useful weapons

While Ed is learning the value of flame throwers (low) cavalry (lower) and machine guns (very very high) in the first world war, my other son is imbibing another lesson. Before I go on to that lesson, though, I want to come back to Ed and his teacher Mr R, and ask -- why is this specifically a WW1 position? When aren't machine guns more valuable than cavalry? I was reading a pretty cool book the other day where, through the magic of time travel (another valuable weapon), the Confederate Army was gifted with a bunch of AK 47s -- and proceeded to whip the boys in blue to a frazzle. I'm sure machine guns would have been equally decisive in Napoleon's day, or Charlemagne's, or Ceasar's. In more modern times, I think that Dillinger or Tony Soprano would look pretty stupid showing up at the heist with a troop of light horse like the one in the picture.

And now back to Sam, who has spent the last month writing a year's worth of papers. Ah, how well I remember those days! University for me was a time of extremes -- months of indolence followed by short sharp periods of intense activity. If I had spent my life working as hard as I did in the last weeks of a university term, I might now be dead of a heart attack, but I would almost certainly merit a lengthy and glowing obituary. Conversely, if I had spent my life not working as hard as I didn't in the first months of that term, I might ... well, I might still be in university.

Sam's great discovery is not the value of forward planning (like father like son -- I never learned that either). He has learned that, given the proper tools, he can perform seeming miracles of industry. And by proper tools I do not mean flame throwers or gramnivorous quadrupeds. I am talking about coffee. Until now he has eschewed the stuff but, I could write all night, Dad, he told me over the phone yesterday, in an awed voice. I finished the essay at 4:00 am and I wasn't even tired!

I smiled to myself. And so it begins.

learning from Mr R

Man it's been days and days! And days! Something wrong with my Mozilla (sounds like a medical condition) and I haven't been able to log on to the blog. Any of you out there experiencing similar difficulties, sorry. Those of you were saying, Scrimger is a lazy so and so -- well, I forgive you. For what it's worth, you're right.

I'll talk about high school teaching practices. I had more to say about Winnipeg, one fine city, but the trip is so long ago now that it seems irrelevant to me. I may come back to it.

A classical composer friend (I have only one, so maybe I should call him My classical composer friend) was commissioned to write a piece summing up the high school experience. He called it What Is Cool. Seems about right to me. I was chatting with Ed last night about his history class. His teacher, whom I will call Mr R, has divided them into groups and the first thing he demanded from each groups was ... a cool name. Yup, that's how high school kids are learning these days. Forget about The Conquest Stamp Act Responsible Government Louis Riel (Manitoba - one fine province) Conscription FLQ Crisis -- learning groups need names. I asked Ed what they were studying. World War 1, he said, and then proceeded to tell me all about the poster his group made. They are TEAM BLUE, and the poster showed the name in big letters dripping colour, with lightning bolts and skulls. It was the coolest thing ever, he said (sounding for a moment like his big sister whose every day is punctuated by the coolest lamest shortest fattest craziest best worst stuff ever).

Great to hear high school kids getting excited about history, but I couldn't help wondering if there was any meat on these very cool bones. There's a lot to be learned about WW1.

Did you guys get around to any of the politics and fighting? I said. Canada played a key part in a lot of the battles. Vimy Ridge, the Somme --

No Canadian troops in the battle of the Somme, Ed interrupted. We lost the most men at Passchendaele.

What about Ypres?

He frowned. Passchendaele was the 3rd Battle of Ypres, Dad. Summer and fall of 1917. Cold wet and muddy. Almost a million men killed. Hitler was there. Canadian troops took the village in November. We had a quiz on it and Team Blue won. The prize was a bag of malted Easter eggs. Go Team Blue! Tomorrow we're having an arms auction. We get to bid on weapons! Mr R has warned us that flame flowers are not as useful as you think. Did you know that there were tanks in the battle of the Somme?

I have decided to stop worrying about the way high school kids are learning. Go Mr R!

evening at the palace

Hi and welcome back. For some reason I have been unable to log onto my blog the last few days. If any of you have been similarly -- I was going to say afflicted but that puts this page too high -- surely it's no affliction to be unable to read my random musings -- then I apologize.

Today's musing is a moment from a couple of weeks ago when I was in Winnipeg. Late-ish in the evening, and the India Palace restaurant was winding down. Like every Indian restaurant I have ever visited, the food was good (actually, at the Palace the food is quite good) and the decor was no nonsense. Tables and chairs from someone's rec room, an adding machine on the front counter, a TV set perched high in a back corner, medium lighting, Indian music (I'm afraid I can not tell good from bad, or start from finish. As far as my ear can discern, there is only one piece of Indian music) playing quietly. It seemed to be a neighborhood crowd. I could not understand the conversation, but it sounded casual and familiar. Small children ran from tabled to table, being indulged. In the course of the meal I noticed that no one was leaving the restaurant. There were a dozen customers when we arrived, and the same dozen as we finished off our vindaloo and Rogan Josh. A table at the front filled gradually with white-uniformed staff.

Every now and then a hush fell over the place, so that conversation at our table seemed suddenly too loud. After a few of these hushes I looked around, and realized that everyone -- everyone but us -- was intent on the TV. And what was playing? you ask. Why, curling, of course. This was the week of The Brier, and the game was between Manitoba and Alberta. The hushes happened at the moment when key rocks were being thrown. I do not follow the sport, but from the knowledgeable headshakes and mutterings around me, I figured that the hometown rink was doing those things which they ought not to have done and leaving undone those things which they ought to have done.

I really enjoyed the moment -- a very Canadian one, I thought. I am fascinated by enthusiasm. What turns someone on is an important part of them. I will listen for a long time to someone telling me about their last fishing trip, even though I have not caught a fish since I was six years old.

After the last end, there was a soft general sigh. The lights came up. The staff disappeared into the kitchen. The customers rose and made for the door, stopping by the front counter to pay the woman with the adding machine. The evening at the India Palace was over.

disappointment

The strange thing was not that Ed's forever food turned out to be Sun Chips, a very specific and salty choice, but that Imo agreed with him. (French Onion flavour, they said together,when I asked -- with that Duh! tone of voice indicating a completely idiotic question.)

Oh, yeah, she said, licking her lips. Good one, Ed. Hey, I'm starved. Why don't we get some Sun Chips right now!

And a movie! said Ed.

And chocolate milk! Come on, Dad!

Sure! I said.

Their faces lit up like a movie set. They pulled me downstairs.

But why stop there? Why not a new car for each of you! And plane fare to Hawaii. And winning lottery tickets!

In the glum and sudden silence I could hear the water boiling under the broccoli pot.

Too soon? I said.

The phone rang. Sam, calling from Kingston with an important question.

Hey Dad, if the instructions for the essay say no more than ten pages, how long should it really be?

Oh, eight pages, I said. Maybe nine.

Another silence. I drained the broccoli.

Eight pages. Not ... four, huh? said Sam.

Nope.

Damn.

Hey, Sam, I said. If there was one food you had to eat forever, and it couldn't be Sun Chips, what would you choose?

I should have known better.

Why can't it be Sun Chips?

Got to go, I said. Dinner time.

The picture, by the way, is of Steve Jobs. Have you tried these suckers? he told a stunned crowd who were expecting news about a different kind of chip. They're fantastic!

bread and butter love, part 1

That's Sidney Smith over there -- English essayist, cleric and anti-establishment gadfly. He is supposed to have been one of the funniest conversationalists ever. He said once (not that this is a particularly brilliant bit) that his idea of heaven was eating foie gras to the sound of trumpets. I thought of Smith’s line the other day when my son Ed asked what one food I could eat forever. (I love having this kind of conversation with Ed – He is fond of asking questions that begin: If you had all the money in the world … or: If you had to lose one of your … or: If you had to choose between … )
Black licorice, I said. It was what I was eating at the time.
Really?
No, not really.
What then?
I swallowed. The idea of eating any one food forever sounds more like hell than heaven, but I knew what Ed was asking. A food I’d particularly miss, a food I liked enough to eat every day ….
Is coffee a food? I asked. Or red wine?
No, they’re drinks. Ed’s expression was momentarily concerned: poor old Dad, losing his mind.
I thought about bread and butter type foods – foods with staying power, not too fancy. Margery Allingham, one of my favorite classic mystery writers, differentiates between cake love and bread and butter love – cake love being that incredible over the top passionate kill yourself can’t get enough of the person love, as opposed to the bread and butter comfortable day by day smiling and growing together love. So, I thought, what food would fall into the bread and butter category for me?
Not bread and butter, which I don’t eat much of. Spaghetti? No. Roast beef ? Not at all. (Apparently the Duke of Wellington ate roast lamb every day. Can you imagine?) Oatmeal cookies? Cold cereal? Peppers and tomatoes? Szechuan chicken? Sausage? Hmm, maybe.
Then it came to me. Peanuts, I said. Or maybe peanut butter.
Ed nodded seriously. Yeah, not bad, he said.
What about you? I asked.
But at just that moment Imo called from upstairs. Dad, come quick – it’s an emergency!

hair and now

Get your hair cut! You look like a girl!

Aw, Dad, do I have to?

Yes.

That was father-son hair conversation in the seventies. A simpler time. Fast forward to yesterday, when Ed brought up the topic of Dane Cook. I am not a fan, though I admire his energy. (To me he is the Pete Rose of comics, the Charlie Hustle who puts everything into every bit -- and I guess some of the bits are pretty good.) Ed is a huge fan, and not, I found out last night, of Dane's comedy alone. What do you think? he said, showing me the picture he had printed off the internet.

That's Dane Cook, I said, because my material is not always very good. I'm sure Mitch Hedberg or Eddie Izzard would have had a better line.

Yeah, but what do you think?

To me, I began, he is the Charlie Hustle of --

Of his hair, Ed finished.

I don't get asked about guy's hair very much. And Dane's looks pretty normal to me. I mean, he's not bald and he's not Def Leppard. He's in between.

Gee, Ed, I dunno, I said.

This is difficult for me, Dad, he said angrily. You could be more supportive. I'm trying to find my next look, and I'm thinking about Dane Cook.

I pointed to Dane's picture. You want to look like that? I said.

Well, what do you think?

I opened my mouth and closed it again. I ... uh ... sure, I said. Again, Robin Williams would have done better.

You're my son, I said. I'd love you if you wanted Kojak's hair.

Who?

Forget it.

I don't want your love, he said. I want a useful comment. Imo, what do you think?

My daughter pondered the picture for a moment. I like it, she said.

Ed turned to me. See? Was that so hard?

March sanity

Working out on a strange new machine at the Y (it felt like a combination of cross-country skiing and goose-stepping) the other day, I got a chance to watch a pick-up basketball game in the gym downstairs - and it was much more interesting than the poker game or magic-knife infomercial on TV. In some ways pick-up basketball has not changed since my day, or James Naismith's. The play is crisp at first, sharp passing, good defence, high-percentage shots, but after about fifteen minutes the action slows down and gets sloppy: random shots, showboating, obvious fouls; and then someone (in our day it was always a kid named Willie who had a small bladder -- Wee Willie, we called him) has to go home.

The game I watched while my legs rose and fell and sweat poured down my back looked pretty familiar. But there were some differences. For one thing, there was a girl playing. She was the same age as most of the guys -- fourteen, say -- and the same height. But clearly a girl. In my day she'd have been on the sidelines chewing gum and looking bored. I was pleased to see her dribbling up court, quarterbacking the play for her side. And there was a little kid playing too -- couldn't have been more than eight or nine. He didn't seem to be someone's baby brother who was there on sufferance, ignored by the big kids except when the ball rolled way out of bounds and he hurried to get it. This little guy with a brush cut and ripped t shirt was part of the play, going up for rebound after rebound as if the eighteen inches he was giving away meant nothing. By the time I was ready to drop from fatigue (the Nazis had questionable morals but, man, they must have had thighs of steel!) we were at a crisis point on court. Someone's dad was on the sidelines checking his watch. Looked like one of those Next Basket Wins moments.

Play was very intense. Hip checks, slapping at the ball, fighting for rebounds. The girl was in trouble, double-teamed at the top of the key. She fired a safety out to the little kid, who panicked and launched a bomb from way beyond the three point line.

I stopped my own workout to watch as the ball soared, dropped, hit the rim, bounced straight up, and went in. Play stopped, and the kid's side cheered. The kid tried to look cool, but you could tell he was tickled. The best player punched him on the arm. The girl punched him on the arm. The dad made Come on gestures from the door. I got a cloth to wipe down my machine, and when I returned the gym was empty.