Monday, February 4, 2013

the lottery

It was a raucous crowd in the medical records department at the best of times but louder by far after someone read from the morning paper that the Massachusetts lottery prize had reached the multi million dollar range. Nobody had won the previous night's draw so everyone who had a ticket or twelve was planning how they'd spend the money. First on everybody's list was no longer having to show up to work ever again. In the huge underground space packed with desks, work trolleys, and stack after stack of patient charts the only clear area was between my desk and those of the manager and her assistant. Early as it was the forty or so staff members were still arriving shouting questions and greetings.

Dolores, the manager, and Weena were already on their way to search the doctor's offices for missing patient charts that needed updating. Some of the docs were in the habit of keeping (and sometimes hiding) the records of people they'd been treating, so the morning ransack was an essential start to the day before the medical staff were in their offices. There was even one old pediatrician who went so far to take medical records home to hide in his garage, a situation that required Dolores and Weena to drive there every other week to get his wife to unlock his secret filing cabinets. Anyway, this wasn't one of those days and on the way out Dolores mentioned getting some work done while they were gone.

I'd been in the department for three or four months by then and my initial fears about being among that many women were mostly gone. Mostly. The first day had felt like I'd been sentenced to one of those all female prisons that were popular in the movies back then. Remember 'Reform School Girls'? In point of fact there were some aspects of the place that fitted the description fairly well. We had a girl gang - or perhaps I should just say we had a core group of very tough young women who were reputed to supply street drugs to whoever had the need and the cash. Since I wasn't a customer I can't say for sure but what was true was that you really didn't want to get on the wrong side of any of these people, the problem being it was hard to tell whether you were or not. It was certainly a fact that sometimes co-workers from our department or others would go to the car park at the end of the day only to find their cars weren't going anywhere without mechanical help.

But the subject on everyone's mind that morning was the lottery. Soon just about all were loudly chronicling what they'd do with their imaginary millions. Big houses, luxury cruises, fancy cars, unlimited clothing and jewelry budgets were enumerated in various ways as the ladies argued about the best neighborhoods for their big houses, which were the best cruise lines and destinations. 'It's not about going anywhere, it's about extravagance, stupid' was a common theme. This was especially evident when they talked about the fancy cars they'd be driving in those days when gas stations still had price wars. Cadillacs were high on many lists but the color of said luxury car only turned into another point of argument. The brouhaha kept gaining in fury as the discussion turned to clothing (designer or classic), jewelry (platinum vs. gold, diamonds vs. emeralds), furniture etc.

Dolores and Weena arrived back just then but before our manager could say anything, someone jumped up onto one of the desks, kicked off the papers and the ringing phone and yelled, 'Let me tell you what I'm gonna do with that money'.

It was Inez, the leader of the gang. Everyone was shocked into silence as she went on to say, 'I have a list of people who'd be better off dead and when I win that lottery I'm going to hire a hit man'.

Talk about a conversation stopper. Inez jumped down from the desk and walked out the door for a break with a couple of her friends. Maybe she was kidding; maybe she didn't mean any of us. Nobody was certain but a couple of people looked worried. The rest of us picked up the papers and got back to work.

Disclaimer: I never have been in the habit of buying lottery tickets. It's just looking for trouble as far as I'm concerned.

Friday, January 18, 2013

the sculpture class

Okay I've been scribbling again but while I was doing so I remembered one of the sillier things that happened during my art modeling career long ago. You may recall I was in the process of saving money for a long trip to Europe - one my parents reluctantly agreed to but wouldn't fund.

At one point I was invited to model for an introductory sculpture class that would take place as three hour sessions twice weekly for six weeks. The fee sounded pretty good so I signed on. I didn't usually accept poses determined by instructors but in this case it was necessary that it be a standing pose with my arms held close in to my body. The students worked with modeling clay over wire armatures and during the course of those weeks gradually built sculptures that looked vaguely human and female but didn't bear more than a cursory resemblance to me. By then a major reason for continuing as an artist's model was my certainty nobody would ever recognize me as having been the model.

Eventually some of the students entered the final phase of the process that would allow them to cast their work into more permanent material. The first part was to divide their figures in half lengthwise by attaching a thin two inch wide collar of clay around the outer edge. After coating the figures with vaseline to allow for easy removal later they'd flick wet plaster in tiny droplets at the clay statue to make a mold. Meanwhile, I was still posing for the benefit of slower workers. I should tell you that by this point I'd be in pain even if I accidentally slipped into the pose when I wasn't in the class. Added to the agony of the long pose I was now subjected to being pelted by stray bits of plaster - not always by accident, I suspected.

There was a rule back then that no cameras were allowed in the studio while the model was posing. One evening a student arrived with a camera. Now this wasn't one of the smaller varieties of cameras people could buy in those non-tech times, but a giant studio rig. Grinning widely, he hauled in his tripod and lights and was in the process of setting up the whole lot directly facing me. What did I do? I grabbed my robe and left the stage while everybody else told him off.

I'm happy there were no cell phones in those days, or facebook. 

cross posted from phantsythat 

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

a dubious welcome

As a returning resident to Canada you need a place where the government can send your mail. If you want to get that mail you have to be in residence. You may remember that as a Catch-22 and it was the deal we faced in the summer of 2010. Ready or not, it was time to go and we needed a place to live by September 1st.

We could have flown here from Portland, OR to find an apartment but that would have been very expensive and, besides, it would have been a holiday and nobody is ever completely rational while on vacation. So we did what modern people do and googled for a decent place in an area of Halifax that looked reasonable for people who enjoy walking.

Eventually, we found Parthenon Properties*, a management company that had pictures of very nice apartments in modern buildings, and we decided to rent a 17th floor place at their newly renovated Slabhurst Tower**. The rent was higher than what were paying for our urban townhouse and the only appliances were a fridge and stove, meaning we'd have to do without the garbage disposal, microwave, dishwasher, and the washer and dryer we'd grown used to having. Parking was going to be extra as well. We figured we'd cope for a year while we looked for something nicer.

When the lease arrived in the mail we were surprised to see six extra pages listing all the items associated with our new apartment whose cost we'd have to cover if they were damaged. It was stated we'd lose our deposit for normal cleaning costs at the end of our tenancy but would be billed for the items listed:

nail hole in wall - $10 each up to 1/4 inch to replaster - landlord's discretion for repair charge for larger holes
gouge in hardwood floor - $200 per room to re-sand and polish
scratch on kitchen counter - $50 - $250
drip plates for stove - $15
broken switch plate - $25
broken light fixture - $50 - $150
cracked bathroom tile - $15
toilet seat - $50

and so forth but I'm sure you get the idea. It seemed strange but we weren't too worried as we'd never broken any of those things so I filled out the forms and sent the money - deposit and 12 post dated rent checks plus one more to guarantee a secure parking space for a year.

A few days before the end of August, when we'd finished giving away everything we weren't taking, when we'd packed and sealed our inventoried boxes, when the movers had come to pack the rest and had driven it away, we carried our bags to the car and left. One day I may write about the 4000 mile journey but not today. The moving company had given us an estimate between 10 and 30 days for delivery to our new place and, since we had to be there to sign our belongings through Customs, we didn't have time to delay. We made decent time but it was a long trip so by the time we arrived in Halifax it was already September 5th, Labor Day.

We knew the management offices would be closed but they'd promised to leave the keys to our apartment with the maintenance staff and since we were very excited to see our new home we went there straight away. After staying in hotels for 7 nights,  packing up to leave early every morning, we didn't mind that even though we had no furniture we'd have our own floor to sleep on and a 17th floor view of the Atlantic Ocean.

What we hadn't reckoned with, indeed hadn't understood at all, was that Halifax is a college town. It turns out there are 5 universities here with more than 30,000 students in need of housing every September. When we arrived at Slabhurst Tower it appeared that half that number were lining up for the elevators along with their belongings. Chaos barely describes the scene in the lobby.

Not knowing what else to do we went off to look for someone who could show us our new place. Following signs marked 'Maintenance' and 'Boiler Room' we opened doors and walked along corridors until we found a grungy little office with a very harassed man sitting at an untidy desk. After we told him who we were he dug through a great stack of papers, pulled out a file and told us to follow him.. back to the lobby where he eventually commandeered an elevator.

What more can I tell you about the apartment he showed us that the picture doesn't say? Besides the gouges in the floors, the holes in the walls, and the oven door all atwist, we gazed in shock at the glass balcony doors 6 inches beyond which was a jersey barrier and the whole thing, from floor to ceiling, enclosed by an impenetrable chain link fence. This was my Atlantic Ocean view?

The maintenance man was definitely having a busy day but even he was shocked at the condition of the apartment as he asked us if we'd like to sign the documents and take the keys or would we prefer to see the building manager the next morning. Remembering the six page itemized list, we told him to keep the keys.

Once outside in the safety of our car we started to giggle, and as we each remembered another horror the other might have missed we laughed all the harder. Finally, after wiping our eyes and blowing our noses, we went off to find a hotel and a place to have a stiff drink. Neither of us had consumed so much as a glass of beer for a decade but the occasion seemed to warrant a palliative.

An hour or two later we sat at an outdoor pub picking at french fries and sipping our glasses of Unibroue La Terrible, a beer we'd chosen for the appropriateness of its name rather than its taste, as we strategized about our meeting the next day. Surely, we imagined, the management would be as disgusted as we were over the state of the apartment and would be eager to offer reparations. Maybe they'd offer us an undamaged place. It wasn't in our best interest to not take the apartment because it had become our official Canadian address but we couldn't live in the dungeon we'd seen. We decided to see what they'd say.

Shortly after 8am the next day we were back in the lobby of Slabhurst Tower, but this time a heavy wooden door that had been locked the previous afternoon was open. We stepped from a tiled floor onto a lush gray carpet where we found ourselves in a wide hall hung with subtly lit artwork. At the far end was a grand lobby dominated by a tall reception desk whose mahogany curves were highlighted by a magnificent chandelier. The bored receptionist pointed us toward a nearby seating area where we were to wait for the busy manager. It wasn't difficult to see where the renovation money had been spent.

Looking distinctly uncomfortable about meeting us, we sat watching as the manager buzzed in and out of her glass fronted office holding muted conversations with various men in suits while pointedly ignoring our presence. Twenty minutes passed before she gave a deep sigh in our direction and told us to follow her.

Once we were all seated she opened our file and asked if we were ready to take charge of the apartment we'd rented:
'No, not in the condition it was in yesterday afternoon.'
We fixed that.
'It's impossible you fixed it since then.'
Well, we might have to do a little more later but it's ready now. Sign this and take the key.
'No, we want a place that looks like the one you advertised.'

Hearing that, she got up and left the room. A few minutes later one of the suited men entered followed by the manager and a security guard pushing a big executive chair. The man sat down in the big chair, the manager sat in her small executive chair, and the security guard leaned against the wall behind us with his arms crossed.

We spent the next ten minutes listening to a senior vice president of Parthenon Properties alternately cajole and threaten us with lawsuits. Needless to say nothing he said changed our minds. In a sense it was bizarrely amusing to watch as he shook and turned colors on his way to becoming apoplectic. That was when we got up and left.

A little later that day we asked a lawyer if we could be sued for not accepting the apartment. His only question was, 'Did you accept the keys?' When we told him 'No' he said that had been the right thing to do. Of course, we lost the deposit, the first month's rent, and a year's worth of secure parking, but the relief we felt at not having to live at Slabhurst Tower almost made up for that.

A few days later we rented another apartment and proceeded to notify everyone about our new new address. We'd found yet another temporary home.

*name changed to preserve us from lawsuit
** as above but with thanks to Randal Graves

Monday, August 22, 2011

the rider

She was eight years old and utterly smitten by her love of horses. Imagining herself perched atop a magnificent creature with mane and tail flying as they cantered over hill and dale, she clutched the two dollar bills she'd saved and approached the paddock where people were mounting up for a trail ride. The bored man who lifted her up onto the large brown horse after taking her money must have thought one of the other adults was her parent. Her toes barely touching the old wooden stirrups,  she found herself at the end of the line of riders as the gate opened.

Up until then her only experience of horse riding had been on the back of a pony who was led around a patch of fairground. Now here she was excited and somewhat terrified from her vantage point so high above the ground. She waved to her surprised parents as she rode proudly past the picnic spot where they'd been chatting with other families while the kids played. It appeared their daughter wasn't on the swings after all.

Clutching the reins tightly, she kept the horse's head high slowing his pace as they climbed the hill to the top of the trail. When they arrived at the summit the great beast decided he felt like grazing and, since a horse's head and neck are far stronger and more determined than the grip of an eight year old girl, graze he did. Meanwhile she held tightly to the pommel and saw the line of trail riders were now far in the distance and just entering some woods. About two seconds later the horse realized the same thing.

He didn't really rear up or buck like you'd see at a rodeo but what he did do was enough to unseat her. A fall can be nasty but not generally serious for a smallish child, especially if she lands on grass. However, in this case her left foot slipped through the stirrup at the moment the horse decided it was time he caught up with his friends. The trail had been ridden in the same way for years so the path was a narrow and rather deep channel that kept her head and shoulder very close to his back hooves as he galloped along. Twisting her upper body as best she could she kept out of the way long enough for one of the trail guides to have seen what was happening and race back to stop her horse.

Luckily, she was all right once she'd been helped up and dusted off. Although the guide offered to walk her back to her parents in the main picnic ground she wanted to finish the ride. He helped her back into the saddle, adjusted the stirrups to a comfortable spot, and stayed close by from then on. There were even a couple of places where they raced with each other on the way back to the stables.

An hour or so later she was back with her parents in time for ice cream.
Her mother never mentioned the state of her dress.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

tiny steps

I was probably about three when I began running away. Now don't imagine it was because I was badly treated because nothing could be less true, but right from the moment my parents removed the leash that was standard equipment in those days it was very difficult for them to keep me in one place. Of course, I don't remember much about being three any more than any of you would but there were always the stories and those vivid picture memories I've carried around since infancy.

When I was very young we lived in a little house on a street called Corporation Road in Gillingham, Kent. That's in England and the 'G' is soft. Down at the end of that street was a place known as the Strand, a big beach park on the River Medway not far from where it meets the sea. There was a huge salt water swimming pool, an ice cream shop, big boat swings, a band stand, and, best of all for me, a little steam driven train. I think it was a steam train but I may be wrong about that. I do remember the beach where I built sand castles with my father.

But I was talking about my tendency to slip away. I had no brothers or sisters, there was no television in 1949, and I was too young to know how to read. What I did have was a great deal of curiosity and a tendency to get bored with my dolls. This is one of the stories:

Our back garden had a wall and a hedge and a gate with a big lock. I must have been a very good climber.

Outside the gate was a long alley that lead straight down to the Strand. I knew my way.

I went to the little station and got on the train. I had no money but that didn't seem to matter. All the other children went home but I kept riding the train. The man driving it knew someone would come looking for me eventually. They did. I don't know if they had to pay for fifty trips around the Strand.

Times were different.

Monday, February 28, 2011

the art class

The first time I walked into an art class I arrived as the main event. The details of why in the early 1960's I'd decided to work as an artist's model are irrelevant, so I'll leave it at the fact I needed money for the plane fare to Europe and nobody was going to give it to me. College? Fine. London? No.

All it had taken to get that first job was a phone call and my mother's permission ('Well, all right if your nice friend Emma is doing it but don't tell you father').

At 17, not many people had seen me naked and, although I wasn't particularly shy,  Toronto in the early '60's was still very much locked into the '50's. It's no wonder I was a bit nervous as I walked from the streetcar stop to the converted factory where the open evening drawing class was being held. When I found the little cloakroom the models used for changing there was someone there preparing to leave. The conversation went much like this:

Her: 'So, who's your pimp?'
Me: 'I beg your pardon?'
Her: 'Who do you work for? Who got you the job?'
Me: 'Nobody. I just called the school.'
Her: 'Well, I better not see you on the corner of Jarvis and Queen later.'

Not in the least unhappy to see her flounce out, I quickly changed into the lounging outfit I'd bought a few days earlier and went out to find the classroom. I stuck close to the wall as I sidled up to the studio's back entrance and peered through at the artists who were arriving with their gear and setting up. The modeling stand, nothing but a bare platform raised about 2 feet above the floor, looked very exposed and was already surrounded by people. Late arrivals looked peevishly at those who'd appropriated a favorite position and more people kept crowding in behind.

Just as I was wondering if I could quietly slip away one of the students noticed my slinky outfit, determined I was the model, and said they were ready to start. There was no instructor so it was time for me to figure out what to do for the next three hours as I walked over to the platform. I asked the woman who'd spoken to me what the usual procedure was and was told 5 minute poses so everyone could loosen up followed by longer poses as they settled in to work on more complex drawings.

Not for the first time in my life, or for nearly the last as it's turned out, I stepped up onto the stand and wondered how the heck I got myself involved in such a strange situation. Everybody else had their clothes on and was waiting for me to remove mine so they could draw pictures of me instead of a bowl of fruit. Oh well..

Once I was unzipped and stripped, the only thing I could think to do was to act out stop motion plays and count seconds in my head between one pose and the next. After a little while I got so caught up in the imagined stories I forgot to be shy. I also learned a few things as the posing times grew longer than 5 minutes ie, don't stand on one foot, don't put your hands higher than your shoulders, and whatever else you do, don't assume that bridge position you learned last week in calisthenics class. After an hour had gone by without a break one of the students called out it was time for a rest.

I'd become quite curious about how their work was going and was eager to make a little tour of the pictures in progress. One man in particular had been working on the same drawing ever since the class had begun so I was especially interested to see what he'd been doing. By then I was feeling very comfortable in my skin and the idea that there was a big difference between looking at someone naked on a modeling stand and having them stand beside you simply didn't occur to me.

I hopped off the platform and walked up behind the artist who was still adding finishing touches to the picture he'd been busy with for over an hour. I was imagining I'd see something wonderful, perhaps a study like one by Toulouse-Lautrec or Monet. He was very focused and didn't hear my approach but when I saw his drawing had made me look like the Venus of Willendorf I must have gasped. When he turned around to see a breast staring into his face he retreated faster than the wheels of his stool would go, tipped over backwards and knocked over the easel of the artist behind him. It was kind of like dominoes.

I used those moments of confusion to slip back into my lounge suit and no more was said about the matter. I'd learned something else. Never assume you're going to like the way someone else portrays your appearance.


Between my own classes and other jobs, I continued working at that school and several others while I earned enough money to travel. Although the work was grueling, I was good at it and learned almost as much from the opposite side of the drawing board as from the charcoal to the paper side. I got a real job in London but also took classes at the Slade and the School of Art, working as a model to pay the fees and meeting lots of very interesting people. As time went by more and more students were willing to take off their clothes and mount the modeling stands. The '60's had begun.


Friday, July 16, 2010

educating Crow

Not only has Crow been around longer than any of us but he's also been quite generous in sharing his history with me. I was most surprised when he asked if I'd agree to draw some pictures and write down a story of his to share with you. How could I refuse?

You've always known me as a cultivated corvid, so it's difficult to convey just how much I've matured over the millennia since I was hatched and nursed through fledglinghood by dear Mama and Pater. They taught me as much as they could and sent me to the best schools where I learned a little geography, astronomy, calligraphy and systems theory. It was so long ago there was no such class as history.

There came a day when I grew bored with practicing the Copperplate chicken scratch font I'd been working on for days and I knew if I pulled one more quill to use as a pen, I wouldn't be able to fly for a month. From the window near my desk I could see mountains in the distance where I'd never flown. I remembered having been told a wise old bird was reputed to live in that vicinity so, just for fun, I decided to see if I could find him and see how smart he was.

It took some time to search out his aerie, but when I did I got right to the point and asked him the toughest question I could think of, 'So, old fella, what's the meaning of life?'

'Hmmm', he sighed, 'Are you sure you're prepared for the answer to your question at such a young age?'

'If you know, I think you should get on with telling me, but I'm guessing you don't have a clue', I replied. (Have I mentioned I was a callow and sharp-tongued youngster?)

With a twinkle in his beady eye he said, 'Since you're so sure you're ready, the answer to your question is that the entire world is the supreme reality and your highest Self is the same as God.'



Well, I was pretty cocky back in those days so what he'd said hadn't come as much of a surprise. I was young, healthy, could fly hundreds of miles without resting and was the smartest bloke in my class. So I decided to go out and test the theory.

While flying over the dense jungle near the sage's mountain I spotted an elephant walking purposefully along a narrow path. 'Ahah', I thought, 'Here is the perfect opportunity for me to show just how powerful I am in the world. Once I stop this perambulating pachyderm dead in his tracks everyone will come to me to learn the secret the wise old bird told me for nothing. I might even make some cash out of the deal.'

I made a perfect three point landing a couple of dozen yards ahead of its bulky bearing, and assuming a stance sure to convince him of my powers of persuasion, I opened my wings so the beast would be sure to see as well as hear me when I ordered him to halt. The ground shook beneath my feet as I smelled the warm, dusty scent of a hot monster with places to go.

'Halt!', I cried.

The jungle canopy began dancing to the pounding rhythm of massive feet that drew closer with every second and I heard a voice overhead screaming, 'Get out of the way!'

'Stop!', I shouted as the behemoth drew closer and I stood my ground with firm intent. (I had faith as well as conviction, you see.)

'GET OUT OF THE F*#KING WAY!', shrieked the mysterious voice again. It seemed to be coming from somewhere near the top of Gargantua. Was that a monkey riding the tremendous tusker? Yes! It was!

The elephant kept on coming and I knew it was time to bring all my language skills to bear if I was to arrest his progress. There was simply no way I was going to dive into the shrubbery. 'Cease! Break off! Pause! Pull up! Desist! Cool it!', I bawled.

'MOVE!!!', was the last thing I recall hearing that afternoon. There's a mammoth amount of inertia involved when an elephant lumbers along the path of his own least resistance.

Let it be sufficient to say I got flattened and we'll leave it at that.

Time passed.


Eventually, the splints were removed and so were the sutures. I was able to stay conscious for longer periods and spent much of the time idly staring at the scenery through the corbelled window arches of my room. The anger I'd cherished toward the old sage for telling me lies gradually slipped away, but I still wanted to express my disappointment and looked forward to our next meeting.

On a late afternoon not long after I'd finally been allowed out of bed, I heard a commotion from the hall outside my room; laughter and general chortling, along with the sounds of tinkling glass, led me to limp across the chamber to remind whoever was out there that in here was a recuperating patient requiring peace and quiet. Who should I see but Pater and the old sage chuckling up a storm as they juggled bottles, glasses and a large fruitcake on the other side of my door?

Still guffawing at the memory of whatever had caused their amusement, they came inside wiping their eyes and laid their burdens on a small table. Dad looked at me and snorted on his way out, leaving me flummoxed about his unusual behavior. Meanwhile, the old sage ascended the antique perch near the table and cut a small slice of cake which he held out as an offering.

'Hmpff', I thought to myself, 'Does he think a piece of my favorite dessert will gain my forgiveness of his perfidy?' Nevertheless, as I considered how to best phrase my dismay at his act of treachery toward an innocent young scholar, I took the proffered morsel and chewed (and chewed).

Finally, I gave voice to the question that had been plaguing me since I'd awoken in traction. 'You told me God is everything and I myself am one with God, so what I want to hear is your explanation about why that colossal creature was able to clobber me?'

Fixing me firmly in place with his eagle eye, he placidly replied, 'Oh yes, it's a fact that everything is God. Since that is true, why didn't you listen when God told you to get out of the way?'

I was dumbfounded. It was so simple but I'd managed to misunderstand. While I surveyed the floor in search of the socks I'd had knocked off, my ears pricked up to the distinctive chime of crystal. When I looked his way, the venerable teacher smiled softly and said, 'You're grown enough now to have a snifter of Remy Martin to wash down your fruitcake'.


I hope you've enjoyed the story Crow told when I asked him how he became a connoisseur of fine French brandy.