All Hail Old Winter’s Blast!

I jest. Truly, I jest. Who is honestly going to praise that hoary old man when he comes far earlier than expected, and does not bear gifts.  Okay, maybe we could extend a little magnanimousness (a little what? How pretentious! Guilty...but I said it first!), towards a couple of points: the enhancing beauty created by pristine snow decorating trees and shrubs; the undoubted charm of  rich red and orange hues on lush, swollen, rose hips; or holly bows, laden with Christmas ready blood red berries, made bolder still by their white framing. Yes, yes . . . but his arrival on the scene so very early was totally unnecessary! Anyway. . . not to cry over fallen snow, and - to show that I can be generous - I did get out to take advantage of the early covering. With tripod and camera in hand, myself well bundled up, I managed a few photos displaying the old man’s white cape, so expertly cast about the land, and which, I must confess, does show a certain "je ne sais quois."

This little chap was so busy scratching through the snow - searching  for seeds fallen from a feeder above it’s head - that it totally ignored me standing near. Others soon arrived but were equally occupied, running thither and yon in their own searches. I could only manage to capture one of them at a time. Still it was fun trying, trusting they would hold still long enough for a portrait. Fortunately my camera, a Fuji S1600, has a speedy capture rate. 
Snow flakes falling by the woodshed, white topped logs on the seashore, and tinseled firs in the neighbors yard, all lend a view to winter’s one grace. Of course, if you’re a cross country or downhill skier or a snowboarder, it must be great that the white stuff has piled up so high so soon. And if, by any chance, you're  planning to partake  in a 1000 Mile Sled Dog Race in the Yukon - complete with huskies - then you’re away ahead of me in the undoubted pleasures that can be found in our Wonder of Wonderlands - this beautiful province, and the Territories above.

 

Winter Is No Wonderland When You’re Chopping Wood!

ever mind that bitter winds have begun to blow and puff their frosty breaths down one's neck, or the realization that most of the birds, who’ve spent the last three seasons gorging themselves at the feeder, have left their nests and flown off to warmer climes. Or, to continue, that the once gentle rain has a definite feel of ice in its now heavy drops. No, never you mind about any of that, what you’ve got to mind is the pleading look in your better half’s eyes, reminding you that the time has come to search out the ancient, rusty axe, and start chopping.
ead hung low, gait sluggish, I head out the door and into the woodshed. Cedar, sweet scented cedar, makes for great kindling ‘tis true, and I do like the softer heat of a real fire, but at this moment a thermostat joined to a baseboard heater has a definite edge in the battle of said heat. But, I must cast aside that luring thought, for the moment, and face the stacks of wood which surround me, groan in self-pity, and begin piling finely chopped kindling, and heavy fireplace sized logs, into my aging arms.
  deep, resigned sigh escapes me as I picture the long months of wood shed trips ahead. Contemplating the hours of slogging still to come, I shudder. I see myself plowing through thick layers of mounded snow, storm weighted icy rain pummeling down, all to keep alive a warm and inviting fire. Worth it? Oh, yes! Inviting? Oh, yes! But that invitation, allowing one to enjoy the warmth and comfort of a cozy fire, comes into play only after braving winters elements to make it happen. Only after the match has been struck, the flames kindled to life and nursed to full maturity, can the invitee sit back and bask in the comforting reward of his labors.
ey! Even a grouch is allowed to rant on about the discomfort of winter wood gathering and then give in to contented sighs in the enjoyment of its warm rewards. "Look! There, and there! The shadows spinning around the room, reflecting the dancing flames! Aren't they something!"

                                                                 

Rule of Four

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I recently finished reading The Rule of Four by Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason, and was impressed by the tension and readability maintained by the authors in an otherwise erudite story. The book revolves around an ancient Renaissance manuscript (real), with the tongue twisting title  Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, which translated means Polipholos Strife of Love in a Dream. It’s text has baffled and divided scholars for the last five centuries.

The story involves four Princeton scholars, one, Paul Harris, is obsessed by a consuming  need to translate its polyglot text and riddles, having based his final thesis at college on doing so. Paul has persuaded Tom Sullivan to help him because of Tom’s familial involvement with the ancient text. Tom’s father spent his life trying to unravel the mysteries of the text, and though having failed in his quest uncovered a clue before his death which opened the way for the final key to be found. The other two, Charles and Gil, are less involved with the actual breaking of the final code, but are major players in the drama surrounding the work.The monumental task taken on by Paul and Tom makes for a compelling read of murder, obsession, greed and revenge  - it kept me glued .                                                                       

There is a great deal of information on the Internet about the novel and about the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, which has influenced scholar, poets and artists through the centuries. In 1999 the complete ancient manuscript was finally translated into English, by Joscelyn Godwin, composer, musicologist and translator.

The Rule of Four, was published in 2004 and was on the New York Time’s Top 10 list for months. It became a national and international best seller and has sold well over a million copies. It is also being turned into a movie, (as of 2007). 

Praised as being a better read than the Da Vinci Code, and condemned as a mediocre copy of Dan Brown’s novel, it is in fact a totally different story. Though they are both involved with hidden mysteries and riddles they cannot be compared – apples to oranges. Also, Dan Brown wrote his book years after The Rule of Four came out, so who is the follower? I must recommend a great blog where the pros and cons for and against the book can be found. The reviews supplied by various readers of the novel give a good idea of the controversy it engendered.  http://www.goodreads.com/

Image via Wikipedia

I must also add, that I believe that many of the adverse reviews seem to reflect a lack of intellect. Of course I’m biased, but this book is not a trite treatise, it is the outcome of a great deal of study and intellectual acumen by the two authors.

Mao’s Last Dancer – Li Cunxin

My Constant Reader, Anita, suggested - strongly - that I do myself a favor and get hold of a copy of the book Mao's Last Dancer as quickly as possible. The story, she said, was about a young boy  who, at the age of nine, had been randomly chosen by Madame Mao to be trained as a ballet dancer. A peasant boy from a small impoverished village, a thousand miles from Beijing, who was completely ignorant of what ballet was, yet grew to became one of the world’s most famous ballet stars.
His name is Li Cunxin, and Mao’s Last Dancer is his story, told by himself, and in his own words. A simply told tale of hardship, cruelty, passion and pain. The story of a child, thrust into a world of which he knew nothing, and of his decision to be the best in what he was forced to do so that he would not shame his peasant family by failure. His inspiring story, of singular determination, and inner strength, which against all odds led him to another land, and another life, is recounted in this narrative. His journey from poverty to self-realization, and fame, became this book. Impossible to put down, impossible to forget. 
I went to the library, requested a copy and was told that I would have to wait, that though they had 15 copies available there were 256 people ahead of me. With that endorsement I was left with no alternative, I had to get my hands on it, so I waited. Thanks Constant Reader! The book is now a film, and though it is playing back East in Canada it is yet to arrive on the West Coast. 

A surprising twist: Li was chosen Father of the Year for 2009 in Australia!

Mark Vincent 2

I am posting, today, a vocal, non-video, interpretation of Music of the Night, from the “Phantom of the Opera” by Andrew Lloyd Webber. The vocalist is again Mark Vincent, the young man from “Down Under,” who is being tagged with the moniker pop-opera singer, which annoys me. Now turned 16 he is still a kid, and who knows where, and to what heights, his voice will take him, but labeling him like that at this stage is unfair. Maybe my reaction is a bit much. You think?
I’ve chosen this from among his many recordings to show the emotional range and adult quality of his interpretation. He shades the words as though he lives the characters emotional pain and passion. In other words he pulls himself into the character and from the inside out pours out his plea.  I intend to keep track of his growth as a singer and artist, and as a person going into the future. I feel strongly that it will be worth it. Apparently he's a great guy, humble, and appreciative of his good fortune and of his vocal gifts. If you'd care for a bit of his biography I could post what I know, it's very interesting, and inspiring.

Mark Vincent

Well the weather certainly is not sticking to its promise – sunshine has not poured out upon us, and it looks like any pouring will be left to the rain clouds gathering above. Had promised the wife I would start cleaning the garden today - if the sun appeared! - but, oh dear, it’s just too, too wet. I’ll just have to carry on here I guess. “I’m a low cad, just a low cad, playing such a dirty trick. . . . . “ a line from the musical/opera “Candide” by Leonard Bernstein, comes to mind.
Speaking of musicals (were we?), segues quite easily into the following. I would like to take you - as your humble guide – to an event that took place in Australia in 2009, when a young, 15 year old boy won that year’s “Australia Got Talent,” contest. Mark Vincent is that teenager, and he, my friends, has a remarkable voice, as attested to by the following video of his first appearance on the show. A voice that enabled him to win top honor, and receive a cheque for A$250,000.

 He seems to be taking it all in his stride, has a humble quality that is real pleasure. This young man is going places. And I, for one, wish him the best.

I’m Back!

Took a month off to reassess my jottings. Thanks for your patience, much appreciated. Sometimes I jot gaily along la-de-da forgetting that others may not have the time or the inclination to read the long essay I’ve penned, or - as in my case - typed. Sooo. . . they depart, to other areas where the Blogger's post is shorter, more succinct, you know, not over powering, quickly read and as quickly absorbed (we trust). Time waits for no one – as they (who is they?) say - and Time seems to be in charge these days, no matter how many free hours we have in the day. Okay, okay, I hear you! Forgive the rant, and allow me to hopefully entertain you, maybe bemuse you, inspire you (wow! love that one!), maybe raise your dander, excite you (mmm! love that one too!), and have you sending off missiles in the shape of comments to voice your opinion. Anywhichway, come talk to me. Okay?
Blossoms  of a potted Gazania taken just before the storms of early winter swept in. Boy, did they! Right now the winds are pushing the trees around in some tricky dance steps, and the waves are dashing onto the shore like crazed Kamakazi pilots, doing as much damage to the rocky sands and tumbled logs as possible. And, we’re told, it’s going to get worse. I believe that. Winter is at least 3 weeks earlier this year, leaving autumn shuddering in its wake. To top it off, Mt. Washington, right above us, had its first snow fall of the season last night! The earliest ever in its history, and about a month ahead of previous years. Last winter the resort up there had the deepest snow, the heaviest fall, of any resort in the world! It seems prepared to top that record this year. Thank heavens the car goes in tomorrow for new winter tires, because with our driveway we gotta be fully prepared. Have a look see. . . . . Yep, it is mighty steep, and is even steeper after it goes around a sharp bend to the left before heading straight for the sea. The end point you see at the bend is the edge of a drop, a deep drop right into the rear patio of the apartment above us. You can imagine what it feels like to drive down that in the snow and heavy frost, even if you are brave-upper-lip prepared for it, having spent the better part of an hour at daybreak shoveling all the white off the asphalt - from bottom to top – then broadcasting a heavy cover of salt along its entire length. There are stories to tell of sliding down that hill, in cars and on foot! I’m sure your imagination will fill you in.
Thanks for tuning in – drop a line in the comment box, be great to hear from you. Bye for now.

The Queen In 3D

      I picked up a couple of pairs of 3D glasses at the Post Office on Tuesday - available free to all Canadians - in preparation for a special TV program to be shown that evening on CBC TV.  What was uniquely special about this broadcast was that it would be showing, for the first time ever, 3D footage shot in 1953 of the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. Rare, archival footage found stored away and forgotten. Janet and I - our supper spread before us - sat ourselves down that evening to share with many thousand of others across Canada a rare prospect.
     The glasses, as you can see, are still based on the primitive throw away type of eye ware handed out to cinema goers during the early craze for 3D films They are as uncomfortable and tiring on the eyes now as they were then. Aside from that complaint the events portrayed were impressive.
     A fairy tale parade: the  Golden Coach gleaming magnificently; beautifully caparisoned horses bearing brightly liveried Palace soldiers and guards, whose colorful uniforms added that extra dash to the splendor of the day. They proudly lead the glittering procession as it swept along the route to St. Paul’s Cathedral;  flag waving throngs lining every inch of the way.
     There were also many other moments in the early life of the Queen and the royal family shown - in black and white -  before, during and after the war. Much  of it was reminiscent of others we had seen at the time and over the years. But for me and Janet the moment that stood out and thrilled was a section of the tour the Queen, and Prince Philip, had made across Canada, while she was still Princess Elizabeth. This was a few months before the death of her father and her mounting the throne. Many of the cities and towns she and Prince Philip visited during her Canadian tour were shown. Shots of  flowers being presented, public personages glowing in her presence and Anglophiles thrilled to tears. Then a sudden transition came in the quality of the old film, a section as new as though it had been shot a week ago suddenly appeared on the screen  It was a clip of the Command Performance , requested by the soon to be Queen, and given by the Winnipeg Ballet. There we were, in stunning clarity, members of the Royal (given that title a year later)Winnipeg Ballet Company, performing a section of the Arnold Spohr ballet, “Ballet Imperial!” And there, plain as could be, was me! What a surprise, and I must admit, a pleasure to see that moment live again. Janet was thrilled, for the first time she saw me in a Classical Ballet, not a musical. She picked me out, the film was that clear. It was a brief moment, but I’m so glad it was there to see. What a shot in the arm, for I had forgotten that I was really quite good. (That’s a bit shameless, but hell, why not! At my age I’m entitled!). So to round this off, I’m putting here a photo of the Royal couple taken during that Command Performance, and subsequently used on the cover of the first program given after the company was given the honor by Royal Decree,  to add the appellation "Royal" to its name. Here is a photo of myself from that program, 22 years old! A  footnote to the years gone by.

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• CBC-TV steps into 3-D with Queen documentary (cbc.ca)

A Look At The Future

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     Okay, Anita, and others who may be asking to be told what happened after we -- my wife and our four boys -- arrived in Vancouver.  Well, for me it was a homecoming, (outside of a visit for a couple of weeks earlier that same year, 1976, to  judge my chances of doing well in my career as a potter .Yup! there were some great changes made in my life). I had been away for 23 years, a long time, almost a generation, and many, many things had happened in those intervening years. But, I am going to do a brief move into the future at this point, and set out a few moments of the years between arriving home and penning this blog.
     We were met at the airport by my brother-in-law, Bun. Bun, and my dear sister, Peggy, had set up house for us in their basement, and for 3 months we lived with them, housed, and fed. Peggy also gave us an old car that had been sitting in the lane behind their house for ages, which got us around very well for almost 2 years. Afraid we were overstaying our welcome (I mean, The Man Who Came To Dinner and all that!), we moved into a house in Surrey, at the time a large unorganized area 20 miles from Vancouver, and now a very large city, and growing larger every year.    
     There were many ups and downs for all of us in our new lives, especially for the two older boys. It took them a long time to adjust to the vast differences between living and schooling in Canada and South Africa. They struggled and sometimes things went well, but at times not so. They both went back to South Africa for a spell but wisely decided to return and make a go of it. Janet got a job as a bookkeeper with Weight Watchers, and I worked on, struggling to make my pottery business a success, and my pots popular. Fortunately I did, and began to get a number of fine shops to carry my work.
     During this period I also did some work with amateur theatrics, directing and choreographing a couple productions. Then a big change. During our stay in Surrey we sponsored a young South African couple, recently married. The wife was a doctor - which stood her in good stead for a residency in Canada. They stayed with us for a short time after their arrival, but very soon  moved to a small, out-of-the-way town in the interior, where there was need for a resident doctor. After remaining for a couple of years they decided it was too remote for them, and moved over to Salt Spring Island, where she acted as locum for another doctor, finally taking over the practice.
      The above is apropos to the next 18 years of our lives. We, that's me, Janet, and the kids, decided to visit the couple after hearing so many wonderful things they had to say about the Island. We planned it for Labor Day weekend,  September 1980 . We were only planning to spend a couple of days with our friends, have a look at what the fuss was all about, and then head back to Surrey.

Image via Wikipedia - Fulford Valley

But fate stepped in. We  fell hook-line-and-sinker in love with the Island, came back to Surrey, put our house up for sale, sold it, and moved lock-stock-and-barrel onto Salt Spring, arriving the day before Halloween, October 1980! Almost two months to the day after our two day visit.
      Needless to say I am not going to go into a lengthy description of the Island -- a gorgeous place - or give a day-by-day, blow-by-blow breakdown of the those years. It is enough to say that we loved living there, even when things did not always go well. Then again, isn't that the way of life? Things happen that bring pain, and others that bring joy, but through it all we find that life is really worth living. I think that mainly it's because our natural curiosity wants to know what's waiting around the next corner.
     The younger boys went through grade school and high school on the Island. The two older ones stayed a short while, and then went back to the mainland, and to other places to fulfill their lives. Janet worked as an accountant/bookkeeper at a Senior Care Center, and I made pots.
     My studio was attached to our house. It contained my wheel, the kiln (electric, which warmed the studio beautifully in winter), and all the other paraphernalia necessary for a working, and productive, one man pottery business. I had been trained in South Africa, and as the studio there used electricity to fire the pots I decided to stay with that method in Canada.

Bisqued Pots ready for glazing

Besides I had developed successful glazes that mimicked, to an extent, colors associated with those achieved by gas or wood firings, and also, the learning curve to change to another firing method was not worth the time or the expense.

SUMMER STOCK

  Where would the budding musical performer be without that nurturing institution? Can you imagine how many talented young neophytes earned their eventual entrance to the big time (New York and London were the destinations of choice in my day, and are still I’m sure), because of summer stock training. And what a training ground. For the alumni -- the graduates of Theater Under Stars -- the training received from our talented theater directors, music directors, choreographers and producers was professional all the way. Those years, and the numerous productions we appeared in, gave us a theatrical education to be envied. Beneath warm night skies -- stars obscured by powerful klieg lights -- we sang and danced our way into professional productions from Broadway's Great White Way to London's West End.
Summer outdoor theaters sprang up all across North America after the Second World War.  With the austerity of the war years gone, blackouts a thing of the past, open air theater was the perfect place to celebrate this freedom. The proscenium lights blazed out across the night the spirit of a new beginning. Old operettas, the mainstay of summer theater for so many years, were now being moth-balled, eclipsed by an exciting new musical genre, vibrant with the energy of  the post war years.  Fresh young talent, ready and eager,  flowed into the theaters of New York and London, and the renaissance of the musical, transformed for the times, began.

A WORD KIND READER

     It may seem as though I've wandered away from the litany of my life, but no, I am still adding bits and pieces which will be posted as I go along. I wanted to mention the rise of summer theater in the years after the war. So I've put down a few thoughts dealing with the importance of entertainment in peoples live after the years of restrictions and cares necessitated by a conflict which seemed bent on consuming the world.

GEORDIE'S DAY

     Miss Blackwell needed a pencil. She asked her class of eight-year-olds for a volunteer to get one for her. Geordie's hand shot up. Overly eager as always to help, he misunderstood his teacher's request. Off he went, running home as fast as he could manage, knowing there was a newly sharped pencil lying beside the phone, on the desk in the entrance hall.
    Surprising his mother by his visit, confusing her by his strange request, she reluctantly gave Geordie the pencil. Head shaking, she watched from the window as he quickly pedaled his little legs across the tram tracks which passed in front of their house. A moment later he turned a corner and was gone. Clutching the pencil and running for all he was worth, Geordie raced himself down the road and up the hill to the old, gray, clapboard sided school.
    Breathless, hair askew, proud of his effort, he held out his trophy to Miss Blackwell.
    She looked at the pencil, at the clock, then at Geordie.
    "I believe, Geordie, that the office is still next to the teachers room?"
    "Yes, Ma'am."
    "Then perhaps you could tell me, and the class, why it took you so long?"
    As her question slowly sank in and snickers and giggles began to build from the desks behind him, a light clicked on in his head.
    Wide eyed, stunned by the realization of his error, crimson cheeked he stuttered out his shame."I...I...thought you meant for me to get one from...my.. .my home."
    Miss Blackwell regarded him silently, with the concentrated curiosity of a botanist fascinated by a flower known but rarely seen.
    "Your home? Am I to understand that at no time did you question what you were doing?"
    "No Ma'am. You needed a pencil, so I went to get one for you."
    "Hmm. Well, I find it strange you didn't realize the school keeps spare pencils in the office."
    "I knew that Ma'am. but. . .I. . .I thought teachers brought their own things. You know,. . . pencils and stuff. . .and that you'd just forgotten yours, and I, well, because we had a couple of new ones at home. . ."
    "Geordie! Teachers are attended to in this school as equally as the children, the office does not ignore requests from either party, rest assured. Now, as to your other error, a much more serious transgression. Surely you must know, that if you leave the school grounds when school is in session you will be punished. Parents expect the school to know where their children are at all times. You put me, and the school, in the unfortunate position of being liable if anything had happened to you after you left!"
    "I'm sorry...I didn't know that Miss Blackwell, really. I just wanted you to have a pencil."
    Confronted by an honest error commited by a sincerely contrite little boy, Miss Blackwell was torn by rules which stipulated punishment for his misdemeanor--even if it were the product of misguided chivalry--and the boy's innocent desire to please.
    "What you did, Geordie, was wrong, even if it were for the right reason. Do you understand what I mean when I say that?".
    "I think so, Ma'am."
    "Good. Think about it, and after class this afternoon we'll discuss it further. Perhaps writing it out a few dozen times will get it into your head. Now, please, return to your desk."
    Sliding into his seat, upset at his foolishness, aware that the entire class was waiting to have a go at him as soon as the bell rang, he wondered if maybe, someday, he would again do the wrong thing for the right reason, and if so, would he know.
    "Oh, and Geordie."
     Shimmying quickly out of his seat, Geordie stood stiffly beside his desk, arms pressed tightly against his sides, eyes trained on the floor, afraid to look at his teacher, afraid to show his fear of what might be coming next.
    "Yes, Ma'am."
    "Thank you." He looked up in time to catch a twinkle in her eye.
     Grinning from ear to ear, Geordie settled proudly into his seat.


  Copyright © 2010 by Gordon B Wales. All Rights Reserved.

HOW IT CAME TO PASS

     Six years of Theatre Under the Stars, conjoined with three years in the Winnipeg Ballet,  condensed just like that, in one page! Those years were the defining years of my life. I grew up during that time, the innocent young man that I was changed. Innocence slipped away (snail paced), but naiveté, like gum stuck to the bottom of a desk, proved difficult to remove. I had the unfortunate attitude of believing that everyone was basically good. Yes, sad but true. Many heavyhearted tears were shed before I came to realize that deep down inside, where it really counts, some folk are rotten to the core. (I  imagine there are those who would agree). I paid for that foolish fancy, and the price was high. Now here's a simple phrase which takes a lot of living experience, and lot of good loving to believe: "The price of living is worth the cost." At one time I would have contested that phrase as being simplistic, yet now when I look back at the decades which have numbered and labeled me I am pleased to say, putting into perspective the underbrush of thorns that often covers our path, hiding the easier road, every bit of that living and loving molded and formed me into what I am. I would wish that it had not demanded so much. But, oh! I would pay it again for what it gave me. I do not refer to money, for of that I have little, or to fame, which has skillfully eluded me, and which in itself is of small value, but to the love of those whose future is in their making, whose promise is in their deeds, and whose completeness is in the nobility of their minds. My children. Had I lived another life and never known them, it would have been akin to living in a world in which only the dark side of the moon could be seen. A world without sunlight.

“Now herein let the tale unfold.”
     Summers of long ago, as we look back through the haze of time, and visualize them in our minds eye, seem to have had a special halo hovering over them,  Yet I'm certain that my remembrance of the weather during those long ago summers is correct. I will allow a give or take that on certain unfortunate nights a performance had to be canceled because of an unscheduled--and unkind—deluge. But summer nights then seemed to roll by, show after show, year after year, star filled, moonlit and exciting, devoid of a single obscuring or rain filled cloud. What a magic brush is memory, it can paint in, or paint over, many a could have happened, or unnecessary piece of the past.
   The collage of TUTS programs above gives a colorful illustration of 12 of the 30 shows I was in during my years with TUTS. Shows that were my training ground, and gave me the necessary confidence to tackle London’s West End, which, outside of new York, was the only place to go if the theater was to be my career. The hard work that was demanded from each of us in the Winnipeg Ballet, and TUTS was the reason, no question about it, that gained me access to almost eight uninterrupted years of  employment in theater, TV, and film while I was in England.
     Oh, yes, in case you’re wondering, centered in the surrounding programs are a few of the dancers, waiting to be called on stage during a run through rehearsal. There were many such moments while the stage sets where being placed, and props and such were being organized. I could find a few such photos taken during the evening dress rehearsals as well, which were begun as soon as the earlier show finished its last performance. That was when the lighting of the show was finalized and the costumes paraded and discussed, and last minute glitches fixed.We would arrive late, often very late, at  our various places of rest after those final (before opening night the next evening) rehearsals.
     I've written of the year I joined the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, September 1950, a couple of years before the Queen bestowed the gift of "Royal" to be added to it’s name, and in the process created acute consternation among hopeful British Ballet companies. They were in tutto, each and every one, mortified that a young, upstart Ballet company, in the middle of the boondocks, should receive that much longed for, and expected, appellation when old, established, and terribly English companies, were more deserving. Now it was lost to them forever. Much weeping and wringing of hands among the world of the English dance elite welcomed in the winter months of that year. There was another Canadian company that felt as the British, but they, like their English cousins had no recourse other than maintain a brave countenance, and curse fate in dark,  resin scented rooms.
      The 50s arrived and my career begins to extend my life away from home and family to other cities, and eventually countries. The days became months, months turned into years, and those overflowing years slid silently into decades. My home town family, those childhood places and familiar faces were seemed destined to become faded memories, yet my longing to be among them again, before I lost them forever, never left me; then, by a move decided for me by fate, and an honest mistake, I and my new family walked through

Image via Wikipedia

the Vancouver International Airport arrivals doors, on June 2, 1976,  to stand at the threshold of another life for them, and a nostalgic homecoming for me.



  

The Bathroom Blues

   What a tattoo ta ta!   When worms began to  move across the floor and slugs appeared in pairs climbing cupboard doors, with others, heralds of strange deeds, slipping between naked feet as they made their slimy way towards the toilet (watch the angle fellas!), it was deemed appropriate, nay vital, that something drastic need be done. Have you chanced to come across such creatures as these, and others stranger yet, such as steroid enhanced earwigs the size of caterpillars, very large caterpillars, sneaking around the edges of your bathroom? Well, then you know what a trip to the loo during the night turns into: a fear of dark places, a.k.a Achluophobia, and creepy crawlies, a.k.a Entomophobia! (You always wanted to know that didn't you?). A serious chat with the landlord became essential.
     We didn't even have to twist his arm, or refuse rental payments, his response was equal to our own.
    Walls were torn out and replaced with gypsum board, the old bathtub was removed, as was an effective but outdated ceiling shower, and a newer and much smarter shower cubicle, replacing both, was installed--nice! Installation also of a larger window was a lovely and unexpected extra.
    When the construction phase was finished I offered to paint the walls, much to the relief of Harry (the landlord), who suffers a fatal reaction to paint fumes, including Acrylic. He described to me a couple of years ago how, by a quirk of fate, his wife saved his life during such a reaction. She was driving by a job site where he was working as a carpenter, and decided to pay him a surprise visit, only to  find him unconscious on the floor of a room that had just been painted, .Apparently  years of exposure to paint fumes had created a severe allergic reaction, now a threat to his life. (Try explaining away such life saving phenomenon as his wife’s sudden wish to see him!). To continue: my youngest son, Dominic  (a plumber--heh! heh!), in one of those warped moments in time, was heading out to his truck, having just said goodbye to us, and was on the point of getting into the vehicle when I decided suddenly to ask him if by any chance he had some paint left over from his recent house renovation. “Yep,” he says, “I’ve got some cans in the truck. I was just on my way to the recycle depot to drop them off.” What do you call that? Fate, karma, or just plain luck! Well, and wouldn’t you know, there among the soon to be discarded tins was a full gallon of paint identical to the color Janet and I had decided on. Crazy, eh. Such a guy, our youngest. He also did the plumbing (every home should have one, you know, a gratis plumber), helped lay. . . (ahem), laid the floor tile (I helped! Honest injun!), which was no easy task. You ask why? Okay. The floor, which would soon be covered with large 12 X 12 inch ceramic tiles in a warm, marble swirl tan, was a devastation of ill prepared loose dry cement, wood patches, small mountains, and wide valleys. There was, incongruously in that devastation, a small section of flat undamaged cement, a very small section, otherwise it was a war site, a battle field of ruin. Consequently a royal pain in the (ahem) ankle bone! The adhesive the landlord brought to us with which to secure the tiles was old, and weak--what an understatement-- it was a water based wall tile glue! I should have made a bee line to Home Depot at this point, which a clear headed person would do, an error that led to. . . . wait for it, you ain't heard nuthin' yet!
     Dom, did a great job of tiling that unforgiving bathroom battleground, but even he could not change the highs and lows to equal levels. Eventually the nasty job was done--with much use of helpful expressive expletives. The next day I grouted the grooves. More than a few four letter catch words were employed that morning, never mind the permanent disabling of my knees, and the brutal seizing up of my lower back. The grouting of that uneven floor was finally done, and commiserated upon by Janet as I wept on her shoulder. I waited the required time for replacing the removed toilet, (removed by the plumber to facilitate laying the tiles upon which it would sit). Although placing a toilet was a task I had not tackled for many a year I was game for it. The object in question had been taken out and placed in the entrance porch and now this old man was taking it back in. Confident beggar that I am I gamely hefted it up--achieving a lift of approximately three inches--and grunted it into the bathroom. Alas, I was about to meet my Waterloo, and I do mean WaterLOO!

IN MEMORIAM

            “Adieu, petite poisson, Requiem Aeternam, eternal rest be yours. You were never meant to fly, I hope you realize that now. That second attempt was your last, your not going to get another one, only cats get that.”
    Lazarus, of whom I wrote a few short months ago has followed his little friend - who swam away into the great hereafter 18 months ago - and now he too dwells in the cool and gentle waters of the great fish pond in the sky. He learned the hard way that flying was only for certain fish and almost all birds, but not for little starry eyed goldfish.
    “Now you rest beneath a special rose., little one. You may have noticed it, it grew in a wooden tub a short distance from your pond. A miniature, like you, also a beauty, with the startling name of, “Hot Tamale,” which I guess would please you greatly. Remember how you used to race around your home as though you’d just eaten one. Ah! Well, fella, I guess when you gotta go you gotta go! Thanks for the memory little guy, of your glinting, golden self, drifting through the lily pads . RIP!”

TRAVELING ON - - - - -

     Crowded, full beyond measure, my day's flowed. I worked with a zeal and passion "what comes next" was totally mine to command. The studio became my home, you know, "away from home". My poor mother was caught between her unsure pleasure at my decision to study ballet, and her fear that her strange son was putting too much energy into something out of her ken, and therefore out of her ability to imagine it would, or could, contain any security for me. My father said very little, in fact I really had no idea of what he made of me at the time. I believe he was a wise man, as he was good man; he left it up to me to find the place where I belonged. He too had his dreams, and I, and my brother Bill had been worked into them before our independence showed itself. My mom and I were very close. She was a rare gentle soul, one who would listen to the meaning behind the words she heard from the mouths of those she loved. No, not so, saying that limits her, she listened with her heart to all who unburdened themselves to her. She told me this: my father, a carpenter by trade, longed for a business of his own, and that above the door of this business he envisioned would be a sign that read - "William Wales & Sons, Cabinet Makers". Eventually he did open a cabinet making shop, but with only one name on the shingle above the door. Brother Bill became a sailor and I became a dancer! But he was proud of his sons. He had achieved at least a part of his dream and wished for us that we would find at least a part of ours.
   Slowly--read "painfully" in there--my abilities as a dancer improved, not as fast
as I would have liked, and certainly not as much as was needed for my first professional stage performance. At this point I have to admit that it was the lack, the severe lack of males willing to be called dancers that led to my "first". The attitude at the time was that dancing - stage dancing - was far to feminine a thing for a real guy; a Nancy boy's pastime, "real men" played football. You wonder what the mind set of those guys was when everyone of them had a secret desire to be either Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, and wow the ladies with their smooth and classy moves. My how times have changed, consider all those TV reality shows with thousands of "macho" males lining up outside of television studios hoping for an audition, a chance to show the world how fantastically they too can trip the light fantastic! In my day you were heading for a look of either pity or disgust on the face of your listener if you divulged the dirty little secret that you were a dancer. Me, I loved saying it! I’d tell it to anyone who asked what I did. Then again, I'm funny that way!
     Anyway, at this stage I was not a dancer, I was an impostor who stood at
the barre, sweating heavily, and hurting. Then suddenly, along comes a fairy godmother waving her magic wand in one hand and carrying a white cane stripped with red in the other. Well, how else did it happen that I found myself in a professional musical comedy production? “What”, you ask, “about the dearth of male dancers? You know, you remind me, “impossible to find. .  hmmm?” Oh, yeah, that. Well, I guess it did have something to do with it. Anyway, the Theatre Under the Star’s famous Hollywood choreographer needed another male dancer for a forthcoming production of "The Great Waltz", so they went calling at the various dance schools. Bastions of last resort, what? Ray Moller, and another of Kay's advanced students, Bob Van Norman, were already in the cast, both having done previous summer shows with TUTS, and the recruiters were now scraping the dregs from the bottom of the dance school barrels, and in desperation conscripted me for the job. I looked properly terrified when informed of what was expected of me, but went along with it. Hey, hey, don't get me wrong, I was as blind as that fairy godmother, and besides, no one had told me I was the last of the dregs.
     Of the different numbers in the show the only one I remember is the big waltz near
the end, the “Great Waltz”. Of all the things I did not know how to do the very first was how to waltz - you know, 1 2 3 - 1 2 3, and oh how it showed. My poor partner. How and why did they put me with her? I was green behind the ears personified, and she, oh my God, she had been one of the famous baby ballerinas of the Colonel de Basil Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo! Betty Bligh! She loathed me, to say the least, and she let me know it. Over and over. I’m sure - as she pushed and pulled me through the number - she prayed I would stumble into the orchestra pit and disappear. I don't believe she walked without a limp for ages after the show finished, and I blush still at the memory of those 10 performances in 1948!
    I think an intelligent person would have decided at this point that dancing was for
other more capable folk, and that being young meant there were many other, and much safer careers to consider. But quashed I was not, I was even more determined than ever to prove I could do it. I was counting on a ‘heroes are made not born’ strategy, and fully intended to make it work.
     There is a lovely ending to the ballerina and the dolt story. Three years later, after
that fateful waltz, and much improved by hard work, a scholarship, and two seasons of summer theatre with TUTS, I went with Ray to take some classes at the North Vancouver School of Dancing. Betty Bligh had recently opened her own studio under that name and Ray having raved about how great her classes were suggested I go with him to a few. Her name alone caused the sweat of fear to flow, but  intrigued, and convinced by him that I shouldn't let the episode at TUTS sway me I went, and was knocked out by the class and how she handled her students. She was truly an inspired and inspiring teacher. She also had a bad memory, or a lapse of memory had wiped me clear out of her mind after the fiasco of the "Waltz", because she collapsed in amazement when I told her that I was her hopeless partner of three years previously. The outcome of which I gained one of the dearest friends a guy could wish for, and one of the most, if not the most inspiring teachers I ever studied under. She had a wonderful sense of humor, but confessed she almost lost it forever during "The Great Waltz". Now, decades later, whenever the scent of "Tweed"--her favorite perfume--drifts in the air, or I see, as I pass by a cosmetic counter, the distinctive box that proclaims it, the memory of Betty, and her so valued friendship, sweeps over me. She was the one who truly nurtured whatever talent I may possess, and I owe her more than can ever be repaid.

Excuses! With A Winnipeg Moment

      I've returned! Well, you might say, "It's about time." And you'd be right, quite right, but I've got one good excuse up my sleeve which I will draw forth NOW ! Janet and I have been in Winnipeg visiting our new granddaughter! Say what you will, that's a pretty good excuse. The other excuses have to stay, such as: getting the garden ready; digging and planting; praying for the sun to stick around; early morning sun dances to invoke the aforementioned golden globe's gods to do their duty; fertilizing etc. Mmmm! Going back to the sun dances. About that. I wonder if I'm on the the wrong page in the invoking manual, and have been mistakenly doing rain dance incantations, along with the wrong dance steps? Heaven's to Raven but I'm a lousy Shaman! If I had a tribe they'd disown  me; put me on an ice drift without food and push me out to sea. Tie me to a stake on the highest hill and let the wild things have their way with me! No, I'm not going there. I'll  just step back and leave it to dear old Goddess Iris to do what she has to do  (which is to convey our needs – like bring back summer - to the appropriate gods). We’ll carry on, and manage – gamely of course - with what we have, and Boy, oh Boy, just look at what we’ve have, this little beauty, beautifully named - Samara.!

          Janet and I spent a wonderful few days in Winnipeg, enjoying her and her proud, but anxious, mom and dad. (The joys and tribulations of new parenthood!). Took some great photos. Must say the weather was as bad there as we’ve been enduring here on the West Coast, but we did experience a couple of super sun days. We used one of them to  make a trip to the beach at Lake Winnipeg, an hour from the city across an impossibly flat landscape. Beautiful spot, masses of people enjoying the sun and sand at the edge of that enormous inland sea. Enjoyed my first ice cream cone of the season seated on large plastic blocks on a dusty side road a  coupled hundred feet  or so from the lake. Also had a nice visit with Little Samara's aunt Joy who has a weekend cottage there.
       The next evening we had the pleasure of renewing acquaintances with little Sam's mom's extended Winnipeg family. We shared a  lovely fun time with them over an excellent Chinese meal at a popular restaurant, and ended our final evening with pie and coffee at Marsha’s, another member of the family.

        If you've got a hankering to spend some time in Winnipeg, then let me recommend the B&B were we stayed. Called the BB Waterloo it features a secluded, private entrance suite for two, with a living room, large bedroom (a king size bed), and bathroom. Breakfast is served in front of the window in your living room. You can choose what you would like for breakfast each day, or leave it to your  hostess, Michaela Samek, who will provide you with a different creation every morning - she'll discuss it with you beforehand - a unique European dish or your usual familiar morning fare.

Plies and Plimsoles

(Part two of Traveling - from May 2)

     After I changed into my gear (looking, no doubt, like someone who had become lost on his way to the gym) I presented myself to Kay, and took to her immediately. Kindly tactful, she suggested I visit a nearby store that sold practice clothes; I would, she said, find something much more appropriate, and comfortable than my (ahem) present outfit. Her surprise was genuine when I told her my age, thinking me a lot younger. The age revelation seemed to catch her off guard, and whatever she had been about to say she let it go, and instead posed a question; one I had sort of been expecting might be asked. Wording it not to appear unkind, she asked if I was absolutely sure I wanted to study Ballet, suggesting that maybe Tap would be more suitable, my being a late starter to the art of Terpsichore, and all. (Her question conveyed to me her need to let me know that I would do a lot less damage to myself putting tap cleats on my shoes than I would trying to do the splits.). I assured her I had thought it out before I came, and had made the decision to at least try. (A few years later I confessed to her that my being there was the outcome of a dare. She laughed, and said Karma will out!). Dear Kay, she didn't turn me away, in fact she said she was pleased, and that if I was still of the same mind after my first class she would be happy to welcome me into the school. She also admitted, her face blossoming into one her lovely smiles, that as it was very difficult getting  fellows interested in ballet, she wasn't about to abandon a guy who was willing to give it a go. Kay’s comment not only produced a grateful smile, but stopped briefly the butterflies fluttering in my stomach, and my sense of guilt for the deception. But the butterflies returned an instant later, when the moment I had been dreading arrived!
       Clapping her hands sharply Kay called the class to order--all girls except for Ray, and now me--quickly introduced the new student, me, then everyone moved  to the barre, found themselves a spot, and waited for the down beat to begin the first exercise. I was positioned behind Ray, and told to follow him as best as I could. A moment later I was bending my knees up and down in the obligatory pliés which, I soon learned, would begin every class, warm up, and rehearsal. I was red faced, both with embarrassment and effort, but strangely exhilarated. Whatever it was that tipped the scales of my life and directed me to this moment I will never know, but as I pliéd awkwardly up and down I had the sense that I was shedding my old self, being reinvented, rewired, and glowed inwardly with the realization that I had at last become the person I had no idea I’d been looking for.
       When I picture how I must have looked as I stood with my hand on that rail, a shaking, eager, ill equipped neophyte in clod hopper sneakers, baggy gym shorts, and an even a more baggy tee shirt, I cringe. If I could have seen what I looked like, what I was doing, really pictured it, I’d probably have run for the nearest exit to become a  tie salesman at the Bay. The truth is, even if I had pictured it I would not have run, and why? Because I had fallen in love, and love as they say, is blind.
      Oh, but it was tough! How I struggled and struggled to make my poor skinny frame move in a way that would show I had grasped some of the steps I was being taught, and that I was able to execute a movement close to what was expected. I was completely won over by the wonder of dance. But, my God was I out of my depth. I had chosen a profession for which I was so ill equipped it was sad. It cost me a great deal of pain and misery to achieve what one day would ensure me a living. Still, I did it, I became--this still gets me--a professional, card carrying dancer, theatrical, whatever. Sure it was painful, and sometimes cruelly so, but believe me, I have no regrets. To simply say it was worth it, says so little. For me during those years, to dance was to live.

The Winds of Sinhala

I am re-posting this short piece because I believe it be a constant, relevant aphorism. We assume so much of others and so little of ourselves. I often feel that there are many times when a mirror should be thrust in front of us, that we might look deeply into our own motives before we open our mouths to comment on anothers.

The Winds of Sinhala - (Excerpt) (Edited) 

A man needs to be responsible for others in order to exist.  - Colin de Silva  (The Winds of Sinhala)

One of the most important things in life is to remember that people can only be themselves. We expect them to behave in a certain way. When they do not, our reaction - the hurt, the sorrow, the grief - is indeed the final product of their action. But it is still our own reaction. After all, the same behavior can make one person laugh and another cry. We will never know whether people try as hard to make us happy as we would like them to, or whether they have tried at all, but we must not blame them for being what they are, merely because it is a disappointment to us.
It is love that enables us to accept people as they are. Love can emerge
suddenly, or it can be the product of a relationship. Since its
seemingly natural form is with blood ties, such as between parents and
children, brothers and sister, we expect too much from these ties.

A man needs to be responsible for others in order to exist.  - Colin de Silva (The Winds of Sinhala)