Oh, Canada! by Margaret Ullrich

1972 Shasta (8 x 11 ft.)

Next week both Canada and the U. S. celebrate being who they are.

Our flyers here are full of July first ads.

And the American channels are running ads for fourth of July sales.

Well, shopping is one way to celebrate, I guess.

We're having one of those wet summers where it seems to rain every weekend, and a few times during the week.

Not great if you're working Monday to Friday.

No big deal if you're retired.

In 1972 Paul and I, with just a little over two months of marriage under our belts, packed all we owned into an 8 by 11 foot trailer and trekked across the trans-Canada highway heading to Vancouver, British Columbia.

We had just gotten our driver’s licences that year.

Hey, we were New Yorkers, and all we knew were buses and subways.

I mean, where could one park a car?

It was quite the adventure.

If you’re thinking of driving across the continent, either north or south of the border, here’s a sample of what you might expect.

You’ve been warned.

Transplanting by Margaret Ullrich, part 1

Albany, New York or Bust by Margaret Ullrich, part 2

Trailerites in New York by Margaret Ullrich, part 3

Kingston, New York, by Margaret Ullrich, part 4

Aurora, New York, by Margaret Ullrich, part 5

Niagara Falls, Ontario, by Margaret Ullrich, part 6

Niagara Falls, Ontario by Margaret Ullrich, part 7

Sudbury, Ontario, by Margaret Ullrich, part 8

Saulte Ste. Marie, Ontario, by Margaret Ullrich, part 9

Fun in The Soo, Ontario, by Margaret Ullrich, part 10

Lake Superior, Ontario, by Margaret Ullrich, part 11

Thunder Bay, Ontario, by Margaret Ullrich, part 12

Trowbridge Falls, Ontario, by Margaret Ullrich, part 13

Kenora, Ontario, by Margaret Ullrich, part 14

Pye's Landing, Ontario, by Margaret Ullrich, part 15

Winnipeg to Moosomin, Saskatchewan, by Margaret Ullrich, part 16

Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, by Margaret Ullrich, part 17

Medicine Hat, Alberta, by Margaret Ullrich, part 18

Wild Rose, Alberta, by Margaret Ullrich, part 19

The Rocky Mountains / Golden, British Columbia, by Margaret Ullrich, part 20

The Rocky Mountains / Kamloops, British Columbia, by Margaret Ullrich, part 21

The Rocky Mountains / Hope, British Columbia, by Margaret Ullrich, part 22

Vancouver, British Columbia, by Margaret Ullrich, part 23

White Rock, British Columbia, by Margaret Ullrich, part 24

Thanksgiving in Canada by Margaret Ullrich, part 11, Weeding

Happy Thanksgiving!!

What is it about holidays that makes us remember the past.

Is it the heavy meal?

Is it the booze?

Is it the work that's involved?

Is it all of the above?

Whatever.

Two weeks ago I wrote about our first house in British Columbia.

I say house because our trailer was our first home.

We did a lot of living in that 8 by 11 foot box.

It got us across the country, across the Rockies.

Our trailer was home while we lived in White Rock.

Ah, Hiawatha Trailer Park...

Our trailer was home while we lived in Surrey.

Oy, Beladean Trailer Park...

Let me explain.

Hiawatha Trailer Park was strictly for the tourist season.

Which in Canada ends by Thanksgiving, the second Monday in October.

Not the fourth Thursday in November, as it is in the United States.
So much for thinking we had a site until late November.

Our Hiawatha Trailer Park landlord wished us well, but he wasn't 

going to stay open an extra two months just for us.

Okay... there was another trailer parker a few miles away, in Surrey.

It was closer to The Surrey Delta Messenger, where Paul worked.

We took that as a good sign.

Shows how much we knew.

The Beladean Motel & Trailer Park is on the King George Highway.

In 1972 it was just a trailer park, next door to a drive in movie.

The screen was easily seen through our kitchen window.

We could see a movie every night, including Ben, the sequel to Willard.

Yes, Ben, one of Michael Jackson's earliest hits.

According to Leonard Maltin... the title song summed up situation 

but spared gory visuals that make this film so bad.

We weren't spared the gory visuals on the giant screen.

There's nothing like seeing bloodthirsty giant rats through your kitchen window.

Then there were our neighbors...

The very first day, while I was unpacking, I heard a knock.

It was our next door neighbor.

Cigarette never leaving her mouth, she offered to tell me my future.

At a discount, since we were neighbors.

She said she was a 'parents from the old country', 100% gypsy.

She came complete with Tarot cards and crystal ball.

Her hubby was a travelling roofer.

For a few bucks, cash only, he'd shmear tar over your roof.

I thanked her, said some other time, and escorted her out.

Their teen-aged children played a half dozen country and western records.

Romantic misery blared from next door at all hours during our stay.

So much for traditional gypsy tunes on a mandolin.

Even so, we felt we had a lot to be grateful for.

Paul invited his widowed boss, Mr. Hastings, to be our guest.

I was going to cook my first turkey dinner.

Okay... Thanksgiving... we needed a turkey.

One major requirement: it had to fit in our toy sized oven.

Paul opened the door and measured the opening with his hands.

Then he placed his hands - the same distance apart - on his chest.

With that as our guide, we went shopping.

After hugging a half dozen turkeys, Paul found one that would fit.

On to buying something to drink.

In New York wine and beer can be bought in a grocery store.

Not so in Canada.

We asked the clerk where the alcoholic drinks were.

He gave us a surprised stare.

Okay... Canadians just didn't drink alcohol.

We bought some apple cider.

Finally... Thanksgiving.

Mr. Hastings was the patient, bemused guest. 

Paul was the good host.

I was the bride cooking her first turkey.

Romantic misery blared from next door.

The meal went well.

Hey, no one got sick the next day.

Perfect.

Henderson Has Scored For Canada! by Margaret Ullrich, part 10, Weeding

A few days ago I posted about how plans don't always work.

Well, sometimes not having a plan is the best plan.

I mean, sometimes there are greater forces at work.

We just sort of go along for the ride.

And it works out even better.

We had crossed the border into Canada the last day of June.

We didn't know what Canada would be like.

So we lived as tourists for a while.

Saw all the sights.

We became very used to the nice four lane highway from Vancouver to White Rock.

By July 18 we were in White Rock.

Our trailer was set up in a nice shady spot.

To make room in the trailer, we threw anything we could into the car's trunk. 

Blankets, clothing, a coffee pot, etc. 

Our car's trunk and the back seat were our storage units on wheels.

Our fellow campers at Hiawatha Trailer Park were friendly.

They were retired folks, snowbirds, and expert campers.

They lived by Marjorie Main's code in The Long, Long Trailer:

"I'd like to know what a trailerite is good for if not to help another trailerite."

We joined the local Catholic church.

Father Leo was from the states.

We talked about life there, what we had studied.

Just the usual small talk.

Father Leo knew a local newspaper publisher who needed a fellow with Paul's skills.

By the end of August Paul had a job.

We decided to get our papers in order.

We chose a Thursday to go to the customs station.

Thursday was the day Paul had a later shift at the paper.

The paper was put to bed on a Wednesday, which always was a late night.

Mr. Hastings, Paul's new boss, had written a letter.

In it he said that Paul was one of the few people in Canada who could operate this certain kind of typesetting machine.

As no one had had the job before Paul, that sounded about right.

At that time Canadian immigration was on the point system.

Like passing a Math test.

At immigration, Mr. McGrath told us to cross the border to get our extra 10 points. 

We drove to the border, and there wasn't a line-up. 

The young U.S. customs agent took a quick glance at our trunk, and said, 

"Oh, you must've been camping, right?" 

We said yes. 

   

We had a coffee in Blaine, Washington, then drove back for our interview. 

Mr. McGrath had a small TV in his office, which he turned off.

After a couple of questions, we were done. 

We were allowed to stay in Canada!

    

We were sent out to the customs agent.

He was watching a small black and white TV.

He turned and asked what we'd brought across the border.

He was annoyed that we hadn't brought our trailer with us. 

But he seemed distracted.

Handing us a piece of paper, he said, "Make a list of what you've brought." 

He then went back to watching the TV. 

We wrote a list of all of our possessions.

It was a short list.

After we handed the list to the agent we drove back to White Rock. 

We went to a coffee shop to get our bearings. 

Everyone there was also watching TV. 

By now we'd figured that folks were watching a hockey game. 

There was much cheering.

But we were oblivious to the event. 

When Paul went to work he found out what had everyone so excited.

On September 28 Team Canada hockey team had played against the Russians.

It was the 1972 Summit Series.

It was a historic game.

Paul Henderson had scored the 6-5 goal at 19:26 of the final period.

Some compared the excitement to the celebrations at the end of World War II.

Here's a shot... Henderson makes a wild stab for it, and falls... 

here's another shot... right in front... 

They score!  Henderson Has Scored For Canada!

Almost any Canadian who is old enough can tell you exactly what he or she 

was doing on September 28, 1972.

Well, I know we can.

Paul was told he couldn't work for pay without a work permit.

After a month the permit arrived and Paul received all his back pay. 

Like I said, sometimes not having a plan is the best plan.

Paul later worked at Carolina Publications.

There he worked with Mr. McGrath's nephew Rick.

Rick worked as a reporter at the Richmond Review.

The Richmond Review was Carolina Publications main account.

On the 1972 Team Canada hockey team was Fran Huck. 

Six years later Paul was working with his ex-wife Barbara at The Winnipeg Free Press.

Coincidences or what?

Sometimes there are greater forces at work.

We just sort of go along for the ride.

And it works out even better.

Wotan, Pop and British Columbia by Margaret Ullrich, part 9, Weeding

About two weeks ago I wrote about family in literature and movies.

I just felt like it after reading Uncle Junior Soprano's  

Junior's Ten Tips to Living Long and Living Well

in Artie Bucco's The Sopranos Family Cookbook.

Recently we watched Great Performances at the Met on PBS.

PBS ran Wagner's Ring Cycle - the whole cycle - over four nights in a row.

Das Rheingold... Die Walkure... Siegfried... Götterdämmerung.

Thank goodness the longest one was on a Friday night.

Gotterdammerung ended at 1:00 a.m.

By Saturday we were zombies.

They couldn't have run them on Sunday afternoons?

Wagner's Ring Cycle is all about family.

Okay... not your average family.

But still family.

Die Walkure was about a father and his daughters.

Wotan had plans for his daughter Brünnhilde's future.

Then he changed his plans and wanted her to get with the new program.

When Brünny didn't, Wotan had her confined, to sleep in a ring of fire.

Maybe Wotan was afraid her sisters would follow her example.

Yesterday would've been Pop's eighty-eighth birthday.

Like Wotan and many other Dads, Pop had plans for his kids.

He owned three houses, next door to each other.

Each of his three children was to live in one of the houses.

Of course, each of us would be married and have kids.

Not quite the way it worked out.

As the eldest, I was first out of the gate.

Paul and I moved to White Rock, British Columbia.

With my parents' help, we bought a house in Surrey, British Columbia.

The house was a duplex.

A four-bedroom house, with a one-bedroom apartment in the basement.

We lived in the basement.

The tenants' rent covered most of the mortgage.

We would move upstairs when we needed the bedrooms for our kids.

After they left, we would retire to the basement.

The rent would sweeten our old age pension.

It was a dandy 80 year plan.

Not quite the way it worked out.

My folks visited us in Surrey, British Columbia.

Pop liked our new home.

In the early 1970s, Surrey was farmland.

Pop always wanted to live on a farm.  

Pop loved gardening and raising rabbits.  

He'd had a wall of cages filled with rabbits along a side of his garage.  

Rabbits were a regular dinner item in Maltese homes.

While in Surrey, Pop managed to find a farmer who had rabbits.

He really enjoyed his dinner that day.

My parents hated the winters in New York.   

Pop loved the milder west coast climate.  

He even talked of buying a farm near our house.  

After a year British Columbia's economy took a hit.

Paul's union said there was work in Winnipeg.

So, we moved to Winnipeg and sold the house.

Winnipeg is sometimes referred to as Winterpeg.

It is notorious for its -40º winters.

They come complete with Alberta Clippers and Polar Pigs.

We dress for the weather, not fashion.

Pop knew about winters on the bald prairie.

He didn't talk about getting a farm in Manitoba.

He didn't come up for a visit for another 15 years.

During that time we heard less from him and the rest of my family.

It was like there was a ring of fire around Winnipeg.

Maybe Pop was afraid my siblings would follow my example.

There's an old saying...

Man plans, God laughs.

No, I think He'd understand too much to laugh.

Family: The Godfather, The Sopranos and Pop by Margaret Ullrich, part 8, Weeding

Artie Bucco's The Sopranos Family Cookbook has something from everybody.
Even Tony Soprano, more or less.
As seen on the show, Tony enjoyed grilling.
But he didn't enjoy talking.

Artie included Tony's advice in the chapter Grilling-Italian Style.
There are barbecue recipes.
But there's also an interesting page from Uncle Junior Soprano:
Junior's Ten Tips to Living Long and Living Well.

Some of Junior's tips have to do with food:
drink red wine, eat a bowl of spaghetti every day, eat with friends.

But the first rule was a little odd:
Always trust blood relatives over friends, but not very far.

Relatives...  Family... the stuff of legends, literature, plays.
Shakespeare's Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, and King Lear are all about family.

Hamlet's Dad wants his brother, who had killed Dad, brought to justice.
Hamlet ends up dead.
Juliet's parents want her to 'make a good marriage'.
Juliet ends up dead.
Lear wants his daughters to flatter him.
His most honest daughter ends up dead.

Real relatives' bad situations have been with us from the start.
The first pair of brothers, Cain and Abel, had their problems.
Abel ends up dead.
So much for brotherly love.

Think our favorite gangsters didn't have family issues?
Guess again...

In The Godfather II brothers Fredo and Michael had their problems.
Fredo ends up dead.
In The Sopranos cousins Tony S. and Tony B. had their problems.
Tony B. ends up dead.
Also in The Sopranos Junior wasn't too thrilled with nephew Tony S.
Tony S. almost ends up dead.
Maybe that's where the warning about trusting relatives came from.

Pop had his own problems with family.
Pop trusted his brothers who'd told him to come to America.
The Atlantic Ocean was between them, so the brothers were far apart.
It's too bad Pop didn't know about Uncle Junior's first rule.

Paul and I have lived in Canada over 40 years.
Most of our blood relatives are in New York and Ontario.
Too far to be a part of our daily life.
And maybe that's a very good thing.

Shared DNA doesn't mean shared everything else.
Families can be great.
But they can also be a royal pain.
Ever wonder why folks hit the bottle during the holidays?
Especially when the relatives are all under one roof?

There's a presidential election going on in the United States.
Our American relatives are Republicans.
We tend to agree with our American friends, who are Democrats.
That can be awkward, even on Facebook.

We can't pick our relatives.
We can pick our friends.
Maybe that's why there's this saying in the Bible:
Better is a neighbor that is near than a brother far off.  Proverbs 27:10

Or even a brother near.

Clutter Decisions by Margaret Ullrich, part 7, Weeding

This past Labor Day weekend I got started on clearing out our yard.

We weren't doing much besides watching The Big Bang Theory reruns.

They didn't have that big an assortment.

By the third go through, I was saying the dialogue along with the actors.

It's been a hot, dry summer.

And the garden and lawn look it.

I don't expect any miracles this September.

The garden won't suddenly get all perky looking.

It was easy to put it out of its misery.

In Winnipeg we have those huge roll-away garbage cans.

They get picked up and emptied by a mechanized garbage truck.

Anyway, in 2 hours I had filled the can.

That's all the weeding I can get rid of this week.

I wish it was that easy to get rid of stuff in the house.

No, my home doesn't look like a candidate for one of those Hoarders shows.

It's just that things have a tendency to come and stay.

Our home doesn't have that nice, empty look like the houses in the magazines.

I've read the articles.

A recent one made it sound so simple to get the crap out.

According to the author, clutter is often just unmade decisions.

In the hopes the list will help you, here it is:

1. How often do you use it?

2. Why are you keeping it?

3. Does it fit your current lifestyle?

4. Do you have space for it?

5. Do you love it?

The list didn't help me at all.

For example, take question 1.

I have a honking big black roasting pan with a lid.

I also have a turkey baster.

And a large platter with a turkey design carved into it.

They get used on Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas.

The other 362 days a year they just take up space.

Clutter, right?

I should just toss them, right?

I'll bet they'll flunk the other questions!

Why keep them?

Well, we haven't gone vegetarian, especially for the holidays.

Does it fit my current lifestyle?

I don't have a lifestyle, just a family that eats meat.

Do I have space for them.

Let's just say the roaster is an eyesore that occupies a space.

Do I love them?

Get real.  Who loves a turkey baster?

I started to waver.

The author got deeply philosophical with me.

There was another set of questions, like

What is the worst, and the best, that could happen?

There was something about the Law of Attraction.

According to that law, what I focus on, I attract.

She said imagining the worse-case scenario would be the opposite of what I want.

I should imagine the best case scenario.

Alrighty then...

I'll toss the roasting pan, the turkey baster and the large platter.

According to the Law of Attraction I will focus on the best case scenario.

A work free, stress free holiday dinner.

Sure, that's what I want!

Paul will notice that the roasting pan, the turkey baster and the large platter are gone.

He will want a holiday dinner.

He will make a dinner reservation at a nice restaurant.

Hmmm... I don't think so.

I shouldn't expect any miracles this October, either.

Paul, Pop and Wasps by Margaret Ullrich, part 6, Weeding

A few weeks ago I mentioned how, while watering, one gets to really see a garden.

Last week I was giving our tomato plants a much needed soaking.

Then I happened to glance at our chokecherry.

Let me tell you about our chokecherry...

When Paul planted it in 1989 it was just a stick.

It's now about as tall as our 2 story house.

In the spring it's a mass of lovely white flowers.

Well, it is for about a week.

Then the flowers are blown off by a huge wind storm.

The annual wind storm is guaranteed.

Same time every year.

After the storm the yard looks like it's covered in snow.

Chokecherries are not meant to be trees.

They sucker like crazy.

Paul has to hack the suckers down every time he mows the grass.

The branches are also prone to nasty black growths that have to be cut off.

The growths happen where the branches rub together.

If you're considering getting a chokecherry for your yard, don't.

Just a friendly word of advice.

Well, the birds enjoy the cherries, and we enjoy the birds.

So our chokecherry stays.

Anyway, last week I glanced at the chokecherry and was surprised to see a lump.

It was the same color as the wood.

I went to check out the new growth on the branch.

It was our fourth wasps' nest in about a dozen years.

In 1999 wasps had created a huge hive right under our bay window.

They had burrowed through to our basement.

They were flying around, getting settled for the winter.

We had to call an exterminator.

The poor guy got stung, but he got rid of them.

In 2002 Paul and I were sipping iced teas and enjoying our yard.  

Then Paul glanced toward the doghouse, frowned and went to take a look.          

There was something round hanging from the ceiling of the doghouse. 

I thought our bichon, BoBo, had hung up a doggie pinata.  

It was a rather large wasps' nest.         

Paul called the exterminator.  

He said Paul could buy a bug bomb and take care of it himself.  

We'd just seen a week's worth of Discovery's Blue Planet.

Maybe Paul had been fired up from images of Nature, red in tooth and claw.  

Or maybe it was a mid-life Hemingway type of thing.  

Anyway, Paul decided he'd tackle the wasps' nest himself.

We called my folks and told them about our wasps.

They regaled us with tales of their own wasp adventures.  

Pop had been stung in the eye as a child.  

Grandma's stung hand had swollen to twice its normal size.  

They wished us luck.  

Okay... forget about skipping out there in shorts and T-shirts.  

Paul prepared to do battle.

Finally... 10:00 p.m.  All good little wasps were in bed.  

Killing time.  

Paul pulled on his sweat pants, winter boots, coat, hat and leather mitts.  

His safety glasses had left some skin exposed.  

I grabbed a half dozen packages of cheesecloth and gift-wrapped Paul's face. 

With the heavy clothes and gauze Paul looked like an Eskimo mummy.  

Bomb in hand, Nanuk the Sweating Mummy stalked the wild wasp.  

Paul sprayed the wasps' lair.  

Twenty four hours later, another corner of Winnipeg's north end was safe for humans.

Thank God we don't live in Wolsely.   

In 2006 I found myself surrounded by wasps whenever I went out to hang laundry.

The detergent didn't smell that good.

Wasps had settled in under our air conditioner, right next to the clothes line.

Paul didn't waste time calling the exterminator.

He just bought a bomb and did the deed.

He also hung a couple of fake wasps' nests in our yard.

Wasps are supposed to politely respect other wasps' territory.

That's what the wasp bomb salesman had said.

Which brings us to the rude wasps who built a nest in our chokecherry in 2012.

Sunday afternoon we took a few pictures of the nest.

Sunday night Paul got dressed and wrapped.

He bombed the bejesus out of the nest.

Tuesday afternoon I was watering the tomatoes.

Just life in the 'burbs.

Folklorama, Pop, Zorba and Facebook's Timeline by Margaret Ullrich, part 5, Weeding

We had a wonderful time visiting countries during Folklorama!

We didn't see all of the pavilions as we had in the 1970s.

Now we pace ourselves.

And get home at a decent hour.

No more bunny hopping out the door while the pavilion is being closed at midnight!

Someone once said,

Only seeing one country is like only reading one page of a book.

We absolutely enjoyed reading more pages of the world's book.

Some of the countries have stopped putting on a show.

The volunteers had gotten old.

The kids weren't interested.

No problem.

There are folks from other countries happy to take their places.

And the new pavilions we visited - such as Ethiopia's - were fantastic!

We also visited our old favorite, the Greek pavilion.

This year they featured Sparta.

The food and the dancers were excellent.

Of course the show ended with a performance of the Zorba dance.

The folks at St. Demetrios now have a second building where they had their displays.

Pop would've preferred that to seeing their church.

Ending shows of some countries.

Starting shows of other countries.

New locations... bigger, smaller, older, newer.

There are always changes.

Speaking of changes...

Facebook has noticed that I wasn't using Timeline.

On Sunday I checked my Facebook and found a note: 

Your timeline goes live on August 26. This gives you a chance to review what's here, highlight or hide whatever you want, and even share new experiences with social apps.  Learn more. 

Well, whoop dee flippin' doo. 

I have a week to clean up my life.

I spent Sunday afternoon editing my 'About' section.

They'd wanted me to add pictures and write a bit about each of my "life's events".

Instead I cut the dates of my graduations and jobs so they weren't on the timeline.

Timeline is useless and confusing.

I had changed radio shows in 2007.

Timeline posted that I'd 'quit' and 'worked' at CKUW - in that order - in 2007.

That's supposed to make sense?

And who would care?

I also eliminated the year I was married.

FB sent a notice to Paul about that new experience in my life.

Big deal... Paul and I have still been married over 40 years.

Longer than that dumb kid Zuckerberg has been alive.

I'm not interested in using Facebook as a personal scrapbook.

I didn't bother learning about the social apps.

I really don't give a rat's patootie about them.

I got rid of some events and likes.

I also dropped a few of the groups I had joined in more innocent days.

But I did join one new group.

I Hate Timeline.

When I joined it, there were 42,610 members.

And the number is growing.

Seems I'm not alone in being annoyed at the forced "improvement".

The FB help forum is filled with people who HATE Timeline. 

None of the posts have been answered by FB.

The page for I Hate Timeline is itself in timeline.

Yes, that is a bit ironic.

Mark Zuckerberg must have an awfully thick skin.

His company's stock is tanking.

Advertisers are leaving.

Folks on Facebook are complaining.
Yet he's not listening.

One customer had posted:

Timeline looks like Facebook threw up on itself!!!!

I'll go along with that.
Whatever happened to that rule of business:
The customer is always right.

In a way I am grateful to Mark.

This might just be the last straw.

People seem to be posting less.

I know I am.

On Monday night we watched Zorba the Greek on Turner Classic.

I can't picture Zorba wasting time posting on Facebook.

Nope...  He lived and savored the whole catastrophe.

He had time to dance.

Opa!!

Bye, Bye, Mark.

I want time to dance.

And, Mark... I'll let you guess where you can put those social apps.

Pop, The Plaza and Folklorama by Margaret Ullrich, part 4, Weeding

Here in Winnipeg, Folklorama is winding down.

We've enjoyed visiting a few old favorites, and catching the fun at new, to us, shows.

A couple of weeks ago I talked about when we had taken Pop to new places.

Sometimes it didn't quite work out.

Oh, well, that didn't make me stop trying.

In 1993 my parents visited us during August.

Pop had never been in Winnipeg during Folklorama.

So, of course, we had to take them.

At first Pop was against going out to eat at the pavilions.

Pop was always wary of eating out.

I think his phobia stemmed from our Plaza experience.

Yes, THE PLAZA, Fifth Avenue, Central Park South, Manhattan.

Yes, Neil Simon had written a play about it.

Back in 1957 Pop and Mr. Lipsky had opened a television shop.

Point T.V. Sales and Service.

Television sets in those days were major pieces of furniture.

They came in different types of wood to match the decor.

They were so large you could easily place a coffin on top.

In 1959 a television manufacturer gave Pop and Mr. Lipsky 4 tickets 

to go to the Plaza and see the latest models.

There was also going to be a free dinner.

Pop and Ma liked the idea of a free dinner.

But they didn't know how they'd get to the Plaza.

Pop didn't drive.

Mr. Lipsky wasn't interested in going, but he gave Pop subway directions.

Ma knew about subways.

She used to shop in the Manhattan downtown area, around 14th Street.

I usually went with her to help carry the loot.

So, they dragged me, their nine-year-old, along as a navigator.

Okay... we got to the Plaza.

No problem.

We saw the television sets.

No problem.

Then we went to dinner.

Problem.

The Plaza doesn't stint.

Each place setting came with a complete assortment of cutlery and glass ware.

The folks on Downton Abbey, including Dowager Countess Violet, would've approved.

Pop sat down and stared at all the forks, knives and spoons. 

He said, "What the hell is this?" in a tone implying a turd had been placed before him.

Ma and Pop then picked the cutlery they liked and used them throughout the meal.

The staff knew how to accept paying guests' little quirks.

I went into my immigrant kid mode.

I sipped water, watched what the other people were doing and copied them.

The next day I went to the library for a book on etiquette.

Well, that's what the librarian gave me after I'd explained what had happened.

Back to my parents' visit in 1993 and Folklorama...

In the previous months Winnipeg had had two 'once in a century' rains.

Yes, folks joked, that was an awfully short century.

Our basement had been flooded.

The rains had hatched a swarm of mosquitoes, some eggs a few decades old.

Considering that we were often covered by a cloud of bugs, Folklorama went well.

We first went to the Ukrainian pavilion.

The food was served cafeteria style.

You picked your own pieces of cutlery.

Good start.

Pop said the pyrogies were like ravioli.

He ate them, without much enthusiasm, while the show began.

Pop perked up when the dancers leapt and spun around.

He left the Ukraine with a smile.  

Taking our cue from Pop's reaction, we planned for the week. 

We would go to countries with energetic floor shows.

Fancy needlework wasn't going to work with Pop.

We went to the Caribbean pavilion.

Rum punch, limbo dancers, fire eaters and half naked dancers.

Pop quite enjoyed the show.

Maybe a little too much.

When Ma tugged on his sleeve, Pop said, "I ain't dead yet."

We also went to the Greek pavilion in St. Demetrios Greek Orthodox Church.

We had taken Ma there when she'd visited in 1978.

She'd liked the Folklorama displays and the food.

We thought Pop would enjoy the food and the dancing.

Something for everybody.

Slight problem.

Pop had been raised in the xenophobic Maltese Roman Catholic style.

One did not, just did not, go into a non-Roman Catholic Church.

Pop sat in the last pew while Ma, Paul and I toured the church.

The guide returned us to the back of the church.

Time to go down to the basement to eat.

Pop got up and announced, "Some people say it is a mortal sin to be in here."

The guide knew how to accept visitors' little quirks.

God bless her, she just smiled.

Pop did enjoy the food and the dancers.

The ouzo helped, too.

I was flipping through our 1993 Folklorama pictures a few days ago.

I'm pretty sure Nia Vardalos was one of the performers in the Greek pavilion.

Oh, what she'd have done with Pop as a character in My Big Fat Greek Wedding!

At the end of The Godfather, while sitting in a garden, Vito told his son Michael that he'd found he was drinking more.

Michael told his Dad it was good for him.

It's all about family, gardens, religion, food...

And booze. 

Caterpillars to Butterflies by Margaret Ullrich, part 3, Weeding

The Mama Robin and her chick have come back to our yard.

Compared to the youngster who was here a few weeks ago, this kid is better behaved.

He likes to walk around and explore.

He doesn't just stand and squawk, with its mouth wide open.

He's actually trying to find his own food.

A few years ago I bought a package of butterfly-attracting plants.

There were four different types of plants.

Only the milkweed keeps coming back every year.

A few weeks ago it had tiny pinkish white flowers.

Well, I didn't plant it for its flowers.

To butterflies the flowers mean "Please come here".

When he visited, Pop wasn't too impressed with my garden.

To him flowers were a waste of space.

Just another form of weeds.

Well, it's my garden and I like flowers, too.

It's been a drier than normal summer.

My garden is looking a little tired.

We've been having thunderstorms.

But, thunder doesn't water the plants.

I can see why Pop liked watering the garden.

You get to see how everything is doing.

You even get to see some surprise visitors up close.

This week, on top of one of my milkweeds, I saw a caterpillar.

It has yellow, black and white stripes.

So, one day it'll be a Monarch butterfly.

How lovely!

Last week I mentioned I'd passed the time of marking periods. 

I now use the moon as a month marker.

The moon marks the start of a new beginning.

Or at least it should.

The moon is now half-way to new.

It doesn't do anything special to go through its stages.

But a butterfly is a living being.

How does it know when to go from egg to larva to pupa to adult?

How do humans?

Toward the end of The Godfather ll, Michael tells his mother, "Tempo cambia."

Time changes.

Caterpillars crawl.

Butterflies fly.

What was the right thing once, may not be the right thing anymore.

It's time to examine what I do.

Some things are still right to do.

Some things aren't.

I know Pop wouldn't have wasted space on a plant he couldn't eat.

Especially one with unattractive flowers.

To him the milkweed would truly be a weed.

But I like butterflies.

So, the milkweed stays.