The hangman named Camille

The House of the Hanged Man was painted by Cezanne in 1873 and depicts a picturesque cottage situated in Auvers near the Rue de Four.  Despite the title, no suicide or hanging is known to have taken place there. Supposedly, the house had been owned by a Breton man named Penn’Du, which closely sounds like the French word for hanged man - Pendu.  

I read of this painting on Vivian Swift's blog which I read weekly; and the title suited the dark side of humanity I was wading into at the time. While researching the Winnipeg Police Department's buffalo robe coats I stumbled on information about the last person hanged in Headingley Jail in Manitoba. What caught my attention was the fact that the hangman got a credit. His name was Camille -  he was wearing a black beret and a Hawaiian shirt. Wardrobe surprise! Wouldn't you think a serious job like hanging people would call for a somber costume...a black shirt perhaps? The beret befuddled me completely. I cannot imagine why someone would dress like this to perform a hanging, but then I know no one who would take such a job.

And so I did a little more Wikipedia research and learned that Canada's "official" hangmen have been few - only three of them:

1. J Radcliffe was hired as Canada’s national hangman in 1892. One of the original stipulations in his contract with the federal government included a clause that might seem odd today, but was apparently the norm for many hangmen of that time around the world — Radcliffe was entitled to the clothes off the backs of the men he executed. 

Radcliffe, sometimes spelled “Radclive”, also liked to sell lengths of rope as souvenirs as he travelled the country performing executions. The fact was, the rope used in the hangings themselves was never passed on to the hangmen. Radcliffe was once caught in a B.C. hardware store by a local sheriff; the hangman was buying extra rope. Presumably he sold lengths as "the piece of rope that hanged so-and-so".

He was British, but lived in Toronto and worked on the side as a waiter at a yacht club; he was fired when a customer recognized him from his other line of work. At the time of Radcliffe’s death, it was reported he had hanged upwards of 150 people.


2. Arthur Ellis. Arthur Ellis was the pseudonym of Arthur B. English, a British man who became Canada's official hangman in 1913, after Radclive's death. Ellis worked as a hangman in Canada until the botched execution of Thomasina Sarao in Montreal in 1935, in which she was decapitated.
He died in poverty in Montreal in July, 1938. Ellis is prominently featured in the 2009 documentary
"Hangman's Graveyard".

3. Camille Blanchard.  Camille Blanchard (a pseudonym), succeeded Ellis. Blanchard was on the Quebec government payroll as hangman and executed people elsewhere in the country on a piecework basis. Blanchard carried out many executions (for which he was not paid) in the postwar period in Canada, such as the double hanging of Leonard Jackson and Steven Suchan of the Boyd Gang in 1952.

 

This is as close to a hangman as I've ever been. Close enough for me.

Sepia Saturday 165: Who are those people?

It's very sad that nobody knows who these people were. As I looked into their faces for clues,  I started to think that the man looks ever so slightly like Danny Kaye. Use a little imagination - look at the hairline - maybe he could be an uncle or a cousin?

As I pondered this possibility,  I remembered that street artist I saw last year in Italy. I was positively gob smacked when I looked back at my photos and saw the picture he was painting. Is it Danny Kaye? or the father of our family?

On a recent visit to Norway I noticed this woman looking through a window and remembered her. She's a bit haunting and looks very much like the Mom in our photo.

Even the cats picked up on a certain something because I noticed them gazing at the television the other day. The little boy looked familiar......

A fleeting recognition of the three of them was gnawing at my brain. I went to bed last night wondering and worrying about why I felt somehow that I'd seen that photo somewhere before. Woke up in the middle of the night with one of those AHA moments. Vladimir Putin's conference room! I checked it out this morning and there they sat, the three of them, at the head of the table calmly watching the proceedings. I noticed in passing that the man could also be sort of related to Vladimir. Or had I spent too much time gazing into this families eyes?

And didn't I see them once in a museum somewhere? Where was that anyway? Everybody seemed to be gravitating toward their photo.


Well, thanks to the magic of Photofunia this family of unknowns has been transported into some familiar surroundings which makes them seem to me a little less distant and disconnected from the rest of the world - at least for this blog, in this moment and for one magical Sepia Saturday. 

Sepia Saturday 164: White ink

The white writing on the turtle's back recalled for me my father's habit of writing names and dates directly on the face of photos. The customary practice was to write underneath the photo on the album page leaving the photograph unmarred. Did he do the right thing? In my case, our old photos have long since been removed from albums for the sake of storage space. Had he written only on album pages, the photos might now be unidentifiable.   


Here's an example.... a photo of me with the first pet I can remember, Sandy - the cat whose face was bigger than mine. With augmentation from my pointy witches hat, my head is certainly taller than his but he clearly wins the prizes for widest face and overall beauty. His strawberry blonde coat put my ratty woolen leggings to shame. While I look moth eaten, Sandy, even in my clumsy head lock (meant to be affectionate), displays his ever present dignity and bearing. I loved that cat! And thanks to my Dad, I know it's me and I know it was April 1947. Sandy didn't rate billing in this picture.

I can hear my father chuckling to himself as he labeled this one. Thanks for letting us know it's
a cow!

The white snow posed a challenge for Dad's white ink in this photo. He resorted to a tricky positioning of the occasion and date on the dark background. I like the vertical 1947 pine tree.

The next one is the work of my older sister and likely pre-dates the white pen. She shared my
father's sense of humor in labeling.

The final offering is white inked, June 1946. My beloved stuffed monkey, I guess you could call her my mascot, was at my side. For a short period we were inseparable. The monkey was a bit of a novelty for our neighborhood in Winnipeg. Most of my friends had a Winnie-the-pooh.Why?

The name Winnipeg was given to a female black bear purchased as a cub in Canada by Lt. Harry Colebourn (a veterinarian) of a Canadian cavalry regiment en route to the Western Front during the first World War. The bear became the regiment's mascot and was smuggled into London. Eventually Winnipeg ended up a much loved addition to the London Zoo and was the inspiration for Winnie-the-Pooh.

 Here's the longer story from Wikipedia....

The bear was smuggled into Britain as an unofficial regimental mascot. Lt. Colebourn, the regiment’s veterinarian named her after his home city of Winnipeg. Before leaving for France, Colebourn left Winnie at London Zoo. Her eventual destination was to have been the Assiniboine Park Zoo in Winnipeg, but at the end of the War, Colebourn decided to allow Winnie to remain at the London Zoo, where she was much loved for her playfulness and gentleness. Among her fans was A. A. Milne's son Christopher Robin, who consequently changed the name of his own teddy bear from "Edward Bear" to "Winnie the Pooh", providing the inspiration for his father's stories about Winnie-the-Pooh.

Winnie the Pooh

E. H. Shepard illustration from A. A. Milne's book. www.guardian.co.uk

Sepia Saturday 163: Keeping Warm

 
I began this week's post thinking about the snow shovel. A patent search revealed all kinds of interesting inventions related to moving snow around - far too broad a subject to tackle for this purpose. Just for fun, here's one design that seems to have persisted. There are patents dating back 100 years covering variations on this theme. I don't know if it was ever successfully commercialized but if not, this is a very good looking prototype.

www.mnn.com

From the Peel library, University of Alberta, Canada

Reluctantly I set aside the snow shovel and moved along to the man pictured huddled into his coat with his collar up; then jumped to the larger concept of keeping warm in cold weather. In Winnipeg where I grew up, in the winter, police officers wore buffalo skin coats for a century from 1874 to 1974. The first of these coats cost $17; in the early 1890's as buffalo disappeared, the coats became unavailable and the police force shifted to ankle length coon coats. Few photos of these exist, but this one, a post card commemorating the visit of the Duke of Connaught Feb. 15th, 1915, gives a very good impression of how imposing the coats were. Post card reverse side is as follows:

To: Miss N. Ginge

Address: 25 Kingston, Yeovil, Somerset, England

Message: "18th Battery 5th Brigade, [B.C.H.] 2nd Contingent, Winnipeg, Canada, 7.2.15, Dear N., I was very pleased to get your lovely letter, I shall write you soon. We expect to leave here any time, some have already gone. The weather is very soft here now & there is water lying in the streets. Can't say if I will see you in the spring but hope so. With love to you & all, HSS."

Later when buffalo herds were thinned, coats were available once again and the force wore them until 1974.  I remember a friend's father who was on the police force wearing one. A tall, muscular man, the coat made him seem enormous and formidable which I would imagine was the desired effect. Today, a buffalo coat costs about $3000.00.

Winnipeg City Archives

Here am I in my fuzzy snowsuit, not buffalo but like the lost children below I loved the police in their coats.

City of Winnipeg Police Department Book (1920)

 Here's a photo of a couple of Winnipeg police early this year wearing coats from the Police Museum.

www.updatednews.com

After a long winter wearing one of these coats they would require a good cleaning before
putting them away in mothballs for the rest of the year. Here's an amusing approach to
keeping your fur coat looking good:

Once you're sure your coat is clean and tidy, rush on over to Sepia Saturday for more chilling tales. 

Publicity Macey eats Geriatric Chicken

William and Felicity

Richard was telling me about an interview he heard on NPR with William H. Macey. "Did they talk about his wife?" I asked. "Yes" he replied "She works in publicity." "Publicity?" said I "Isn't she an actress?" FELICITY, he exclaimed. "Why on earth would you think her name might be Publicity?"

What we need

Later that evening, we were out to dinner when he told me he was ordering the "geriatric chicken". "They actually have that on the menu?" I asked in wonderment,  musing about the marketing benefits of so definitively positioning a product. Finally, after I rambled on a bit, he realized what I thought I heard and did one of those coffee spurt laughs saying TERIYAKI chicken, not geriatric chicken.

That very day we were at the audiologists office where I received my new Bi-Cross Phonac hearing aids. There's a tiny microphone in one ear and a receiver in the other. Technically it should reduce or eliminate the head shadow we single-sided hearing people experience. I find it's helping me a tiny bit so far but might be exacerbating the *&^%^&tinnitus. I didn't expect miracles but thought the expensive device would be better than it is. So far.

Sepia Saturday 161 - 2: So sorry about the oysters

The funny aspects of the bananas in the Dughi store first caught my eye in last week's prompt. But then there were darker thoughts from a blog I wrote some time ago......


I began to think about the plight of the poor oysters in this Oyster Saloon. I remembered an article in the New Yorker magazine some time ago about freezing corpses for thawing in the future. The famous baseball player Ted Williams opted to be frozen in this way and sparked a huge controversy. The primary research into this practice was done on oyster embryos. A former cryogenic researcher claimed that he pays $100.00 a year to keep two oyster embryos frozen; he has been maintaining them for 25 years. Somehow he just couldn't pull the plug on them - or let them thaw out and swim away, which he claims they will do. It fascinated me that a person could bond to, of all things, a frozen oyster embryo. Whenever I see anything about eating oysters I'm reminded of this researcher and his empathy for the bivalves we shuck and gulp down without a second thought.

Cruelest of all the stories about oysters is my childhood favorite, the narrative poem , "The Walrus and The Carpenter" from "Through the Looking Glass" by Lewis Carroll. My father knew this poem by heart and used to enjoy reciting it for me with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a handkerchief for mopping up my tears for the poor little oysters in the other one. To this day, I cannot read the poem without feeling sad.


The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"


The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.


"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."


The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.


But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.


Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.


"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."


"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

---

Sepia Saturday 162 : I married Liberace's Paperboy

This week's Sepia Saturday prompt of Western Union Messengers reminded me of my husband's short career as a paperboy.

He delivered papers in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles. This is his school picture from about that time - I don't have a photo of him on his bike, but he recalls it was a blue Schwinn, kind of like this one.

Papers were delivered to his home in bundles of about 50. He'd fold them, load up his cloth saddlebags, pile them on his bike and pedal his route. The first paper he delivered was the Citizen News; he had a huge geographical area to cover. Later, he moved up to the Valley Green Sheet - more papers, less geography. His zenith was delivery of the Herald Examiner, at that time the only evening paper in Los Angeles.

The distributors sold the papers to the boys who collected from their customers and got to keep what they collected. Richard had one customer who never had to pay; Richard had a crush on the daughter and couldn't bring himself to ask her father for money. The man must have guessed what was happening. Oh well, daughters are expensive and a free paper is one of the small pay-backs he enjoyed.

Above is my husband today sixty-three years older in this picture than in his paperboy days. When I say today, I literally mean today. We are applying for visas to visit India and had our photos taken at Costco this morning. I think my husband is still cute and hasn't changed as much as you'd expect perhaps because he still rides a bicycle up and down the steep hills in our avocado grove. Maybe I'm prejudiced?

A few years ago, during a discussion about weird jobs we had as kids, my husband asked, "Did I ever tell you one of my paper route customer's was Liberace?" "What?" I replied in astonishment, "You were LIBERACE'S PAPERBOY? This changes everything!" All his other accomplishments faded to black and from then on - that's how I introduced him to people. "...and this is my husband Richard, who was LIBERACE'S PAPERBOY!"

Richard remembers seeing the piano shaped pool

When I googled Liberace,  I read about an upcoming HBO movie about him, "Behind the Candelabra" to be aired in May, 2013. Can you imagine Michael Douglas in the role? And Matt Damon as his chauffeur, reputedly his lover?

I jest about introducing Richard as Liberace's paperboy. Depending on your point of view, an even more amusing job he had was a little later in his life, as a gas station attendant, gassing and oiling Johnny Cash's big black cadillac. Richard recalls Johnny Cash as friendly, nice to him and even passing out free tickets to his shows, ripping the tickets off a big roll he kept on the shelf in the back window of his car.

..something like Johnny Cash's Caddie

I'm in the back in the flowered dress

And because it's Superbowl weekend and the game is in New Orleans and I've been writing about celebrity encounters, I'm reminded of  the above BONUS SS photo. It was 1972 and we were at Superbowl VI. The scene was Pat O'Brien's where, acting like dumb tourists, we were sucking down Hurricanes (note the incredibly tacky souvenir glasses). This photo must have been taken early in the evening while everyone was still more or less in decent condition as in above the table and not underneath it. Those rummy fruity drinks resulted in the most vicious hangovers I can remember; the kind where your hair itches and your brain sizzles in a ketonic soup. We dragged ourselves to the game, nursing those hangovers, sipping Bloody Mary's and then went out and did it all again.

New Orleans was full of politicians in the city for the big event.  Earlier in the evening pictured, we'd eaten a very fine dinner at Antoine's where in a private room we saw John Dean, Erlichman, Haldeman and others of that era eating oysters together (almost wrote this up for last week). Later that night, Tip O'Neill, then majority whip, squeezed into the chair behind me. I can claim that I really did rub elbows with him; in fact, more than just elbows as we were as cramped as sardines in there. Much merry toasting took place, the Hurricanes kept coming and we sang and drank into the wee hours.

Put your newspaper down for a minute - set that crossword puzzle aside and cycle over to Sepia Saturday for more interesting stories.

 

Sepia Saturday 161: Slipping and Sliding

I have no photos that remotely relate to the scene above. After sitting on my prat (see below) tossing around a bunch of different subjects to write about and studying the food displayed in the shop, the humorous aspect of bananas began to get rooted in my brain. I wondered where, when and particularly why it became funny to slip on a peel.

Imagine this. Man walks into the Dughi store, buys a banana (one of the first, easy to eat to-go foods), peels it and carelessly tosses the skin on the street, where it decays and gets slimy. Time passes and Hannah comes strolling along and unwittingly steps on the thing. Limerickists world-wide, in particular the most famous of all, "anonymous" raise their pens:

There was a young lady named Hannah,
      Who slipped on a peel of banana.
          More stars she espied
          As she lay on her side
      Than are found in the Star Spangled Banner.
      
      A gentleman sprang to assist her;
      He picked up her glove and her wrister;
          "Did you fall, Ma'am?" he cried;
          "Did you think," she replied,
      "I sat down for the fun of it, Mister?" 

anonymous 

Sliding Billy Watson from Travalanche.com

Legend has it that a vaudevillian, "sliding" Billy Watson, witnessed someone slipping, someone like perhaps Hannah or one of her sisters and I assume, being an unsympathetic arse himself, recognized it's humor potential. He incorporated, into his act, a comedic skit comprised of an exaggerated banana peel slip accompanied by an off-stage rim shot. Audiences thought it was funny - really funny, in fact they went bananas when they saw it. The banana peel slip became ensconced in vaudeville repertory as one of many sure-fire-laugh "pratfalls" (the word prat originating in 16th century Britain and meaning "buttocks"). After more than a century the laughs keep coming over these skits - here's two YouTube tube links.

The oldest I could find:

Harold Lloyd, The Flirt 1917

 In my opinion, the funniest:
 
  Woody Allen Sleeper 1973

As they caution, we all have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel; before you slip, take the opportunity to read some of this week's superb stories at Sepia Saturday

Sepia Saturday #160: A Wolf Whistle

In my photofantasy interpretation of this week's scene, I suspect that a good looking woman just walked by and is exiting the scene stage right, as it were. Our gentleman observer is gazing intently in that direction and if I'm not mistaken I can see the trace of whistle pucker on his lips. Perhaps he'd be too much of a gentleman to wolf whistle, but his wild side may have been momentarily unleashed. Having known some car-obsessed men, I am surer than sure that he has no interest in the truck.

Let me be clear: I am not an expert on the wolf whistle. The last time I was the recipient of one was some time ago, on my 50th birthday. I was feeling a little down in the dumps as fifty had not yet been sugar-coated and re-positioned as the new thirty. It was just plain fifty and you had to stand up and take it like a man. A big milestone, it seemed  perilously close to the end of the road. I was in Seattle, filling my car at a gas station; the fog was thick and admittedly, there was distance involved -  the whistler being about 50 feet away. Wafting through the murky air toward me (I did check around to make sure I was the only female in the vicinity), that unmistakeable whistle landed right smack in the middle of my flagging ego. The blues were dispatched forthwith and my mood turned around. I walked over to the whistler, thanked him for his attention and told him how he'd made my 50th birthday. I didn't realize at the time it would be the final whistle or I would have been even more effusive!

When I got home that night and coyly told my gear-head husband the story he looked at me and without missing a beat had the gall to suggest the whistler might have been expressing admiration for the candy apple red Pantera (his) that I was driving! Don't you wonder what marriage handbook he was reading? I can tell you hell hath no fury like a 50 year old woman whose whistles been taken away. After spending the night sleeping in the car my EX husband had to agree that he might have chosen something else to say.
  
It only took a decade or so for me to forgive my ex-husband. He had long since driven out of my life in his Pantera and I was ensconced in a new life with a BMW.  Sixty, the new fifty, came along much more easily and I happily settled into being a senior. Once in a while I think nostalgically about that final whistle and consider  "paying it forward" by whistling at an aging man. When I'm alone or out in the grove, I practice and can state with some confidence that I can squeeze out a pretty good wolf whistle. One day, the perfect situation will arise and I'll be ready to lay the sound out on some older guy, shuffling along in the nursing home or on the putting green.  I'm shooting for something like this....

Wolf Whistle 



Oh, oh...have I said too much?
 

Hard to Swallow Stories

My amiable seatmate in the vet's office, the owner of "approximately" 10 chickens, "roughly" 4 dogs, and some miscellaneous cats and rabbits asked me why I was there. She was vague about the numbers of her pets because county regulations limit the number of animals you can keep and after all, I was a perfect stranger. She was holding the leash on her arthritic, greying Airedale terrier, who had a heck of a time getting his footing on the smooth concrete floor. She'd help him get his legs together and while looking her in the eye balefully, his legs would slowly start sliding sideways from underneath him. Finally he chose to flop down on his side. Her big black bunny was in a pet carrier on the floor, waiting for his manicure. The rabbit's nail hygiene was the reason for their vet visit on this occasion.   

"My cat ate an ear plug. Intestinal blockage. Surgery.", I confessed.

She chortled, shifting her position slightly as she leaned in and asked, "Did they offer the plug to you? My dog ate a pair of pantyhose, got clogged up and after the surgery, they told me I could have them!" She was quick to add that she'd politely declined the offer. The vet's wife told us they'd once removed a thong from a dog's gut. My husband declared that there oughta be a "Wall of Shame" for display of this stuff at the Animal Hospital.

On another visit (we've been several times during this week), a woman told me her dog, apparently a gourmet, consumed 10 1/2 pounds of stones. Nobody asked her if she wanted them, but she was assured she held a foreign object weight record. My artist friend Barbara's dog ate stones and string simultaneously creating a kind of dog art necklace in it's gut. There's probably a market somewhere for this kind of thing, if coffee beans extracted from monkey poop are worth a fortune.

Take my word for it. If you're in a situation where you want to hear stories (some of them hard to swallow), declare during a lull in the conversation, "My cat got clogged up from eating an ear plug!" or  "My____________ swallowed a _______________". Everyone has a tail tale to tell.

The $1863 ear plug

Repost:Sepia Saturday 159 - On Itchiness

For the "best of Sepia Saturday" compilation celebrating the 200th post I'm re-posting my memories of happy days spent at Grand Beach, Manitoba, Canada. 

  
"Stop scratching." my mother said emphatically. "You're just going to make those bites worse!"

My itchy sister Eilleen and me exchanged looks. Mother's attention meant that serious scratching had to be reserved for after bedtime, when, hidden from her view under the covers, we could claw to our heart's content.  "Eaten alive" as the saying went, we'd scratch until we bled.

Nothing in my experience is quite as itchy as a bite delivered by the legendary Manitoba mosquito at Grand Beach. Referred to sarcastically as the provincial bird of Manitoba, there's a statue erected in it's honor nearby in Komarno, Manitoba. Komarno means mosquito in Ukrainian. Mosquitoes are a serious matter up north; the chief entomologist for the city of Winnipeg is called the "Mosquito Wizard" and he's reputedly paid only slightly less than the mayor.

Photo from roadsideamerican.com of mosquito statue, Komarno, Manitoba.

The only relief remedy we had in those days was a paste made of baking soda and water then slathered over the bites. I can remember the odd feeling of the paste as it dried. It was astringent and probably served to divert our attention momentarily from the itch to the puckering.

Funny when you're a kid, you just accept your surroundings as a fact of life. I actually thought it was fun to sit on our stoop, counting the scabbed-over bites on my legs! Who knew there were places in the world where you could actually walk around in the summer and not be swarmed by mosquitoes? For me, the torture of itching and the joys of warm weather went together hand in hand. 

While mosquitoes were the worst of the lot, there was plenty more entomological fun to be had with the sticky-footed fishflies we pulled off the telephone poles and screen doors; and the annual invasion of dragonflies which fed off the fishflies.


This photo of my sister and me, circa 1948 at Grand Beach, Manitoba, Canada, shows us strolling merrily along the shore. Eilleen has her red bathing cap fastened to her swimming suit strap. We were blissfully without sunglasses, sun screen, water wings, insect repellent or too much adult supervision, happily ignorant of the risks of such an unprotected stroll. We even had a break from the daily agony of the Cod Liver Oil dose, the idea being that we were storing up sufficient Vitamin D with all the sunshine. Mom, throwing caution to the wind, let us skip "Beef, Iron and Wine" the other foul tasting dietary supplement we were forced to take because we were too skinny.

Just the girls, we spent two glorious weeks at the rented Walt's cottage. My father stayed in the city and took the "Daddy train" up on the weekends. With no Dad around, proper meals weren't necessary and Mom made our food into terrific fun: fried eggs for dinner; spam sandwiches sitting on the rocks lakeside; toast cooked on the wood stove and exotica such as Kraft Macaroni and Cheese dinner, which remained a special treat of my sisters for her entire life. Even bedtime was fun as mother made us go to sleep when the lamp lighter came around with his tall ladder to light the coal oil street lamps. We loved to watch this and sat by the window waiting for his arrival. Once the inside lights went out, our serious scratching started. In the background, always, there were mosquitoes buzzing.

Normal routine was forgotten on these holidays as we spent hours paddling around in the water, building sand castles, playing with a beach ball and burying anyone who would allow us the honor. At lunch we'd sometimes get chips in a paper bag, soaked with vinegar and liberally dosed with salt. No one cared about greasy fingers or faces - we'd run into the water (no two hour wait) and splash it all off.

Dance Pavilion Grand Beach from gov.mb.ca archive

There was a famous dance pavilion on the boardwalk, the anchor attraction at the beach; some claim it was the largest dance hall in the commonwealth at one time.  I have vague memories of going there in the evening with my Mom and sister on those endless northern summer evenings, the light in June lasting until 10 pm.  Mother would dance in the cavernous hall with anybody who asked - I'm sure she enjoyed the male attention and it was all part of the vacation from her normal life. Burned to the ground in 1950, it was never re-built and the beach was never quite the same.

I was deliriously happy on those holidays, maybe as happy as I've ever been. The resort was built by the railway and there was excellent train service all summer.  I would have been 5 or so in my first memory of going to the train station. My sister and I held hands tightly, shadowing my mother who was preoccupied with the business of our suitcase and the tickets. In those days we didn't own a car and world exploration was limited to the single block up and down our street. As you can imagine that first train trip was unbelievably exciting, full of new and different experiences. Between the swaying cars, we watched the train tracks speeding by underneath; drank out of triangular folding paper cups from a spigot in the wall; lurched along the aisles peering at the other passengers; nestled into the plush seats and watched the scenery rushing by. Of all my travels since, those one-hour rides may have been the most thrilling of all, infecting me forever with the travel bug.

Some itches are easier to scratch than others. After college, I moved out of the insect cloud to mosquito-free California. No more sitting around counting bites! Now my metaphorical "itchy"footed condition is the one I've dedicated my lifetime trying to alleviate. The only temporary relief I've found so far is the sound of those beautiful words, music to my ears, "Let's Go!".

Grand Beach today (same view as the photo of the girls above)

For more beach stories, perhaps less irritating, scratch your way over to Sepia Saturday



















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That Christmas in Evora Portugal

That Christmas in Evora Spain



Once again I'm re-cycling this Christmas experience. Currently we're in Vienna freezing our bottoms off but enjoying the Gluhwein and pastries. Merry Christmas 2013.


Evora, Portugal
In 2005, on Christmas Eve day we drove from the south coast near Faro, Portugal, to Evora. The roads were empty. Miraculously, we found our hotel “Albergaria Do Calvario” effortlessly for a change. The hotel was excellent; comfortable, small with only 26 rooms.

 



After settling in, we strolled around the town - an easy walk, visiting the Temple ruins, the Cathedral of Evora, the Church of St. Francis (with it's macabre bone chapel) and enjoyed the ambiance of the narrow cobble stoned streets. The bone chapel was created from the bones of 5000 people and you've got to give the folks credit for originality and for recycling. Even though it's creepy, it seems a far better attraction than the ridiculous icons that are the claims to fame of so many churches and cathedrals.

Creepy bone chapel

 

All the restaurants were closed; Pousada dos Loios, an upscale, expensive hotel (one of the state-owned Pousadas de Portugal group) was the only choice for dinner later.


It took imagination to cobble semi-decent clothing together. We piled on all our outerwear, including hats, scarves and gloves and walked over to the hotel for our 7:30 reservation. You know how it is in Spain and Portugal - dinner before 9 p.m. is for children. Luckily the Pousado hosts many Americans and the staff is accustomed to old farts like us asking for the earliest seating.
 


The loggia where dined was lined with glass doors which looked out onto a beautiful, romantically lit courtyard. Large candle stands were piled with big, fat candles melting into each other like liquefying wedding cakes. Decorations consisted of an abundance of pine boughs piled everywhere, tied with satiny ribbon swags. From the set menu we chose soup, roast turkey with pureed spinach, roast potatoes and giblet stuffing; we ordered a half bottle of house red wine. They must have guessed half a bottle wouldn't do it, because they brought us a full bottle which we promptly drained. There was a groaning board dessert buffet loaded with beautiful concoctions. Unfortunately, they all tasted the same - riffs on custard: eggs, butter, flour. For most of the dinner we shared the dining room with a couple of parties of women, singles and pairs, but around 8:30 couples and families started drifting in. By the time we left, the place was full.

As we've traveled around, we've run across a disproportionate number of women traveling alone or with a girl friend/sister/mother. They all have the same story: "My husband doesn't like to travel." I've yet to run into a man traveling alone who makes the same claim about his wife.
 
On the walk home, the streets were deserted and still; a light snow was falling. We passed one solitary bundled up young woman who said “Bon Natale”. Christmas lights hanging above the streets were festive. As we neared the hotel, we saw a small white cat, plump but scruffy looking, ducking into a hole in the road, squiggling into the space; we assumed it might be looking for rats or mice. It wasn’t a bit afraid of us. We thought it odd that it would choose this road hole that would normally get a lot of traffic. It's not likely we'd notice a similar little cat detail if we were at home. One of the joys of traveling is that you notice things - everything because of your heightened attention.




At 10:00 in the morning, we woke up and rushed down to breakfast which ended at 10:30. The buffet was hearty and included cereal, pound cakes, a variety of breads, croissant, scrambled eggs, bacon, ham, cheese, coffee and tea. As we were the last guests to eat, the staff was waiting for us to finish so they could clean up and go home to their families.  Sometime overnight the snow turned to rain so we used the car to drive over to St. Francis for the Christmas mass. The church was half full, warm and nicely decorated. Choral music was lovely with unusual (for our ears), beautiful harmonies. The organist was a stand-out; he seemed far too good for this parochial setting. At the end of the ceremony people lined up to go up front where the priest held up a plastic baby Jesus for people to kiss. Struck me as strange and almost creepy, weird. Richard didn’t agree – he thought it was fine.

After the ceremony, we drove around trying to find someplace open either for coffee or lunch. Finally we stopped at a gas station and had a coffee for 50 cents out of the machine. It actually wasn't bad. The things you do while on the road!

 
By evening, it was pouring but we'd discovered that the Chinese restaurant was open - isn't that true all over the world - the one place you can rely on for Christmas? We donned our rain gear and jogged to "O Geraldo" , a block from the hotel. As we turned the corner we could see the red Chinese lantern's light reflecting on the wet cobblestones. We crossed the threshold into a warm steamy, room. One large round table was occupied with a lively party. A young Chinese woman was standing up, arms crossed, engrossed in a TV mounted up on the wall.  The menu was extensive; there were 5 or 6 pages of the usual options. Richard chatted with the waiter in Chinese (they asked if he was a teacher). We ordered a house specialty – squid with green peers (we imagined eating the squid midst many envious equals). It was very pleasant to eat while “agglutinating” – a term used in the Evora official brochure to describe socializing. The food was fine: wonton soup,  squid and peppers, chicken with noodles, fried rice and 2 Chinese beers.   With our 16 euro bill (a real bargain),  they brought us 2 small cups of a delicious plum flavored Chinese liqueur.

Merry Christmas! Bon Natale!

Christmas tree in Lisbon