Do you mind?

Last night I was reading one of those articles in which people have posted tweets about various things. This article had as its subject, IQs and well, most of the people posting came across as either pompous asses or they didn’t read the tweet before they posted it.

The one that stands out most is the man who took one of those “IQ tests” through Facebook and proudly posted his results. I won’t embarrass him by telling you the number, but it was below the average American IQ. Still he bragged that his IQ put him in the top 77%. Then there was the guy (it’s always men who brag about this sort of thing) who claimed he was so intelligent, stating his IQ was 194, that he rarely had a conversation in which he had to actually use his brain. Right.

That article started me thinking about minds and people’s mindset generally. When I joined the Canadian army, they ran IQ tests and they determined that mine was such that they felt they could teach me something and assigned me to the Royal Canadian Engineers rather than an infantry regiment. I just say I’m as smart as I need to be.

Over the years I’ve lived in a couple of what, at the time were considered “company towns”, in that there was one major employer. Back in the early 1960s I lived in Oakville Ontario, the home of Ford Motors of Canada. Consequently the parents of many of my friends worked for Ford at various levels from the line to the front office. My parents bought me my first car during the time I lived there – an Oldsmobile. Both parents also drove GM products. The father of one of my good friends was an executive at Ford and he refused to let me park my Olds in his driveway.

Later in life, my partner and I bought our first house in Oshawa, the home of General Motors of Canada. At the time I worked for Toyota Canada and through an employee benefit was able to lease Toyotas at a very good price. These leases were always for either six months or 8,000 miles after which the vehicles were sold to dealers to be retailed as “company driven vehicles”. As a result I had many new Toyotas gracing my driveway over the years. After I left Toyota, we bought several vehicles over the years – usually Fords. I figured that having driven an Olds in Oakville, by owning Fords in Oshawa, I was just balancing the scales.

This is where the company town mindset comes into play yet again. On one occasion, I came home with yet another Ford product, a Mercury this time. My neighbours, who were both middle managers at GM happened to be in the drive the first time I brought this home.

She: I see you’re still driving foreign cars.

Him: at least its from the right continent this time.

Over time and the during the layoffs of the 80s I took a series of small jobs, but the income was enough to qualify us to buy a new Ford Aerostar van. Loved that van since it was one of the few vans available with a manual transmission. To make ends meet I began working with a friend in his courier business, mainly drug store deliveries. On one occasion, I pulled into a driveway in the south part of town only to have the man who answered the door tell me to get my piece of crap out of his driveway. When I told him fine, he could pick up his prescription at the store the following afternoon, he changed his mind. Every so often the medical office at the GM main plant would need to order something special, which on one occasion was live anthrax vaccine, from the largest drug store chain in town. I made that my first delivery. For some reason these deliveries were always on the morning run. Most of the time I’d take a few minutes to wash the van just before going into the complex. I mean we can’t have a dirty Ford rolling around the GM complex now, can we. But on that occasion I didn’t bother. I just wanted that stuff out of my van.

Perhaps the scariest example of the company mindset though was this one. I was helping some friends run a yard sale. Among the things they had were two used tires with plenty of tread left. Sure enough, some man saw them and after examining them said “these are perfect for my Impala”. My friend said to this man “Im not sure they’d fit your Impala because they’re off a Ford.” The man agreed and didn’t buy them on that basis. People! These are tires, manufactured by a company that makes tires in various sizes for various vehicles. They are not some specialty item such as rims where the bolt pattern may be slightly different or the holes a different size. A lost sale because both men were GM employees who couldn’t wrap their minds around the fact tires are made to fit all vehicles. That’s the reason there are standard sizes.

Yes, there are times when having a company mentality can help and as I’ve just shown, there are times when it can be a detriment.

And as for the first part of this post, if you have to use a number assigned after an IQ test as a weapon with which to bludgeon other people, perhaps you’re not as smart as you claim.

Cat.

Mischief

This is prompted by a news item I saw today that there are two lottery prizes worth a total of $5,000,000 unclaimed in the Toronto area.

The thought occurred to me “what if one of those tickets was mine?”, which is not possible for in order to have a chance I’d have to buy a ticket. But keeping in mind the title of this piece, what if that were true.

In Ontario the winner’s names are available on the Ontario Lottery and Gaming Commission website – it’s a legal requirement I understand. But since the names are known it would be possible to track me down on social media. I’ve read other winners say that a major win has resulted in people from their past suddenly appearing in their lives again. And that could lead to all kinds of, as the title indicates, mischief on my part.

First, a bit about me. I make no secret that I’m trans so the name I now have isn’t the same name I had in highschool. And, to further frustrate any attempted requests, I was an army brat and attended three different highschools. Picture it now. I’ve won a seven or eight figure jackpot and someone tracks me down on Facebook. I imagine the exchange might go something like this:

Random Guy (RG): Hey Cat! Remember me? I sat behind you in math class and you helped me when I had trouble. I know it’s been a while, but I’d really like to reconnect.

Me: Not off hand. What year?

RG: Grade 12.

Me: What was the name of the highschool again?

RG: Eastside.

Me: Get lost. I never attended Eastside and I never made Grade 12 because I dropped out to join the army. Oh, and my name wasn’t Cat in highschool. Better luck next time.

This whole thing is fiction because in order to even have a chance at winning a lottery, I’d need to buy a ticket, which I rarely do. But I hope this imagined exchange at least brought a smile to your face.

Have a safe and happy New Year’s Eve and a prosperous and healthy 2023. And remember to hug an artist we need love (and a winning lottery ticket) too.

Cat.

The heading says it all

DATE: May 4

TITLE: The heading says it all

I don’t quite know what to make of the following comment.

I’ve had odd comments before, including ad hominem attacks, but this one takes the weird cake.

In May of 2015 I wrote a piece I called “Who got it where?” detailing what happened when a group of young men (who should have known better) tried to disrupt a live news broadcast from Toronto’s soccer club, Toronto FC’s home opener by shouting something obscene at the female reporter. Maple Leaf Sports and Entertainment (MLSE) said that when identified, these young men would be banned from all MLSE arenas. In addition to Toronto FC, that includes the Maple Leafs (hockey), Raptors (basketball) as well as the minor league associates, Toronto Marlboroughs and Raptors 905. As well, when the video went viral, the employer of one of the young men recognized him and his actions cost him a six figure job.

Today, the following comment was posted on that blog and I have no idea what “battleof theatlantic19391945″ is talking about. I’ve removed any possible links to keep me in WordPress’s good books, but otherwise haven’t changed a thing.

battleoftheatlantic19391945
battleoftheatlantic19391945.

Reblogged this on battleoftheatlantic19391945 and commented:
“WINGNUT WEDNESDAY=WITH DIZZY ISSY-ISMAIL-Alias; CP 24 NEWS, TORONTO, ONTARIO, CANADA, May 4/2022@16:59- HEY CANADIAN GOOFS OF PROOFS, CONCERNING TORONTO NEWS STATION CP 24 NEWS, TORONTO, ONTARIO, CANADA, WITH THE DARK DIDDLER FROM India-DIZZY IISSY-Isail-Alias…Long Haired Pony Tail FAIREY-OF Miss Mary…HILLYARD, and Big Busted WILMAS…Tokyo Roses, Axis Sally, ETC., Incorporated, AND THEN SOME!!!” “WELL, YOU CP NEWS CORRESPONDENTS, DOING THE SPORTS TODAY@12:30 P.M., ARE Dizzy Issy RATS-EYES PROFILED; as I do NOT NEED to be WALKING INTO a Eatery in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, PURCHASING FOOD, While Dizzy Issy AND Company HAVE A BUNCH OF TORONTO-CANADA RATS, TELL YOU where I am, AND What I am doing!!!” “JUST BECAUSE, I more than precisely FIGURED OUT YOUR TORONTO POLICE FORCE, TORONTO-ROYAL CANADIAN MOUNTED POLICE; to a FINE TOOTHED COMB, DOES NOT MEAN YOU CP 24 NEWS PROOFS OF GOOFS; HAVE TO GET ALL BENT OUT OF SHAPE ABOUT IT, and FURTHERMORE, YOU and DIZZY Issy-Pretty Paki Blue-Mary’s Fairies; SHOULD MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, AND LEAVE THE BEAUTIFUL MODELS in THE WORLD-UP TO Mr. Murza’s Levi’s Bluej-ean’s, AND THEN SOME!!!” “GET BACK TO WORK, KEEP YOUR Canadian Big Noses Out of People’s Business; AND STOP being a CANADIAN PEDOPHILE CIVILIAN SATELLITE-COMPUTER SPY RING=VAS/Viewer-Associate-Supporter…RAT!!!” Posted by: Brian CANUCK-THE BREEZE Murza, Present Day Military Analyst/Amateur, High Treason Q.E.II Analyst, W.W.II Naval Researcher-Published Author, Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada.

So, unless this truly is the ravings of a madman, can somebody please decipher this for me?

Thanks.

Cat.

Old Air

A comment on a Facebook post reminded me I'd written this and since we could all probably use something to make us laugh or at least smile, I thought I'd repost it.

You mean you’ve never heard the story of old air? Hell man, I’ve seen a guy so taken in by that story, I could hardly keep a straight face when he told me and neither could the cop who was there. Let me tell you about it.

I was working the night shift at the gas station – you know the one, just off the highway when you’re comin’ from the east – on New Year’s Eve it was. A car pulled in with a couple of kids in it and went to the air hose to refill a tire. While they were there, this guy comes just a-flyin’ in, slams on the brakes and slides halfway across the tarmac to the air pump. I seen this guy get out of his car and talk to the first guy. I guess he was asking how long he’d be, since he seemed to be in such a hurry. I don’t know, maybe he was trying to get home before midnight.

Anyway, the couple finish and I see them drive off, then pull off the road about a hundred yards off, where they could still see the air pump, you know? Meanwhile, I see this other guy, the speed demon, pull his car up to the air hose. It’s about ten to midnight by now and quiet, being New Year’s Eve and all, so I’m watching this guy because I’m bored and I’m also worried that in his rush, he might take the stand out when he leaves and I want to get his licence number. From the office, I’ve got a clear view of that part of the lot and the lights cover that area pretty good , so I can see everything he’s doin’.

Well, this guy is actin’ like he’s crazy. He starts with the left front and seems to be taking a long time checking that tire. I guessed the valve cap was stuck and didn’t think anything of it. Same with the left rear. Then, because he’s got the hose stretched as far as it’ll go, he goes back around the front to the right side, where I can see what he’s doing. What I can see makes no sense whatsoever. I’m watching this guy, who seems in a real panic by now. Since it’s almost twelve, I start putting my coat and stuff on and figure I’ll go out and wish him a Happy New Year. I’m still watching him, and I see him take a look at his watch, then let all the air out of his tire.

Now, you know and I know that isn’t usually recommended, ‘cause if it goes down the wrong way, the rim’ll cut the sidewall. But, as soon as it’s flat, he refills it, all the while sneaking peeks at his watch. Meanwhile, I take a look at the couple in the car, figurin’ maybe they’re gonna wait until he leaves then try to rob me. They’re sitting there, just killin’ themselves laughin’.

Then he moved on to the right rear. Same thing again. Let the air out, look at the watch, refill the tire. Well, by now I’m totally lost, so I figure I’ll go ask him what the hell he’s doin’. Just as I step out the door, Steve, the usual constable, pulls onto the lot. I wave at him and keep on walkin’. He sees where I’m headed and follows me over. I get there just as the guy’s finished the right rear and is putting the valve cap back on. I wish him Happy New Year, he does the same, then looks at his watch and he says “I didn’t think I’d finish in time.”

I guess he sees the curiosity on both my face and Steve’s for he says “You know, changing the air in my tires, like that other guy said I should. He said that if I didn’t, I could have trouble with the handling because I had last year’s air in the tires.”

Well, Steve and I can hardly keep our faces straight when we hear this. But Steve, who’s never slow with a line, says “Oh yeah. That’s tonight isn’t it? I guess that’s the reason the cruiser was in the shop when I reported in. The mechanics were changing the air. What about you Lloyd, got your air changed yet?”

I’m tryin’ hard not to laugh at this guy, then Steve comes out with this. It takes me about a minute, but finally I say “Not yet, I’ll do it in a while if it stays quiet. Don’t want to have trouble on the roads tonight. Not many people around and those that are aren’t in any shape to drive. But, I’ll definitely change it by shift end.”

Then Steve, who knows when he’s on to a good thing, says to the guy “Don’t forget the spare. I’ve seen a lot of problems with people who had flats, then discovered they still had last year’s air in the spare.”

“The spare?” says the guy. “Oh Jeez, thanks for reminding me. This is my wife’s car and if she has a problem with anything like that, she’ll kill me because I forgot the spare.”

Well, by now, Steve and I are ready to bust from keeping the laughs inside, so we go back to the office. The first thing we do is just about blow the door off what with laughin’ so much. Then I tell him what happened before he arrived. He shakes his head and says “Give me a couple of hot chocolates, will you Lloyd? I’m goin’ to give them to the kids in the sedan.”

“The kids in the sedan? Why?”

Steve’s still laughin’, but he tries to tell me. “Think about it Lloyd. A guy’s checking the air in a slack tire and someone comes in and ask what he’s doing. Now, it’s about half past eleven on New Year’s Eve and the guy’s probably a bit pissed off. Then some jerk asks him what he’s doing, so he gives him a smart-assed answer about changing the air in his tires before January first. Now, from the guy’s reaction, this other guy knows he’s found a live one, so after he’s finished, he parks somewhere close where he can see the fun. The way I see it, they’ve earned those hot chocolates. They’re probably cold by now, so make them large ones. I’m a cop, so it won’t look suspicious to our patsy out there if I stop to check their car.”

While Steve’s talkin’, I’m thinkin’ about what I saw and I had to agree with him. I reached for the extra large cups. I look out the window as I hand the hot chocolates to Steve and the guy’s clearing stuff out of the trunk. Just as Steve pulls out of the lot, the guy, still holding the air hose, is climbing into his trunk.

Thanks for this story idea to the lady who was in that sedan.

From the home front

DATE: May 7

TITLE: From the home front

Ontario is currently in the middle of a four week mandatory stay at home order intended to slow the spread of COVID 19. For me, the only real change is that I now stay home because I’m told to, not because I want to. But it does give me some time to think and ask questions I probably normally wouldn’t dream of.

Before I get to the questions and other observations, Canada is conducting its official census this month. This year it is all being done online. I’ve already filled out mine and hit “send”. I noticed a couple of questions that I don’t recall seeing on the census before. The first dealt with gender at birth, and part B of that question was current gender. The second asked about past or present military service. In all the years I’ve been doing the survey, I’ve never been asked that before. If you’re curious, my answer was “yes”.

I haven’t picked on commercials for a while. There has been one on recently for Scotties tissues. At the end, there is a scene where the actress is crying and the tag line is something like “send in the Scotties”. Only problem I have with this is that although the dogs are cute, they aren’t Scotties – they’re West Highland White Terriers.

Okay, on to the questions, actually just a multi-part single question: When and how did certain languages become associated with certain fields? For example, in law and medicine, Latin appears to have become the lingua franca. When, why and how did this occur? As I understand it, much of our law is descended from ancient Greece and the middle east, as is medicine. So how did Latin become the common language of these fields?

Classical music is another case. Italian seems to be the common tongue among composers, yet not all composers were Italian. Bach, Beethoven, Brahms didn’t speak Italian in their daily lives. There are French composers as well, such as Saint Saens, Delibes and DeBussy. Norway gave us Grieg and Finland added Sibelius. Yet each of these composers use Italian in their notations.

Ballet seems to be the province of French terms – pas de deux, barre, jete.

Who decided, and when, that such-and-such a language would become the common tongue of a field of endeavour?

I blame all these questions on Doug Ford, the Premier of Ontario. If he hadn’t told me I had to stay home, I’d have been out with a camera and wouldn’t have time to dwell on topics like this.

Stay safe and remember to give an artist a socially distant hug – we need love too.

Cat.

Weekend whimsy

I wrote this piece several years ago after waking up with a phrase stuck in my head. Last night I ordered in Chinese food and seeing the fortune cookies reminded me of this piece. So, here’s a bit of whimsy for a social distancing weekend. Enjoy (and the egg rolls are delicious).

Cat

Found in A Fortune Cookie
Cat MacDonald
© 2008 cam

I’d found a flyer from a new Chinese restaurant in my mailbox and decided to give it a try, so ordered in some food. One of the first things I discovered was they made the best lemon chicken I’d ever tasted. When I was done, I picked up a fortune cookie and cracked it.

“The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale.”

That’s what the piece of paper inside that fortune cookie read. Even upon a cursory examination I could see this was not your usual “Good fortune is on the way” type of saying usually found in these things. And they normally had the name of the company producing them on the bottom. Not this one. Other than the cryptic sentence, the slip of paper was blank. Even the cellophane wrapper, which usually had the bakery’s name on it, was blank. Nothing looks quite so bare as a clear piece of cellophane that normally has writing on it. So, there was no clue as to where this profound observation arose.

This one was far more inscrutable than most. Any more obscure and it may as well be written in Cantonese for all the sense it was making. “The end is either a whale from hell, or an estate sale.” The end of what? Life? The universe?

“ A whale from hell”. I suppose defining that could depend upon your point of reference. I mean, if you look at literature, the end for Captain Ahab certainly was a “whale from hell” named Moby Dick. And, I suppose the Pequod could have been sold at an estate sale later. But, in that case, “the end” would have been both a “whale from hell” and “an estate sale” so, I don’t suppose that was what the writer of this mystery had in mind.

Or, if you turn to films, there was a movie called “Orca” with Richard Harris and what’s-her-name, Bo Derek, wasn’t it? From what I can recall, that was about a killer whale that terrorized and I think destroyed a fishing village in Newfoundland. A killer whale could certainly qualify as “a whale from hell”

But, somehow I don’t think the slip of paper meant anything quite so obvious. There was just something, oh, I don’t know, weird about that particular fortune. In any event, by the time I’d opened the cookie and read this, I’d had too much to drink, so I tucked the slip of paper into my purse for later consideration.

The next morning, when I pulled my car keys from my purse, out fell the fortune. I unfolded it and read it again. Still read the same: The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale. Still made the same lack of sense it had last night. And today I didn’t have the excuse of alcohol to fall back on.

For some reason, words from that little slip of paper kept cropping up in the documents I handled at the office, or in conversations I had with others. I put it down to the fact I was thinking about that weird fortune. “The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale” is so odd it stuck with me. I tried to put it out of my mind.

I succeeded in doing so until the drive home that evening. Sitting in traffic near an intersection (construction had reduced the road to one lane and of course there was a collision in that lane), I passed the time idly looking at the people walking past me and the various shops. The car ahead of me inched forward and I followed suit. My new vantage point brought the intersection into range and with that, a limited view of the cross street. My attention immediately focussed on one particular storefront – the restaurant I’d ordered from the night before.

Although I am not normally impatient in traffic – all that does is raise my blood pressure and if it takes a few minutes more to get home, so what, I’ll arrive safely and as relaxed as dealing with the road warriors will allow – I now couldn’t wait for traffic to crawl forward again. Finally, I reached the intersection. Just past the corner was a municipal parking lot (the ones the city runs that only charge an arm, not an arm and a leg), pulled in and parked. Making certain I still had the fortune with me, I walked to the restaurant.

The place wasn’t anything special, just a little hole in the wall, with two or three small tables. Obviously most of their business was take out or delivery. I walked up to the counter, where a clean-cut young man was talking on the telephone. He acknowledged my presence, then continued writing what was apparently an order.

I took the time to look around the shop while I waited. The decor was nothing special and no doubt was a better reflection of the owner’s taste than an attempt to cater to the clientele. No fancy fans on the walls, or posters of pagodas or the Great Wall. Instead I was treated to a varied collection of cityscapes, seascapes, and posters for rock concerts. The most Oriental thing on the walls was a photo of a customized Honda.

Ambience was provided courtesy of the local soft rock station.

He finished taking the order and walked it into the kitchen, where I could hear him talking with someone, presumably the cook. Then he returned and smiling, asked in good English how he could help. I couldn’t place the accent, but it definitely did not sound like English as spoken by most Chinese who, especially if they’re from Hong Kong, tend to have British accents.

I explained that I had ordered food from them the previous night and gave my address. Seeing the look on his face, I hurriedly told him the food was great and that I would be ordering from them again, but I did have a question for him. Pulling the slip of paper from my wallet, I placed in face down on the counter and continued.

“Could you tell me where you get your fortune cookies” I asked as I picked up the fortune from the previous evening, then continued “because I’d really like to have this one explained to me.” I showed him the slip and watched his face change to a look of complete puzzlement as he read the words I’d memorized “The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale”.

“You got this in a fortune cookie with your order last night?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“Do you mind if I take this for a second. I want to show it to my Dad in the kitchen. Maybe he can shed some light on it, ‘cause I haven’t a clue what the hell it could mean.”

I agreed and he excused himself.

The sounds of food preparation ceased shortly after that and the radio was turned down. I could hear a dialogue in what I presume was one of the Chinese dialects, of which I could make out only the English wording from the fortune. The volume of voices dropped to the point where I couldn’t hear anything. Finally, the young man said “Fine then. You figure it out.”

He returned, shaking his head and carrying the slip of paper. “My Dad has no idea either. This came from a new supplier and he’s contacting them now.

“Could I have your name and number and I’ll make sure to let you know. This one has me buffaloed as well. I mean, usually you get the ‘fame or fortune” kind of sayings in those things.”

Just then an older gentleman came from the kitchen “You’re the lady with the odd fortune?” again in oddly accented English.

I nodded.

“I just telephoned our supplier. The number’s out of service.. Why you didn’t try to contact them directly last nigh?”

“Oh! I couldn’t. The cellophane wrapper was completely blank. No names or any identifying marks. And, as you can see, there’s just the fortune on the slip of paper.”

The two men looked at each other. The son turned toward me. “Would you mind if I kept this? I’d like to put a little more time in on it. It’s such an odd observation that I can’t believe there’s not a deeper meaning to it.”

I waved agreement and he put it in the till. The older man said something in their language and his son nodded.

“My Dad just said to ask you if there’s anything you’d like – on the house – for all your trouble.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind an order of your lemon chicken if it isn’t too much trouble. It was the best I’ve had.”

As I left with my chicken (and rice – they insisted it had to have rice with it) I glanced back through the window to see them arguing. I say “arguing” because the older man was waving his hands in an angry manner and his son was shaking his head vehemently.

The next day, I was once again caught in traffic at the same place and I glanced across the intersection. The store was gone. In fact, the place looked as if it had been vacant for some time. And with it, the slip of paper with the arcane fortune printed on it.

I never did find out what “The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale” meant. I still eat Chinese food, but the lemon chicken isn’t as good, and I no longer open fortune cookies.

Found in A Fortune Cookie
Cat Howard
© 2008 gch

I’d found a flyer from a new Chinese restaurant in my mailbox and decided to give it a try, so ordered in some food. One of the first things I discovered was they made the best lemon chicken I’d ever tasted. When I was done, I picked up a fortune cookie and cracked it.

“The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale.”

That’s what the piece of paper inside that fortune cookie read. Even upon a cursory examination I could see this was not your usual “Good fortune is on the way” type of saying usually found in these things. And they normally had the name of the company producing them on the bottom. Not this one. Other than the cryptic sentence, the slip of paper was blank. Even the cellophane wrapper, which usually had the bakery’s name on it, was blank. Nothing looks quite so bare as a clear piece of cellophane that normally has writing on it. So, there was no clue as to where this profound observation arose.

This one was far more inscrutable than most. Any more obscure and it may as well be written in Cantonese for all the sense it was making. “The end is either a whale from hell, or an estate sale.” The end of what? Life? The universe?

“ A whale from hell”. I suppose defining that could depend upon your point of reference. I mean, if you look at literature, the end for Captain Ahab certainly was a “whale from hell” named Moby Dick. And, I suppose the Pequod could have been sold at an estate sale later. But, in that case, “the end” would have been both a “whale from hell” and “an estate sale” so, I don’t suppose that was what the writer of this mystery had in mind.

Or, if you turn to films, there was a movie called “Orca” with Richard Harris and what’s-her-name, Bo Derek, wasn’t it? From what I can recall, that was about a killer whale that terrorized and I think destroyed a fishing village in Newfoundland. A killer whale could certainly qualify as “a whale from hell”

But, somehow I don’t think the slip of paper meant anything quite so obvious. There was just something, oh, I don’t know, weird about that particular fortune. In any event, by the time I’d opened the cookie and read this, I’d had too much to drink, so I tucked the slip of paper into my purse for later consideration.

The next morning, when I pulled my car keys from my purse, out fell the fortune. I unfolded it and read it again. Still read the same: The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale. Still made the same lack of sense it had last night. And today I didn’t have the excuse of alcohol to fall back on.

For some reason, words from that little slip of paper kept cropping up in the documents I handled at the office, or in conversations I had with others. I put it down to the fact I was thinking about that weird fortune. “The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale” is so odd it stuck with me. I tried to put it out of my mind.

I succeeded in doing so until the drive home that evening. Sitting in traffic near an intersection (construction had reduced the road to one lane and of course there was a collision in that lane), I passed the time idly looking at the people walking past me and the various shops. The car ahead of me inched forward and I followed suit. My new vantage point brought the intersection into range and with that, a limited view of the cross street. My attention immediately focussed on one particular storefront – the restaurant I’d ordered from the night before.

Although I am not normally impatient in traffic – all that does is raise my blood pressure and if it takes a few minutes more to get home, so what, I’ll arrive safely and as relaxed as dealing with the road warriors will allow – I now couldn’t wait for traffic to crawl forward again. Finally, I reached the intersection. Just past the corner was a municipal parking lot (the ones the city runs that only charge an arm, not an arm and a leg), pulled in and parked. Making certain I still had the fortune with me, I walked to the restaurant.

The place wasn’t anything special, just a little hole in the wall, with two or three small tables. Obviously most of their business was take out or delivery. I walked up to the counter, where a clean-cut young man was talking on the telephone. He acknowledged my presence, then continued writing what was apparently an order.

I took the time to look around the shop while I waited. The decor was nothing special and no doubt was a better reflection of the owner’s taste than an attempt to cater to the clientele. No fancy fans on the walls, or posters of pagodas or the Great Wall. Instead I was treated to a varied collection of cityscapes, seascapes, and posters for rock concerts. The most Oriental thing on the walls was a photo of a customized Honda.

Ambience was provided courtesy of the local soft rock station.

He finished taking the order and walked it into the kitchen, where I could hear him talking with someone, presumably the cook. Then he returned and smiling, asked how he could help in good English. I couldn’t place the accent, but it definitely did not sound like English as spoken by most Chinese who, especially if they’re from Hong Kong, tend to have British accents.

I explained that I had ordered food from them the previous night and gave my address. Seeing the look on his face, I hurriedly told him the food was great and that I would be ordering from them again, but I did have a question for him. Pulling the slip of paper from my wallet, I placed in face down on the counter and continued.

“Could you tell me where you get your fortune cookies” I asked as I picked up the fortune from the previous evening, then continued “because I’d really like to have this one explained to me.” I showed him the slip and watched his face change to a look of complete puzzlement as he read the words I’d memorized “The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale”.

“You got this in a fortune cookie with your order last night?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“Do you mind if I take this for a second. I want to show it to my Dad in the kitchen. Maybe he can shed some light on it, ‘cause I haven’t a clue what the hell it could mean.”

I agreed and he excused himself.

The sounds of food preparation ceased shortly after that and the radio was turned down. I could hear a dialogue in what I presume was one of the Chinese dialects, of which I could make out only the English wording from the fortune. The volume of voices dropped to the point where I couldn’t hear anything. Finally, the young man said “Fine then. You figure it out.”

He returned, shaking his head and carrying the slip of paper. “My Dad has no idea either. This came from a new supplier and he’s contacting them now.

“Could I have your name and number and I’ll make sure to let you know. This one has me buffaloed as well. I mean, usually you get the ‘fame or fortune” kind of sayings in those things.”

Just then an older gentleman came from the kitchen “You’re the lady with the odd fortune?” again in oddly accented English.

I nodded.

“I just telephoned our supplier. The number’s out of service.. Why you didn’t try to contact them directly last nigh?”

“Oh! I couldn’t. The cellophane wrapper was completely blank. No names or any identifying marks. And, as you can see, there’s just the fortune on the slip of paper.”

The two men looked at each other. The son turned toward me. “Would you mind if I kept this? I’d like to put a little more time in on it. It’s such an odd observation that I can’t believe there’s not a deeper meaning to it.”

I waved agreement and he put it in the till. The older man said something in their language and his son nodded.

“My Dad just said to ask you if there’s anything you’d like – on the house – for all your trouble.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind an order of your lemon chicken if it isn’t too much trouble. It was the best I’ve had.”

As I left with my chicken (and rice – they insisted it had to have rice with it) I glanced back through the window to see them arguing. I say “arguing” because the older man was waving his hands in an angry manner and his son was shaking his head vehemently.

The next day, I was once again caught in traffic at the same place and I glanced across the intersection. The store was gone. In fact, the place looked as if it had been vacant for some time. And with it, the slip of paper with the arcane fortune printed on it.

I never did find out what “The end is either a whale from hell or an estate sale” meant. I still eat Chinese food, but the lemon chicken isn’t as good, and I no longer open fortune cookies.

Meandering through my memories

I’ll be 76 this year and while I’m still fascinated by what the future may hold in store for me, every so often, I reflect on some of the things I’ve seen over the span of my life.

When I was born, Canada consisted of nine provinces and two territories. In 1949, Newfoundland and Labrador ceased being a British territory and joined Confederation as Canada’s tenth province. So that means the last Father of Confederation, Joey Smallwood, was alive during my lifetime. Fun fact: The call letters of every radio and television station in Canada start with the letter “C” except one. St. John’s Newfoundland station VOCM was in existence before Confederation and they kept their call letters. Today, Canada consists of ten provinces and three territories, the Northwest Territories having been split and the eastern portion is now called Nunavut. I remember the great debate over choosing Canada’s now familiar maple leaf flag. I also remember I was opposed to it at first for I had served in the military under the red ensign, but I now embrace it fully. I remember Expo ‘67, the world’s fair held in Montreal during Canada’s centennial year and the excitement throughout the country at the time. I remember the dark days of the October Crisis, when Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau (Justin’s father) invoked the War Measures Act to put an end to the bombings and kidnappings. British diplomat James Cross and Quebec’s Deputy Premier Pierre Laporte were kidnapped. Mr Cross was later released, but M Laporte was murdered. Eventually most of the FLQ members involved were arrested and served time. I remember when Canada had a female Prime Minister – Kim Campbell. Her government didn’t last long, being brought down on a non-confidence motion.

Internationally, I remember hearing and watching much from news reports. The conquest of Everest (I’ve always had one question about that: if Hillary and Tensing were the first people to climb to the summit, how did the Sherpa guides know the safest path up unless they’d done it before?; the coronation of Queen Elizabeth the Second. One memory I have of that is the nuns telling us we couldn’t sing “God Save the King” any longer and spending a good hour getting us to properly sing “God Save the Queen”. I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis. I was on leave from the army when that got serious and expected to be recalled every time the telephone rang. I remember the Kennedy Assassination and where I was (sitting at my desk at work in Toronto). The rise and later fall of the Berlin Wall and the fall of Soviet-style Communism. Man landing on the moon. I remember that when Armstrong took that small step for man, I was sitting in my car in an A&W in Scarborough Ontario.

This is but a small glimpse into my memories. I have more obviously, but won’t go into them. And, as I said back at the beginning, I can’t wait to see what lies ahead. We do live in interesting times.

Cat.

Horrors! A spelling cop!

I received the following as a comment intended for my post “Bring him to justice – progress report”:

Pigment Red 122
obviously like your website however you need to test the spelling on quite a few of your posts. A number of them are rife with spelling issues and I find it very bothersome to tell the truth nevertheless I will definitely come back again.

First, this person has apparently never heard of spellcheck. Second, I suspect that his/her main quarrel is that I use English, not American spellings, so the addition of the “u” in words such as “colour” are upsetting him. Too bad. I was educated in Canada so find it natural to use English spellings. (As a matter of trivia, one of the first things our first Prime Minister passed was a law requiring the “u” in words such as “neighbour” and “colour” and I don’t think that’s been repealed.) I will admit that it is well worded, which I’ve found is quite rare in comments of this type.  Finally, does the writer think I don’t know how to proofread?

I will definitely come back again. Please don’t. If your only comments are going to be criticisms of my spelling, which apparently doesn’t mesh with your view of the way things “should” be, go elsewhere.

Since it’s January 1, I wish all my followers and readers a safe and happy 2020. Remember to hug an artist, we need love (and spellcheck) too.

Cat.

on’s Gree

DATE: Dec 14

TITLE: on’s Gree

There is a little story behind the above picture. About 20 years ago, there was a building, the Metro East Trade Centre, in Pickering that had a huge “Season’s Greetings” sign on it every December. This sign was apparently controlled by four separate circuits because depending upon who was working which night, it would either read “Seas tings” or “on’s Gree”, usually the latter, and “on’s Gree” became a family joke. The building is long gone, but when I got into digital photography, I decided to see if I could duplicate that sign. I realize the font isn’t quite right, but this was the result of my efforts.

So, to all my friends, I wish a hearty “on’s Gree”

Remember to hug an artist – we need love (and Season’s Greetings) too.

Cat

From the bus

I had to go into Toronto yesterday. On the way home I was fortunate enough to get the first seat on the right side of the vehicle, which gave me a chance to observe things that looking out a side window might have been missed.

I’ve previously railed against people who will stand at a bus stop for ten minutes and wait until they are on the bus to fumble around to find their electronic pass. I discovered yesterday these are the same people who will wait until they are at the exit to fumble around to find that pass so they can “tap off”. The system in the Greater Toronto Area works on zones, so on the intercity coaches it is necessary to tap on when you board, and tap off when you leave, otherwise, you’ll pay to the end of the line. Why people, why do you do this? You know you need the pass to both get on and get off, so why can’t you have it handy?

In the far east of Toronto, I noticed a sign I’ve never seen before on a lamp post, so naturally I had to read it. Doing so didn’t clear things up one bit. The sign read “monolith sidewalk begins”. It didn’t look any different from 100 other sidewalks I’ve seen both in Toronto and the area I live, so what the hell is a “monolith sidewalk”? It can’t be referring to some archeologic site for it was next to an empty field at an interchange from Highway 401. And there was no huge black rectangular monolith anywhere is sight either as described by Arthur C Clarke.

Finally, when did chrome bumpers on vehicles become a thing of the past? My trip covered about 20 miles during the early part of rush hour so I got to see many vehicles of various makes, models and years. Of the fifty or so vehicles I noted, exactly two – both of them Ram pickups – had chrome bumpers. The rest all had the current molded, coloured body panels. Is it for safety reasons, or aesthetics?

Okay, now that I’ve given you some questions to ponder, enjoy your weekend and remember to hug an artist, we need love (and answers) too.

Cat.