NOTE: Yes, I’ve been away from blogging for awhile! But now I’m back – and with a brand new series: “Life’s Too Short”. Posts will be less frequent than in the past (i.e., I won’t be maintaining a regular weekly schedule) and the focus will be on insights and epiphanies (‘ah ha’ moments) I’ve experienced since I’ve reached ‘the other side of 55’. This post is the first in the series.
I have always been an avid reader. My earliest memories of books and reading were ‘Little Golden Books’ with titles like Little Cottontail, Bambi, and Snow White. I also had a favourite book about an accident-prone cocker spaniel named Amber, and one with three animal-themed stories in it (featuring Buffin Bear, Squiffy the Squirrel, and Roly and Poly the racoon twins). In the early 60s I read every Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mystery I could get my hands on. When I was eleven or twelve, a friend of my mother’s gave her several dozen ‘medical romance’ paperbacks, but since mom didn’t read that sort of thing, my sister and I took the boxes downstairs and read (and re-read) every single one of them (NOTE: they were very chaste stories – nothing like the widely varied [and sometimes rather explicit] romance novels published today).
One of my clearest memories is of going on a Grade 8 school field trip (on Wednesday, May 17, 1966, according to my old school newsletter) to the public library and getting my first library card. That was a truly momentous occasion. I was officially a member of the ‘adult’ library, with access to more books than I could ever read. (A year later, the original town library was closed and a brand new one – several blocks further west, but still within walking distance of my house – was built to celebrate Canada’s Centennial; it was much larger and brighter, and held hundreds more books. I spent a LOT of time there.)
In the summer of 1968, I got my first (non-babysitting) job at a variety store in the north end of town. When things were quiet (which was most of the time), I’d pick a paperback off the shelf and start reading. When my shift was over, I’d make a note of the page where I’d left off, return the book to the shelf, and go home. I don’t recall any of those books EVER being sold, so I managed to finish every single one I started. That fall, I got a job at another variety-type store (closer to home), where I continued to while away the hours reading (I ‘worked’ after school most days – when there was sporadic traffic in and out of the store, as well as the closing shift every Friday and on alternate Saturdays, when it was rare to have more than half a dozen customers between 7 p.m. and 11:00 p.m.). Basically, I was getting paid $1.25 an hour to read. I loved it!
I recall slugging my way through massive tomes like Hotel and Airport by Arthur Hailey, Tai Pan (and later Shogun and Nobel House) by James Clavell, andValley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann; gothic romances from authors like Mary Stewart and Phyllis Whitney; historic romances by Catherine Cookson and Georgette Heyer; family sagas like Penmarric by Susan Howatch; and dozens and dozens of ‘contemporary romances’ published by Harlequin (at the time they primarily reprinted and distributed medical romances from Mills and Boon in England; they were priced at 25 cents each). NOTE: as I was writing this, I realized that the majority of ‘popular fiction’ sold in Canada during the 60s and 70s was written by British authors – fascinating.
By the time I was finished with school and holding down a full time job, reading had become my favourite form of ‘recreation’ (at one point I actually declared that I was going to work my way from A to Z in the fiction section of the library, choosing books that appealed to me based on the ‘blurb’ on the back/inside cover – be they mystery, suspense, romance, or sweeping family saga; I think I got to the Es before that idea fizzled out).
In 1972 I recall the ‘buzz’ around the publication of a scandalous ‘bodice ripper’ called The Flame and the Flower by Katherine Woodiwiss (now considered THE book that launched the current multi-billion dollar romance industry), and the ‘immoral’ pro-feminist novel, Fear of Flying by Erica Jong. I read them both (and many others of their ilk, all equally ‘shocking’ at the time, but enlightening in oh, so many ways). Some time in the early 1980s, I discovered a ‘western romance’ series (The Calder Series) by a former Harlequin author, Janet Dailey (the very first – and for a long time, ONLY – American author to write for Harlequin; her Americana series for them featured a story set in each of the 50 states of the U.S.A.). I continued to read her books, enjoying her style so much that I decided to ‘someday’ write romance novels for a living, too (a goal I’m actively pursuing now that I’m retired!)
In the past 50+ years, I’ve read hundreds of books by dozens of authors in a wide variety of genres. Sometimes I select them based on recommendations from friends; at other times I simply browse the shelves of my local bookstore or library and pick up books that ‘sound like something I’d like’. I’m fond of trolling garage sales, used bookstores, and second-hand shops for new authors (I LOVE a bargain – our local animal shelter occasionally sells paperbacks in their ‘gently used’ store for 10 cents each!) At one point (not that long ago), I had over 350 books in my private ‘library’. I have since purged those I know I won’t read again (setting them aside for the neighbourhood ‘Garage Sale for the Cure’ or ‘blue boxing’ those that are too worn to pass on); any that I know I will revisit have been moved to a bookcase downstairs (leaving two bookcases in the spare bedroom jammed with novels just waiting to be cracked open and enjoyed).
The big difference between my reading habits of years ago (i.e., up to about 2010) and now, however, is that in the past I would always – ALWAYS – finish a book I started, no matter how tough the going got (i.e., poorly constructed plots, lame dialogue, or unbelievable circumstances got a mild expletive of annoyance and a shrug as I turned the page and kept slogging through). Now, when I lose patience with a book because the heroine isn’t sympathetic, the hero is a jerk, things that are supposed to be funny are actually just tasteless or crude, the author worked a weak romance into a book about how to train dogs, put out forest fires, run a wedding business or refurbish an inn, or there’s a subplot about a giraffe running amok in a major metropolitan city but only two people ever actually see it, I simply put it down (or toss it across the room while muttering, ‘How the h*** does that kind of crap get published?’), and pull something else off the shelf.
NOTE: I suspect a significant part of my recent discontent with poorly written books is the result of having spent the better part of the last four years studying and learning the craft of writing. It seems that the more I know about the techniques of writing a ‘bestseller’, the quicker I identify (and become annoyed with) problems related to plot and structure, characterization, dialogue, setting, narrative, etc. Where ‘before’ I knew there was something ‘not quite right’ with a story, now I can pinpoint the issues specifically and I can’t move past them. I suppose this is one of the ‘downsides’ of becoming a ‘skilled’ writer – you see the flaws you used to be able to ignore.
I was raised to ‘finish what you start’ and for most of my life I’ve followed this ‘rule’ without questioning it. But I’ve come to realize in the last few years that there are hundreds of thousands of ‘good’ books out there that I haven’t yet read – and life’s just far too short to waste my time reading poorly written ones.
You know you’re getting old when you’re taken aback to see Trojan condoms listed as one of the ‘essential’ Back to School health and beauty products in this week’s WalMart e-flyer. (Better ‘safe’ than sorry, I suppose.)
I guess this is just another reminder that I’m on … the other side of 55.
For the past few days I have been thinking about – and mourning, to a degree – a woman I had never met. Her husband found my email address in her online account and was kind enough to take the time to notify me of her passing. I was saddened to hear of her death. I had hoped to one day meet her and ‘compare notes’, as they say. She lived in the next town – the town I grew up in. She was only eight years older than me. She was my second cousin. I never even knew she existed until last January.
It was one of those bitterly cold winter days when I was at loose ends. I decided to sort through the miscellaneous ‘stuff’ that I had shoved into the living room wall unit when I came across my mother’s old address book. I hadn’t looked through it since I had notified the dozen or so ‘distant’ friends in it of her death two years earlier. Was it worth keeping? I wondered, or should I merely make a note of the addresses I didn’t have in my own records, and then toss it? As I went through it page by page, I noticed the words ‘Powers Family History’ beside one of the names in the Ls (Powers was my mother’s mother’s maiden name). I didn’t recognize the name (although I would have sent her a note when Mom died), but my curiosity was peaked. I had undertaken quite a bit of genealogical research after my parents’ passing (prompted by an email from a distant relative on my father’s side of the family, and two photo albums my mother had put together years ago – one about her early life and one about my father’s) and there were quite a few gaps on both sides. Perhaps this person has some of the answers I’m looking for, I thought. So I wrote her a brief letter explaining who I was and where I had gotten her name and address, and hoped for a reply. She phoned me a week later.
I grew up in a family that didn’t talk much about family history or ‘relatives’. For the first ten years of my life, both my grandmothers lived in the same house as our family. My father had converted our three story house into three apartments, moving the stairs outside and converting the upper two levels into apartments; we lived on the main floor and the grandmothers each had their own apartment upstairs (my mother’s father lived up there, too, until his death in 1956; Dad’s father had died when he was 17). The only ‘family’ who ever came to visit were two great-aunts (the widows of two of Dad’s uncles on his mother’s side, one of whom eventually came to live near us when she was about 75). I never questioned the lack of other aunts, uncles, and cousins (like my friends had) because I’d always thought both Mom and Dad were ‘only’ children (and they never talked about any kind of ‘extended’ family other than the two old aunties of Dad’s who occasionally visited).
The only ‘family’ on Mom’s side that I recall hearing about was my grandmother’s sister. She was 8 years older than my grandmother and pretty much raised her after their mother died (of ‘consumption’) when my grandmother was only a year old; I don’t recall her ever visiting us (although I do remember my grandmother talking about her occasionally). Mom did have a story or two about a cousin (the aunt’s son) who had owned a restaurant in Toronto where Mom had worked when she was in her teens (Christmas cards were still exchanged each year). There was some mention of the aunt having ‘several’ children, but I only vaguely recall hearing a name or two mentioned and I never saw any pictures of them until I went through Mom’s ‘family history’ album and saw a family photo taken at the aunt and uncle’s 50th wedding anniversary in 1953 (and they certainly never visited, nor did Mom or my grandmother go to see them that I know of, even though I have since discovered they lived only a couple of hours’ drive away). It turns out Mom had 8 cousins; 7 of them were married and 6 of the couples had children –meaning there were 19 second cousins in my family that I never met and knew nothing about until this year.
Even more surprising was the discovery that my mother wasn’t an ‘only child’. It wasn’t until my grandmother’s death in 1980 that I found out she had a brother (two and a half years younger than her). My brother and sister (who are 10 and 8 years older than me) knew of him, but apparently ‘something happened’ around 1953 or so (the year I was born) that drove a wedge between Mom and her brother, and they hadn’t spoken to each other since (estrangement seems to be something of a pattern in our family – say or do the ‘wrong thing’ [in someone else’s opinion] and suddenly people aren’t talking to you anymore!) A few family members tried to bring my ‘uncle’ back into the fold, but it didn’t last long (Mom died still bitterly angry with him; I will likely never know why!)
In any case, it turned out that the woman whose name I found next to the ‘family history’ notation in Mom’s address book was the daughter of one of Mom’s cousins – not the one she’d worked for, but the middle son (who – surprise, surprise – I found a photo of in Mom’s album; he and two of his other children had paid my grandmother a visit in 1978). My ‘newly discovered’ second cousin had undertaken some family research several years earlier and had contacted my mother for information about our ‘branch’ of the family tree. The information Mom had sent her was all data I already had, but some of it had turned out to be inaccurate or incomplete (as I found out during my own research), so I sent copies of my files to her (as well as scans of some old family photos – including one our great-grandparents Powers taken around 1875, and one of my grandmother with her sister and brother-in-law [my second cousin’s grandparents] taken about 1905). In exchange, she sent me a link to an interactive family history her brother had developed, which provided me with names, dates and details on her side of the family (information I hadn’t been able to obtain elsewhere!) We set a date to meet a few weeks later, but there was a driving snowstorm and sub-zero temperatures that day, so we decided to postpone the visit until ‘the weather improved’. Unfortunately, we didn’t reschedule, and now it’s too late. I deeply regret that. I would like to have met her and learned more about that branch of my family tree.
I will get in touch with her husband and ask him to pass my contact information along to her brothers and her sister, in case any of them are interested in touching base with a ‘lost’ second cousin. But I can’t help feeling like I missed an opportunity to connect with a branch of my extended family (one I didn’t even realize existed).
One thing I’ve come to realize (from all the research I’ve done – discovering ancestors I didn’t even know I had – and the ‘missed opportunity’ of meeting my second cousin) is that no matter the circumstances that prevent us from getting to know one another (or the misunderstandings or differences of opinion that drive us apart) family connections are important. I guess that’s just another one of life’s lessons I’ve learned here on … the other side of 55.
The other day I plucked a novel off my bookshelf and curled up on the couch to while away a rainy afternoon reading a story by one of my favourite authors. I noticed (in the ‘Acknowledgements’) that the author had extended her thanks to an individual who had taken her to visit the Hockey Hall of Fame and Maple Leaf Gardens (former home of the Toronto Maple Leafs NHL hockey team) in Toronto, and for ‘showing [her] more of the warmth and beauty of Canada than [she] already knew’. Apparently she had chosen to create a hero who was a French-Canadian NHL player. As a Canadian who thinks Canada and Canadians get short-shrift in popular fiction, I was pleased that ‘one of our own’ was going to be featured in a novel by a New York Times Bestselling author. That is, until I began to read the book.
Like so many Americans, this author did not seem to understand – or incorporate into her writing – the fact that Canada is a huge country (second only in size only to Russia, and larger by a small percentage than the United States) with ten distinct provinces and three territories (similar in concept to the 50 ‘states’ that make up the United States of America). Throughout the book she referred to a small lake ‘in Canada’ (as the central point of reference for the area where the hero was from); what she neglected to include was the fact that the lake is located in the Gatineau region of the province of Quebec. Considering there are more than three million lakes ‘in Canada’, skimping on the specific location would have made it extremely difficult for most readers to properly orient themselves in the story. Why leave this important geographical detail out?
She also mentioned several Canadian cities throughout the telling of the story, and in every single case she neglected to mention the province they are in (e.g., ‘Calgary, Canada’). I’ve noticed this same sort of circumvention in American television shows and news stories – whenever something takes place in Canada, they simply refer to the city and the country and leave out the province or territory (for example, ‘Toronto, Canada’, ‘Whitehorse, Canada’). I find this very odd. You don’t hear or read about cities in the United States being referred to that way (e.g., ‘Los Angeles, USA’, ‘Houston, USA’; it’s always ‘Los Angeles, California’, ‘Boston, Massachusetts’ – and regardless of the country of origin of the story ‘USA’ is usually left out as if it’s assumed that everyone knows what country these places are in).
Another thing that really irked me was the way the author wrote a significant number of the hero’s lines of dialogue – she insisted on putting ‘eh?’ at the end of many of his sentences. Every time I saw it, I wanted to scratch it out with a pen! While some French Canadians do use this figure of speech, it is not all that common. In fact it is one of those ridiculous stereotypes (instilled in the public consciousness by comedians who think it’s funny to satirize a particular nationality or ethnic group by over-emphasizing some peculiar ‘quirk’) that drives most Canadians crazy! I actually had an aspiring writer – a member of a critique group I moderate who lives in Florida – email me not long ago to ask for clarification on ‘the correct way to use the vernacular eh?. ’ She had included an example sentence [with ‘eh?’ at the end] and wanted to know if it was ‘an appropriate use of Canadian talk’. I was blunt and unyielding in my reply – I told her: DON’T DO IT!).
I will not deny that there are some Canadians who end sentences with a casual ‘eh?’ (or use it in conversation as a short form for ‘What do you think?’) but there are probably as many Canadians (and Americans and Australians and Europeans) who insert ‘You know?’, ‘Huh?’, ‘Okay?’ or ‘You reckon?’ at the end of sentences (and/or scatter ‘Um’, ‘Uh’, and ‘Like’ throughout their conversations). You certainly don’t want to read a story with those sorts of euphemisms peppered throughout dialogue!
To be honest, I have lived in Canada for 60 years and met thousands upon thousands of people and I don’t recall a single one ever using ‘eh?’ at the end of a sentence! Bob and Doug Mackenzie (the fictional Canadian brothers from ‘The Great White North’, developed for the comedy show SCTV) aside, we don’t speak that way! (And while we’re on the subject of language, although French is our second ‘official’ language, only about 20% of Canadians are actually French-first speaking; 60% are English-first and the remainder primarily speak any one of almost fifty languages including Spanish, German, Italian, Chinese, Punjabi, Cantonese, Arabic, Tagalong, Mandarin, Portuguese and more than two dozen Aboriginal dialects. If you put 100 Canadians and 100 Americans in a room together, you would be hard pressed to figure out who was who).
Another perverted view many Americans have of Canada is that the entire country is covered in ice and snow year round. Customs agents often tell stories of visitors from the US arriving at crossings in the middle of July dressed in parkas, with skis on their roof racks, as if they expect to encounter a sudden glacial wall of ice and snow at the border! It’s shocking that so many people living right next door to us know little or nothing about our climate. While it’s true that 27% of Canada falls with the Sub Arctic/Arctic climate zone, the other 73% is a mix of Boreal, Temperate, Grassland, and even Semi-Desert (only 2% … but, still, we have a desert in southern British Columbia). The largest state in the USA is Alaska – which means almost 18% of the country is SubArctic/Arctic – yet you don’t hear Canadians (or Europeans, Australians, etc.) suggesting that the USA is covered with ice and snow! Personally, I cannot fathom this kind of ignorance!
Temperatures in some areas of Canada (like Southern Ontario, where I live) can soar into the mid 80s and 90s (Fahrenheit) for up to three months during the summer, and we’ve had some winters with almost no snow at all. (NOTE: Canada converted to the metric system a couple of decades ago, so perhaps some of our more ‘clueless’ neighbours don’t yet understand that ‘temperatures in the 30s’ [in Celsius] is the same as ‘temperatures in the 90s’ [in Fahrenheit]). It’s not unusual for parts of the eastern seaboard of the US (and as far west as Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota) to actually have worse winter weather than we experience in many parts of Canada, especially southern Ontario and Quebec and western British Columbia. (NOTE: while the 49th parallel is considered the ‘dividing line’ between Canada and the US, a significant portion of both Ontario and Quebec and the Atlantic provinces [New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Newfoundland] are geographically south of that latitude – in fact, they’re actually parallel to or more southerly than the states of Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New York, Michigan, Minnesota, North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Washington, Oregon and parts of Wyoming, Nebraska, and Iowa; the southern-most point in Ontario is actually in line with northern California, Nevada and Utah).
There are lots of other misrepresentations or misunderstandings about Canada. I don’t have the space to list them all here but suffice it to say we are very similar to – and on equal footing with – our American neighbours when it comes to language, culture, entertainment, technology, medicine, education, fashion, music … and just about anything else you can think of. While we have only about 10% of the total population of the US (35 million compared to 315 million), our top ten cities are as modern and populated as the top 35 cities in the US (while we don’t have any cities the size of New York or Los Angeles, Toronto is equivalent in population to Chicago, Montreal to Philadelphia, Calgary to Dallas, Ottawa to Austin, Edmonton to San Francisco, Winnipeg to Boston, and Vancouver to Portland).
Some of the world’s most popular and/or (in)famous actors have come from Canada – including Ryan Gosling, Jim Carrey, Donald and Keifer Sutherland, Michael J. Fox, Matthew Perry, Dan Ackroyd, Ryan Reynolds, William Shatner, and Eric MacCormack. We’ve also produced a huge range of musical talents – Celine Dion, Bryan Adams, Avril Lavigne, Shania Twain, Nelly Furtado, Sum41, Barenaked Ladies, Rush, Neil Young, Nickleback. And let’s not forget that Canadians invented quite a few miraculous products that have changed the world, such as AM Radio, IMAX, the telephone, the zipper, Pablum, basketball, SONAR, the Blackberry, the electron microscope, and the Canadarm.
All in all, we’re a pretty damn great nation and we deserve a great deal more respect and acknowledgement than we often get in the foreign media and from people who are too lazy or too arrogant to take the time to find out more about us. I for one am proud to be a Canadian on … the other side of 55.
Part 1 of a multi-part series
I suspect (from the size of the ‘self help’ section in my local bookstore) that one of the questions most often asked by people seeking enlightenment or (at the very least) some sense of personal identity and direction is ‘Who am I?’
It’s easy enough to say for example (NOTE: this is entirely fabricated): “I’m a middle-aged wo/man, third of four children born to second generation German-Canadian parents. I’m married to a high school teacher and we have with three kids between the ages of 10 and 16. I work full time as a bank manager, and I volunteer at the local food bank two weekends a month. I enjoy jazz music, red wine, and going on long walks in the woods.” Done – right? Well – no, not really. This is the kind of superficial overview you might use to introduce yourself to a new acquaintance, but it really isn’t who you are.
Who you are goes much, much deeper and is far more complex. It’s the result not only of your familial circumstances, education and career choices, culture and upbringing, values and belief systems, but of your heritage. You can’t truly understand who you are unless you know who your parents were, and who their parents were, and who their parents were (and so on). Delving into your family background and creating your own personal history ‘road map’ can be quite enlightening (and sometimes a little disconcerting, depending on your genealogy and how deep you’re willing to ‘dig’ to find information and answers to perplexing questions).
Some families are very open and proud of their varied family histories – they have albums full of photos and dozens of shared stories about Aunt Amelia’s bestselling book on how to grow rutabagas, Great Grandpa Horatio’s daring-do during World War II, and Uncle Eugene’s unfortunate incarceration for drug possession. Other families share only the ‘best of’ memories through ‘happy time’ tales and photographs. And some treat family history with a kind of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ attitude (those are the hardest to explore because so much has gotten lost over time or has been deliberately concealed – often for reasons no one can even remember any more).
Whatever your family’s approach, you can learn a lot about who you are (and where / who you come from) by doing a little personal research (and a lot of introspective reflection on what you learn). And while a membership for Ancestry.com (or .ca) can give you fascinating insights into your family tree (and suck a lot of time – but time well spent, in my opinion), I’m going to suggest you start a little closer to home – by asking (if you can) who your parents are (or were).
Most of us ‘think’ we know who our parents are/were. But, actually, what we (most of us, anyway) know is simply who they are/were AS PARENTS. By the time we first ‘meet’ our parents, they’ve already lived as much as one-third of their lives. They’ve been babies, children, teenagers, young adults. They’ve been happy, sad, proud, dejected, courageous, cowardly, jubilant, disappointed, loved, rejected, joyful, discouraged. They’ve tried and failed, loved and lost, fallen down and gotten back up again. They might have grown up rich and spoiled, or impoverished and lacking the basic necessities of life, or somewhere in between. They attended grade school and high school, perhaps college or university. In all likelihood, they excelled in some courses, did poorly in others, dropped one or two they couldn’t manage. Over the years they had dozens of friends; some stayed close, others drifted away, one or more likely became lovers.
They had part time jobs, full time jobs, hobbies, interests. They studied at the library, went to parties and dances, probably drank too much on occasion and (dependent on the era) experimented with an illicit substance or two. Based on their mood and the circumstances they found themselves in, they would have been polite, belligerent, well-mannered, rude, respectful, argumentative, quiet, loud-mouthed. It’s likely they didn’t always agree with their parents, their teachers, or others ‘in charge’. At one time or another they probably rebelled, resisted, fought back, went their own way. Eventually they met, got married, had you (and it would have been several years before you were even aware that they had a ‘life’ or ‘purpose’ other than taking care of your every whim).
How much of that early time in their lives do you know about? How much can you find out? If your parents are still alive, I strongly encourage you to seek out this information. You might be surprised to find out that the ‘younger version’ of one or more of your parents share a surprising number of traits and long-held imaginings with you. You’re probably more alike than you think! So much of who you are is tied up in who they (really) are. How can you possibly know yourself if you don’t know your parents?
It wasn’t until my parents died and I started going through the albums Mom had put together on their individual ‘histories’ that I realized how very little I knew about who they were before they were ‘my parents’. I had a number of oft-told stories and some old black and white photographs (and, miraculously, some ‘love letters’ Dad wrote to Mom before they were married), but few true insights into their individual young lives, their hopes and dreams, and what ultimately drew them together (and kept them together for 67 years). I know more now about my genealogy (on both sides of the family, thanks to Ancestry.ca and innumerable hours of bleary-eyed research), but there will always be a couple of huge gaps in my personal history because the details died with my parents. I wish now that I’d asked more questions when they were alive, dug deeper into their personal histories (with their help, of course), and solved those ‘mysteries’ that no one ever talked about (and, perhaps, found out why).
How much do you know about our parents before the ‘defining moment’ in their lives when you were born? How much of who you are is tied up with who they were before (and even after) they were your parents? Don’t you think it’s time you found out? I do. Don’t wait until you’re on … the other side of 55.
Well, the sun has FINALLY shown its vibrant face here in southern Ontario, and while the temperatures continue to hover at the near-freezing mark, I’ve been bitten by the spring cleaning bug. I couldn’t wait to get underway, but I thought it would be prudent to start slowly – you know: ease in, clean a room at a time, see how it goes. I decided the best approach would be would take everything out of one room, vacuum, dust, damp mop, polish, etc. and then put it all back. If I was still feeling good, I’d go on to the next room, then the next, etc.
And believe it or not, I finished the ENTIRE HOUSE in no time at all! So I went ahead and did the other two houses as well. The end result had me beaming. I got so much accomplished it was absolutely amazing – especially for someone on … the other side of 55.
Last month, a good friend of mine had the rug pulled right out from under her carefully planned ‘sunshine destination’ vacation by Canada’s national airline, Air Canada. What is truly shocking about her story is that its probably not unique. If you do ANY travelling by air (with this particular airline, or others) you might want to double check with your travel agent (or the airline directly) regarding their policies on advance seat selection, flight ‘guarantees’, over-booking, ‘standby’ status, and compensation for ruined holidays. Here, in her own words, is what happened to my friend:
On Family Day weekend (February 2014), my husband and I and two friends had our entire week-long vacation ruined because Air Canada had overbooked our flight to Aruba, and we were turned away at the boarding gate.
We had done everything we were supposed to do: we bought our tickets from a travel agent in September, printed our boarding passes the day before leaving, arrived at the airport three hours in advance. But when we tried to select our seats, we were told we’d been put on standby and had to speak to an agent at the gate. This was just the beginning of our nightmare . . .
There were a total of eight passengers waiting at the gate to speak to an agent. We learned that the man behind us in line had booked his three tickets ‘last minute’ in January, and had printed his boarding passes later in the day than we had. However, when the agent arrived, she gave “Mr. January” his seats and left us waiting. When I put up a fuss and asked why, the agent said her records showed that we had checked in last. This was absolutely not true.
To make matters worse, while we were anxiously waiting to see if we were going to be able to board the plane, the agent repeated her final boarding call several times in an attempt to locate eight or ten people who hadn’t yet checked in – yet she still would not allow us to board the plane. Fifteen minutes later, those passengers sauntered over to the gate and were allowed to board, and we were told the plane was full.
Air Canada did offer to find us another flight. However, the next day’s flight to Aruba was already overbooked by seven, and we were told it was highly unlikely that we would get seats on it (despite having already been bumped once). We were offered a different flight – leaving the next day – to Bogota, Colombia, with a nine-hour layover; however, we were advised that there was no seat guarantee on the connecting flight to Aruba. We could be stranded in Bogota – clearly this was not an option.
We spent the entire day at the airport, ever hopeful that somehow we could manage to get to Aruba (where we had a timeshare booked and waiting). Unfortunately, it never happened. To add insult to injury, our luggage had made it onto the plane and was en route to Aruba, which meant we couldn’t go anywhere else. Our vacation was over before it had even begun.
Air Canada refunded the price of our tickets and compensated us for being ‘bumped’ (as required under Canadian Transportation Agency law – not out of the ‘goodness of their hearts’); however, they claim they are not liable for any additional repayment costs with respect to our spoiled vacation (including lost time, pre-paid accommodations, etc.). They, still, however, continue to severely overbook flights, including those to ‘sun destinations’ where it is highly unlikely travellers will simply not turn up. How can this be seen as an acceptable practice?
According to one Customer Service representative I spoke to at Air Canada, we could have avoided this ‘problem’ if we had booked our seats (at an additional cost) when we originally purchased our tickets. Apparently, paying for a flight doesn’t necessarily get you a seat on the plane! Who knew?
Addendum: In one of those weird coincidences that happen when you least expect them, CBC’s Marketplace (a consumer-advocacy show) aired a show about these kinds of problems with the airlines on Friday (March 21); you can watch it at: http://www.cbc.ca/marketplace/episodes/2013-2014/plane-wrong