Kingston to the lake.
My father-in-law at 88 is vital and inspires me with his vigor. He along with his two sons total three engineers. And then there’ s me.
“343,101 clicks” is his reply. Engineers can be very precise.
The jobs ahead of us can sometimes be daunting, but when the weather’s glorious, as it was that day, we were eager to be outside enjoying the colours and get at it. We’d be scrubbing, raking, removing the water connection, hauling out the boat. And all the while I’d be working alongside three engineers.
It’s been my experience that engineers are cut from a different cloth. Well, a different cloth from me anyway. Conversations tend to be linear and factual. So over the years I’ve learned to bring books and CBC radio so I can multitask – work, visit and amuse myself simultaneously. It keeps me from doing outrageous things that can derail engineers in their important work – like raking leaves.
It’s also been my experience that engineers take terrific interest in things like motors, computers, roads and the stock market. So as we drive along in Vern’s 1989 Pontiac Bonneville, I next ask, “Did you buy it new?”
“Nope.” Now this would normally have ended Vern’s response, but my father-in -law, a sweet man, has learned over the years that I enjoy a more fulsome conversation. He offers “I bought it from a second hand dealer in 1990. At that time It had 50,000 clicks on it”.
“Wow, you’ve been driving this vehicle 18 years? That’s incredible. Does it cost you much to maintain?” (You have to know, dear reader, that after my third question, I know I’m pushing it.)
Back to his taciturn self, “1,000 dollars a year.”
And then there was a CLUNK. CLUNK – just like that. A simple, taciturn yet definite car CLUNK.
And then the engine light lit up producing an ominous amber glowing message - “Engine maintenance required”.
My brother-in-law says “Was that a clunk or a thump? Did it come from the engine? Do you think it’s the transmission?”
And all of a sudden there were more conversations going on than you’d find at a church basement tea. The car was a buzz with conversation. Three engineers at work.
We pulled off the road. The men decided to keep the car running.
They circled the car. They lifted the hood. They checked the fluid levels. They commiserated. They looked up the road to the cottage and down the road back to Kingston. In deference to me, I believe, it was decided to return to Kingston and find a garage.
And she drove beautifully home. Nothing happened. We kept power. We kept driving. We drove straight to the garage. And there they turned the car off and marched three abreast into the mechanic’s office to discuss Old Betsy.
Two minutes later they returned grinning with success. The mechanic could take the car right away. So Old Betsy was fired up again.
And lo and behold, there was no engine light flashing.
“Hmmm, said the engineers. A second consultation ensued. I heard stuff like “Perhaps the sensor came on with the CLUNK and on re-ignition the sensor rebooted just like a computer…. Car sounds fine……car is behaving well….
Next thing I know we’re back on the road heading back to the cottage. We drove there without incident. In fact, after a full and productive work day under a glorious warm sun we drove home to Kingston without a hint of car trouble.
The next day we drove back to the cottage. In Betsy. Another fabulous day. We finished our chore list and enjoyed our dock picnic amidst the riot of colour from the changing maple, oak, birch, sumac and poplar trees.
“So Vern”, I say. “Betsy did a pretty fine job for us this weekend, don’t you think?”
“She always does” he says. As I mentioned earlier, Vern is a man of few words.
Betsy is a 1989 Pontiac Bonneville. She has a 3.8, 6 cylinder engine. The engineers have climbed under her to reinstall her brakes 3 times. In 1999 she was repainted. Her oil is changed seasonally without fail. And to add to her fame, she is now known as “self healing”. May we all be Betsy’s in these lives we live.
Patricia Bain lives, works and plays in Thunder Bay and invites you to do the same.
I’m a total sucker for road trips. There’s something about road trips that captures my rebel spirit. There’s something about having my back to where I’ve been that excites me. When it comes to road trips, I’m a cinch.
We left the son behind to his summer job and we drove to Kingston. The house was scrubbed, stocked and perfect when we left.
Calling from the road, I reach the son. He can’t hear me for the din of the party rocking on in the background.
“Did you feed the cat?” I bellow.
“What cat?” shouts the kid.
“Did you empty the cat’s box?” I persevere.
“Hat box? I can’t hear you” exclaims the kid. “Your connection is breaking up…” . Click.
I amuse myself with food, books, music and the Golden Oldies Road Trip Game. That’s where you hear a song, and the first person to name the song and artist scores a point. Two notes in and the driver exclaims “Love Shack! B52s!” Next song, the intro begins… “Billy Idol! White Wedding!”. I’m not faring well. And then I hear my chance and go for the jugular. “Patsy Cline!
Crazy!” I scream. And I receive that beautiful warm smile from the driver that tells me I can still surprise the socks off him.
And a note to all the Oldies DJs – there are 2 fatal announcing mistakes that kick the stuffing out of this game - one is announcing the song and artist before it’s played, and worse, is when you fail to announce the song at all! Work with us here.
We arrive late at the infamous Mildew Drop Inn. I can rough it to save a few bucks. The Mildew Drop Inn has a charming way of using shower curtains for drapes. Our view of the lake is only seen as we pull out early next morning. Charge $129.00. Next year it’s the Ritz.
“What’s in the cooler?” asks the driver on Day Two. Ah, the magic of the traveling cooler. We love to pack special treats and surprise each other with our creative provisions. When the kids traveled with us, they hated the cooler. Clamping their hands over their noses they’d shout “Yew! Gross! Cover it up! Close the lid! Where’s McDonalds?” Olives and cheeses and smoked fish would commingle in the cooler producing pungent breath stopping aromas. Not for the feint hearted.
We’ve been making this road trip for over 20 years. I ask the driver if we can make a pit stop. He looks at me aghast. “But we always stop at the General Store in North Bay.” he says. “We haven’t hit North Bay yet!”
The driver likes his routine. Tweny years ago he preplanned the route using a stop watch, CAA Trip Ticks (now Mapquest) and a slide rule. Not one variance in 20 years.
“Just for fun, let’s gas up at the Esso instead of the Shell?” I suggest.
Again, terror registers. “Why are you doing this to me?” he rails. “You know this travel plan works. It’s efficient, and it hasn’t let us down in 20 years.”
“Yeah, well 20 years ago the bladder seemed to hold more effectively. And Esso doesn’t sell fudgicles” I say. “Come on, take a walk on the wild side. Stop at Esso.”
Every spring my women friends and I do a road trip. Every summer the driver and I do a road trip. And I like to think that every day is a road trip. Hold on to your hats. We’re hitting cruising speed.
Patricia Bain lives, works and plays in Thunder Bay and invites you to do the same.
June 2008 issue
My kids are big into surprises. Me? Not so much. I’m wondering if it’s just one more of those generational differences.
Son #2 came home from school in Ottawa for the summer. His brother just graduated from university and is now residing in Ottawa. The older brother decided to surprise us and drive a thousand miles across the province to visit.
To keep him company on the trip, he brought along his new puppy – a six month old half husky, half shepherd. Thirty five pounds of enthusiasm and slobber. Thirty five pounds of reason why dog obedience schools were created. My grand doggie.
Back when we had some semblance of control over our children’s lives, we managed to never cave in to the puppy plea. Somehow we squeaked past the begging and tears for a puppy with a goldfish (Cleo of course), three gerbils (Bill, Fergus and Zoe), Niko the gecko lizard and three cats (two demised and one I’m working on).
Never had a dog. Don’t like dogs frankly.
But back to the puppy. Named “Keidis”after the lead singer in the Red Hot Chili Peppers. At six months of age Keidis is “almost” house trained as the son puts it. He has paws the size of oven mitts. He has a pointy snout that could thread a needle. He’s never been to puppy school but he’s “enthusiastic”, “cute” and “just wants to be friends”.
So unbeknownst to me, the kid and the dog have arrived and they’re safely ensconced in the house awaiting my arrival. I’m the unsuspecting target carrying six grocery bags up the walkway to the front door.
Staggering under the load I manage to get the door open. I turn sideways and angle myself and the bags into the entryway. As I turn to close the door, Keidis makes his move, bolts around the corner and unerringly drives his “cute” wet funnel face directly at my unprotected and unsuspecting privates. HeLLO!
I leave the ground, grocery bags and all. The grocery bags come down before I do.
“SURPRISE!” holler the kids. My heart is stuck in the rafters of my throat and I’m frozen with fright. It takes me a full five minutes to recover. I don’t like surprises much.
In the week the son and grand doggie were with us, I was impressed with how much I’ve learned in this life. For instance:
1. “No, son. He’s your dog. It’s your job to…..” (feed, walk, poop scoop, clean – fill in the appropriate verb).
2. “Don’t give a second thought to Keidis eating my $75 prized azalea shrub. In another ten years it will bloom again.”
3. “Bye Sweetie. It was swell. Come scramble up our lives soon. We’ll take any mess with your warmth, humour and laughter over a tidy house of order any day.”
Patricia Bain lives, works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
Just got back from Victoria, British Columbia - Canada’s retirement capital - and I’m thinking we should all move there. What are we doing here in Northwestern Ontario freezing our patooties off while Victoria beckons?
Two of us spent ten days travelling through Vancouver Island; we ferried to the Sunshine Coast and stopped in Vancouver. It was great seeing friends and catching up.
A delicious part of the trip was finding ourselves assaulted with the charge of cherry blossoms, hyacinth, blooming forsythia, tulips, daffodils and narcissus (narcissi?)… Breathtaking.
We saw the sea every day. We climbed mountains, golfed and toured art galleries and museums. We heard that Thunder Bay took 20 centimetres of snow on a day we were clam digging.
Here are a few things I picked up while travelling through …
1. A Vancouver Island golf membership is comparable in price to Thunder Bay’s. But get this, most clubs are open 12 months a year except for Christmas Day (aaah gee).
2. Die hard skiers can alpine or cross country ski within fifteen to thirty minutes of their homes. And if skiing’s not your thing, well, on the same day you could go sea wakeboarding before firing up the barbecue on the garden deck.
3. The Sunshine Coast boasts 2000 hours of sunlight annually. If a work year is typically 1860 hours based on a 35 hour work week, well, that’s good enough for me.
4. And gardeners, when have you allowed yourself to even look at plant choices requiring a growing zone higher than 3 or 4? I found myself giddy helping a friend choose perennials, trees and shrubs bred to thrive in zone 8. Watch for those kiwi and grape plants, they can be invasive!
So why are we unpacked and happily back home? Well we have fabulous and dear friends and family here. We love Thunder Bay. But get this, a one bedroom condominium on Victoria’s Inner Harbour sells for $467,000. Learning this brought a new meaning to the expression that Thunder Bay is “the most affordable city in the world”…. for all that that means.
But the good news about this quote is this -Thunder Bay living can be more economical than other Canadian cities. If we take advantage of this and plan carefully, hopefully we can build a wee travel kitty and when we’re feeling snowed in, we can leave for ten days! Happy gardening!
April Issue
This spring marks Fay Gleeson Steadwell’s 50th annual dance recital. For 50 years Fay has taught children from 3 years of age on up in tap, jazz, ballet, hip hop, clogging and more. And even if you don’t know a chassé from a pirouette, I’m sure you’ll appreciate that 50 years represents a lot of costume cutting and sewing, choreography, stage moms, rehearsals and opening night jitters.
It’s safe to say that in those 50 years there have been thousands of children who have had their first stage experience and their first performance experience under the tutelage of Fay. Some ended their dance training after a year or two in the “chorus line” so to speak, and others went on to successful professional careers.
Last Tuesday Fay’s past dancers were invited o join her at her studio. Sixty women showed up. I could barely make my way into the dance hall for the crush of people.
Fay passed a microphone around the room and asked each of us to introduce ourselves by maiden name and to state the year we started dance. As the mic circled the room, you could hear a pin drop. And as people spoke, there was magic.
In fact it was surreal. People might recognize faces but not names. At other times, when people heard a name, you’d see recognition and remembrance register on their faces. Years fell away as women smiled in recognition and hugged hard with memory.
The program was simple – just say your name and the year you started, but it was so much more than that.
We were all shapes and sizes representing a wide spectrum of ages. We were grandmas and mothers and daughters, and we were all honoured to be part of the evening. We came because Fay invited us. We were unprepared for the power of the moment.
When the mic had finished its tour around the dance studio, Fay threw on the music and took to the front leading sixty women through ninety minutes of non-stop dance. She put us through steps and combinations that some of us hadn’t performed in forty years. It was fabulous. We were terrible. We were amazing. We were so glad to be there. What a night.
So Fay, this column is dedicated to you. Thank you for 50 years of dance and friendship. Thank you for the memories. Ellen Degeneres says she lives to dance and you have to know, girl, Ellen has nothing on you. And as they say in the biz, break a leg!
Patricia Bain lives, works and plays in Thunder Bay. Patricia invites you to do the same.
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