Ric - my partner - was a delegate from his church in Berkeley, California to the National Conference of the Congregationalist Churches of America and it was held at the Hilton Hotel in Orlando. While Ric was there for the entire conference, I was present for the last three days.
I took a new camera - a gift from a friend - with me but, unfortunately, neither Ric nor I were able to operate it properly so - sadly - I missed a number of wonderful photographic opportunities. The donor of the camera is the person whom I depend upon when I have computer problems. I was in that situation before I left so he came over here on the evening that I returned. While he was here he carefully guided me through the operation of the device. It does work - and I will have it with me when I go on the boat cruise on Monday (Canada Day) but too late for Orlando and Epcot!
As my computer was down before I left here I missed a number of email messages from Delta Airlines detailing changes in the routing of my flight. Originally, I was to fly to Boston, then Atlanta and, finally, Orlando. While I was at Lester B. Pearson International Airport (here in Toronto) my itinerary was changed at least three times (but not the time for my departure). I flew from here to Laguardia Airport in New York where I had to change to an aircraft that was flying to Orlando.
This was my very first time in any part of New York City so that intrigued me. I looked on a detailed map of NYC trying to pinpoint Laguardia but - while I found where the John F Kennedy Airport is located (the south side of Long Island) - I could not locate the other at first but I have since located it on the north side of Queens and facing Manhattan.
The airport is most certainly older and crowded. As I had more than an hour to wait before continuing on, I wandered around and purchased a sandwich and beverage.
The flights to New York and to Orlando were not that remarkable except for two sightings in North Florida. Before the sun set completely I was looking out of the window and down upon the clouds. Off to my left was a small cumulonimbus cloud and, while I watched, I witnessed lightning flashing all around it. As we began the descent into Orlando Airport the clouds parted and I watched an orange moon rise up from the ocean and - seemingly - to grow in size the higher it rose.
I have mentioned that my computer was down so I missed a final email message from Ric to me which included a voucher for Meares Transport from the airport to the Hilton. As I had not been able to read that, I was lost as to what to do next. Fortunately, a young woman at a nearby counter volunteered to call Ric's number on her cellphone and he told me what to do. I was one of about 12 people in the van taking people into Orlando and I was one of the first to be dropped off. Ric was waiting for me at the door to the hotel and took me up to the room where some food from the hotel kitchen was waiting for me.
The time was after 11:00 PM so we went to bed and I was exhausted!
On the following morning Ric went off to Conference Meetings while I was left to myself. As I had lost my baseball cap (a souvenir from one of the Carnival ships) and, also, as the sun was quite warm, I went looking for a new cap. During the trip from the airport the van had passed a Walgreen Pharmacy so I decided to walk to there to find a replacement cap as well as a tube of denture adhesive. I went to the concierge desk and asked for directions to the drugstore and was handed a map with my walking route outlined.
It was warm and sunny but - still - a lovely morning for a walk and I enjoyed every step of the way. That part of Orlando is quite pretty (green boulevards, lovely trees and impressive hotels). On my way I passed a Disney 'Discount' store and I dropped in there on my return trip to buy the cap.
By the time that I returned to the Hilton Ric was on his lunch break so he showed me how to walk to the park on the other side of one of the streets. This was "Downtown Disney" and it is a magical place - I thought that I was on the back lot of many a Disney film. While walking I saw Mary Poppins as well as Belle from "Beauty and the Beast" and many other characters, items and scenes from children's movies.
The first building that one sees upon entering Downtown Disney is the Earl of Sandwich which sells sandwiches - what else? I had lunch there with Ric and breakfast (an egg sandwich) on the morning when I left to return to Toronto. There is a lovely dining room in the Hilton Hotel but the menu items are very expensive - a basic breakfast costs more than $20.00!
On Tuesday Ric was able to finish his business at the convention early so we went to the Epcot Center. Buses come by the hotels every half hour to take patrons to all of the Disney parks in the area so we rode one to Epcot and I was very impressed! Admission to any of the Disney theme parks is quite steep and well outside the limit of our budgets so we are grateful for the generosity of friends who purchased the tickets for us. Fortunately I brought the brochure from Epcot home with me and Ric has circled the pavilions which we visited so I believe that my memory will be accurate.
There are 28 pavilions and 'places of interest' at Epcot but time allowed us to visit only four of them - and I do not in the least regret the four that we chose.
The first was the closest pavilion to the entry gate - "Spaceship Earth" - and the route through - on a boat in a canal - was past an illustrated history of human communication devices. It was interesting and the saga was told through droll scenes of 'cartoon figures' operating the various items.
Close by was Mission SPACE. As the journey through that pavilion involved movement and loud noises Ric asked me if I would be comfortable? I replied, "Yes" - but, frankly, I was not sure. Once inside we found ourselves beside a module and, when the door opened, we walked inside where there were 20 or more people already waiting in a queue. Eventually, it was our turn and - by luck - we were the first two who were allowed through the door. The 'audience' was split into groups who were expected to enact the various stages of blast off, orbiting in space, and landing on Mars. We sat in the seats in a row, were buckled in and - after some brief instructions - we experienced 'Blast Off'!
What a strange sensation to experience centrifugal force against one's body! However, that was short lived and then we were 'flying' through space and landing on the surface of Mars. This was not quite as simple as the previous sentence indicates - we had to watch for flying space debris and feel the jolts and bumps as our 'space capsule' settled on the surface of the planet. Then there was the 'fun' of the capsule teetering to the edge of a crevasse while all sorts of space debris flew past us. It was very realistic but logic told me that this really was 'make believe' and that no harm would come to any of us.
Our next stop was to experience 'The Seas With Nemo and Friends' First, we walked through this pavilion going from window to window and looking into sea water and watched all sorts of underwater life swimming past us (one of the creatures that swam by did look a lot like the movie character). Soon we came to where there was a train affair looking much like a midway ride. We climbed into a car and rode through a wonder that - it seems - only Disney would create.
As we approached the end of our ride, a map was on the screen in the front of the vehicle in which we were traveling and we were asked to point out where we were from. Ric left that to me. It was a map of the southern Ontario area (how they came to know that that area is home for me I do not know!). The only name of a city that I noticed was Ottawa so I touched the screen in what I thought was southwest from there. 'Toronto' appeared so I touched that spot. This was just before the terminus of our ride and, as we exited from the car, a mechanical voice wished us "Goodbye" and with a southern Ontario accent!
The final pavilion which we visited was "Living with the Land Presented by Chiquita" - I presume that this is a reference to bananas? This was another ride in a small 'train' which passed through - and by - all sorts of topography. I do not recall how we passed this bit of information but - at the end of the ride (and lesson) caricatures of our faces appeared on the screen and above our names! We had a good chuckle at that!
In the center of Epcot is a large pond (small lake) named 'World Showcase' and we walked all the way around it. Along the shore are sizable pavilions reflecting the architecture of a number of countries. We began that walk in the 'Americas' section and soon walked by a replica of the Chateau Laurier and the Peace Tower which represented Canada. We did not enter any of these showcases but simply noticed the architecture of each. All of these edifices sold food items associated with the representative country. We were getting hungry and looked at the menus but the prices asked for each were outside of the limitations of our pocketbooks! However, we did find a booth where tacos were sold so tacos was our dinner
A view of the evening fireworks was planned so - in order to kill time until dusk - we rode monorails to two of the other Disney sites. I do not recall specifically which sites they were although I know that neither was "The Magic Kingdom" - we could see the turrets of the Fairy Castle in the distance and over the trees.
Once one enters the grounds, one is able to hop on and off the monorails and/ or the shuttle ferries which cross the lagoons which were in all directions.
We watched the time so we could be back at Epcot before 9:00 PM and the evening fireworks display. We found a place to park ourselves close to the water (the fireworks were let off over the central lake) and I went to find the washroom. When I returned Ric was not in sight - everybody along the edge of the lake had been told to move. I knew that, if I stood still in the relatively open space Ric would spot me. Sure enough, he called to me. When I walked over to him there was an Asiatic woman with a small child beside him. He introduced me to this person telling me that she was from Pickering (a Toronto suburb) . The husband also had gone to use a washroom so, when he returned, I held out my hand and said, "Hi Pickering! I'm from Toronto!" He laughed as he shook my hand.
The fireworks - accompanied by a piece of classical music - were magnificent.
When that ended we walked back across the grounds to the bus pickup area where we had quite a wait before the bus to the Orlando Hotels appeared. When it did we hopped on and returned to the Hilton.
We had to rise early the next morning in order to be on the airport bus. At the airport we visited a food court for a light breakfast and then walked to the boarding areas of our respective airlines. As I left the security clearance area there was a bulletproof glass wall on my right and I saw Ric. As he appeared to be having some difficulty with the security guard where he was, I did not try to catch his attention.
For some unknown reason, the gate number for my flight was not on my boarding pass! I thought that it was Gate 79 so I went to that distant area in Orlando Airport. It was not 79 but Gate 59 in the opposite direction! Time seemed to be tight but I was able to reach my flight before it was scheduled to depart.
The flight home was via Detroit (which is one of the hubs of Delta Airlines). I was in the airport for about an hour and then boarded a small regional aircraft for the relatively short hop to Toronto.
Was Toby delighted to see me? You bet he was!
Friday, 28 June 2013
Monday, 17 June 2013
"I Love a Parade!"
Instead of attending the Memoir Writing Group this afternoon, I accepted an invitation to attend the LGBT Seniors' Pride Party at the 519 Community Center. As we partook of the delicious sandwiches and nibblies that were provided, films were being shown on the big screen at the back of the stage in the auditorium. At first I was not paying too much attention but I did towards the end of the program and was pleased to see that the subject matter was about a Pride Parade in Vancouver.
This brought to mind some of the early parades in the 1970s and '80s. One of the earliest of those celebrations was not held in Vancouver but out on a farm in Langley - well to the east of the city. If my memory serves me correctly, the earlier Toronto celebrations were also held away from the city. The organizers in both cities were nervous about negative reaction so the celebrations were held away from the public eye. My - how times have changed - and much for the better!
One of my younger friends met a man to his liking at a later festival in Vancouver and the two of them began kissing quite passionately. Neither of them particularly noticed the cameraman standing nearby but soon found out that their families elsewhere did see the clip as it was shown on the CBC News (The National) and thus they were outed!
When I became the Pastor of MCC-Vancouver the church board rented a convertible and I was requested to ride up on the rear with my feet planted on the back seat. At that time the parade was granted only half of the street to travel along and the only negative encounter happened when we turned from Denman Street onto Beach Avenue and became caught in a traffic jam.
On the other side of the street was a highrise apartment building and some Yahoo threw a raw egg from away up near the top of the building only he missed me - the egg landed upon the hood of a Camaro bearing Washington State license plates that was stopped in the other lane and unable to move. The driver of that car was also caught in the traffic jamb and, needless to say, he was not amused!
This was the morning after our nuptials and - although you cannot see it - the pole in my hand had the Canadian flag attached while Ric was carrying the American flag. All the people crowded into the background will give you an idea of the tremendous throngs that the Gay Pride Parade attracts.
Now Gay Pride Parades are a part of the life of the city and - here in Toronto - are watched by more than 1,000,000 people lining the route and thousands more who are glued to their TV sets in their homes. For me, Gay Pride is the most energizing day of the year. My partner, Ric Reed, is not all that enamored with them but - being the 'good sport' that he is - he joins in with me when he is here.
I have marched with various organizations and, most often, that is with Toronto PFLAG. The other organizations are MCCToronto, the LGBT/Police Liaison Committee, and the Leather/Levi Community. The last time that I marched with the Police Liaison Committee, we were given pamphlets and small gifts to hand out along the way. In the photo posted above you can see the density of the crowd. We approached the throng with the small items to hand out to the watchers. Mostly that did not work as many of the folk in the front row were Asians and could not understand English. We would ask them to pass the items to others who were behind them but most - and especially the elderly - did not understand so they simply pocketed the items and did not share. Frustrating!
Before my time of involvement with PFLAG some enterprising folk created placards printed in languages other than in English to be carried in the parade. Usually I chose which placard that I wanted to carry but Ric - the first time that he marched with PFLAG - just grabbed the first one that he came to and with startling results. It so happened that it was in Farsi - one of the languages spoken in Iran. While we were walking down Yonge Street Ric noticed a beautiful young woman standing in the crowd. She noticed the sign that he was carrying, her eyes lit up, and she elbowed her young male companion while pointing towards Ric. We presume that they were Iranians and Gay people are persecuted there.
This photo was taken at the marshaling area. The placard which Ric is holding is written in Farsi. I have one written in English.
I was moved by this so, the following year, I grabbed the same sign to carry in the parade (Ric was not here) and, like he, I received a startling reaction from two bystanders.The parade begins at the corner of Bloor Street East and Church Street (the marching units are lined up along Bloor while the motorized units are down along Church Street North, Park Road and the Rosedale Valley Road). The two groups are melded together at the corner of Church and Bloor. From there the route is along Bloor East to Yonge Street, down Yonge to Gerrard Street East and then one block east to Church Street where the marching units turn north while the vehicles continue on to Jarvis Street.
I had an odd circumstance this afternoon when I received a message from a friend via Facebook. When I opened the message I discovered that the left sidebar contained dozens of photos of myself.
Now this photo has appeared suddenly. Yes - I am carrying the sign written in Farsi and that is Pei who is walking beside me (the photo following this paragraph).
In the parade following the one that Ric had marched in carrying the sign in Farsi I made sure that I had the Iranian sign myself. When the parade reached the corner of Yonge and Gerrard East two middle aged men left the crowd and approached me. They were two more Iranians and they were deeply moved that I was carrying a sign printed in their language!
The following year saw the publisher of one of the leading Gay magazines creating a contest. He encouraged a half dozen Gay and Lesbian couples who were contemplating marriage to enter the contest, have their bios and photographs published, and see which couple would garner the most votes. The winners were a woman whom I have known for a long time (Brenda) and her new partner (Georgie). They were married on the float as it progressed along the parade route and Brenda invited me to attend the reception at the Sheraton Hotel in the early evening.
The Sheraton is on Queen Street a short block east of University Avenue so I walked down there. As I arrived at the intersection of University Avenue and Armoury Road (just north of the Court House) I encountered two men who looked to have been in their 30s or early 40s who were having their photograph taken. If I had continued in the direction in which I was walking I would have been in the middle of the photo so I stopped. After the photo was taken these men approached me and introduced themselves. They were from one of the Emirates that are along the southern shore of Arabia. Yes - they were Gay and they spoke English. Both were overwhelmed by the scope of Gay Pride - there was nothing anywhere like that where they came from!
For the parade (the year following my encounter with the Arabian men) I walked up to the marshaling area with a Chinese acquaintance. I saw somebody whom I knew standing in the middle of the street so I walked over to him while Pei remained on the sidewalk and began chatting with a stranger. When the chat - in which I was engaged - ended I returned to the curb and Pei introduced me to the tall stranger. Pei attended a group for new Canadians which met at the 519 Community Center once a week and that was where he had met the other person.
The stranger was a newcomer from Morocco so I asked him if he would like to walk in the Parade? His response was a quick and emphatic "YES!!!" so I took him to the PFLAG booth, handed him a t-shirt and showed him the pile of signs. There were none in Arabic so he chose one that was in French (the second language spoken in Morocco).
The parade always begins in fits and starts as the marshals blend the walking units with the motorized ones. Each time that we recommence our move forward there is a cheer from the marchers but this ends once we have crossed Church Street and move forward fairly steadily. However, about once in each block, our Moroccan guest would jump up (he was quite a tall young man to begin with) and yell, "YAHOO!!" It took a few blocks before the penny dropped in my head - he was celebrating who he was without any fear of consequences and, probably, this was the first time in his life that he could do so!
This brought to mind some of the early parades in the 1970s and '80s. One of the earliest of those celebrations was not held in Vancouver but out on a farm in Langley - well to the east of the city. If my memory serves me correctly, the earlier Toronto celebrations were also held away from the city. The organizers in both cities were nervous about negative reaction so the celebrations were held away from the public eye. My - how times have changed - and much for the better!
One of my younger friends met a man to his liking at a later festival in Vancouver and the two of them began kissing quite passionately. Neither of them particularly noticed the cameraman standing nearby but soon found out that their families elsewhere did see the clip as it was shown on the CBC News (The National) and thus they were outed!
When I became the Pastor of MCC-Vancouver the church board rented a convertible and I was requested to ride up on the rear with my feet planted on the back seat. At that time the parade was granted only half of the street to travel along and the only negative encounter happened when we turned from Denman Street onto Beach Avenue and became caught in a traffic jam.
On the other side of the street was a highrise apartment building and some Yahoo threw a raw egg from away up near the top of the building only he missed me - the egg landed upon the hood of a Camaro bearing Washington State license plates that was stopped in the other lane and unable to move. The driver of that car was also caught in the traffic jamb and, needless to say, he was not amused!
Now Gay Pride Parades are a part of the life of the city and - here in Toronto - are watched by more than 1,000,000 people lining the route and thousands more who are glued to their TV sets in their homes. For me, Gay Pride is the most energizing day of the year. My partner, Ric Reed, is not all that enamored with them but - being the 'good sport' that he is - he joins in with me when he is here.
I have marched with various organizations and, most often, that is with Toronto PFLAG. The other organizations are MCCToronto, the LGBT/Police Liaison Committee, and the Leather/Levi Community. The last time that I marched with the Police Liaison Committee, we were given pamphlets and small gifts to hand out along the way. In the photo posted above you can see the density of the crowd. We approached the throng with the small items to hand out to the watchers. Mostly that did not work as many of the folk in the front row were Asians and could not understand English. We would ask them to pass the items to others who were behind them but most - and especially the elderly - did not understand so they simply pocketed the items and did not share. Frustrating!
Before my time of involvement with PFLAG some enterprising folk created placards printed in languages other than in English to be carried in the parade. Usually I chose which placard that I wanted to carry but Ric - the first time that he marched with PFLAG - just grabbed the first one that he came to and with startling results. It so happened that it was in Farsi - one of the languages spoken in Iran. While we were walking down Yonge Street Ric noticed a beautiful young woman standing in the crowd. She noticed the sign that he was carrying, her eyes lit up, and she elbowed her young male companion while pointing towards Ric. We presume that they were Iranians and Gay people are persecuted there.
I was moved by this so, the following year, I grabbed the same sign to carry in the parade (Ric was not here) and, like he, I received a startling reaction from two bystanders.The parade begins at the corner of Bloor Street East and Church Street (the marching units are lined up along Bloor while the motorized units are down along Church Street North, Park Road and the Rosedale Valley Road). The two groups are melded together at the corner of Church and Bloor. From there the route is along Bloor East to Yonge Street, down Yonge to Gerrard Street East and then one block east to Church Street where the marching units turn north while the vehicles continue on to Jarvis Street.
In the parade following the one that Ric had marched in carrying the sign in Farsi I made sure that I had the Iranian sign myself. When the parade reached the corner of Yonge and Gerrard East two middle aged men left the crowd and approached me. They were two more Iranians and they were deeply moved that I was carrying a sign printed in their language!
The following year saw the publisher of one of the leading Gay magazines creating a contest. He encouraged a half dozen Gay and Lesbian couples who were contemplating marriage to enter the contest, have their bios and photographs published, and see which couple would garner the most votes. The winners were a woman whom I have known for a long time (Brenda) and her new partner (Georgie). They were married on the float as it progressed along the parade route and Brenda invited me to attend the reception at the Sheraton Hotel in the early evening.
The Sheraton is on Queen Street a short block east of University Avenue so I walked down there. As I arrived at the intersection of University Avenue and Armoury Road (just north of the Court House) I encountered two men who looked to have been in their 30s or early 40s who were having their photograph taken. If I had continued in the direction in which I was walking I would have been in the middle of the photo so I stopped. After the photo was taken these men approached me and introduced themselves. They were from one of the Emirates that are along the southern shore of Arabia. Yes - they were Gay and they spoke English. Both were overwhelmed by the scope of Gay Pride - there was nothing anywhere like that where they came from!
For the parade (the year following my encounter with the Arabian men) I walked up to the marshaling area with a Chinese acquaintance. I saw somebody whom I knew standing in the middle of the street so I walked over to him while Pei remained on the sidewalk and began chatting with a stranger. When the chat - in which I was engaged - ended I returned to the curb and Pei introduced me to the tall stranger. Pei attended a group for new Canadians which met at the 519 Community Center once a week and that was where he had met the other person.
The stranger was a newcomer from Morocco so I asked him if he would like to walk in the Parade? His response was a quick and emphatic "YES!!!" so I took him to the PFLAG booth, handed him a t-shirt and showed him the pile of signs. There were none in Arabic so he chose one that was in French (the second language spoken in Morocco).
The parade always begins in fits and starts as the marshals blend the walking units with the motorized ones. Each time that we recommence our move forward there is a cheer from the marchers but this ends once we have crossed Church Street and move forward fairly steadily. However, about once in each block, our Moroccan guest would jump up (he was quite a tall young man to begin with) and yell, "YAHOO!!" It took a few blocks before the penny dropped in my head - he was celebrating who he was without any fear of consequences and, probably, this was the first time in his life that he could do so!
Tuesday, 4 June 2013
Steak and Eggs
Already I have written about various types of food but I have not specifically mentioned restaurants. I imagine that many of us - if not all - have dined out and enjoyed - or not! - what has been placed before us.
I am not a gourmand (nor do I enjoy cooking) so this is a reminiscence of noteworthy meals eaten elsewhere.
The fifth anniversary of Ric and my nuptials was June 28, 2008 and, as Ric was here for Gay Pride, he suggested a '5-STAR' restaurant for our dinner. He looked into a Toronto restaurant guide, found three places thus designated, read the menus and we opted for Scaramouch at 5 Benvenuto Place.
Having not heard of that restaurant before I dug out a Toronto street map and found the address. Benvenuto Place is a small street that goes west from Avenue Road between Davenport and St Clair Avenue West. The dining room occupies the main floor of a condominium building and the south wall of the facility is a plate glass window which affords a magnificent view downhill to the core of the city. Ric sat facing in that direction so admired the skyline outlined by the setting sun and then watched all the lights come on.
I do not remember specifically what we ate but do remember that the food was exceptional. At the price that Ric paid it had to be! We enjoyed a fine wine with the meal and a rich dessert afterwards.
Now on to other dining experiences.
A Swiss chef lost his sight and then (in Paris, France) he dreamed up a unique dining experience - a restaurant where the waiters are all sightless and the patrons eat in total darkness. Now there are restaurants following that pattern in a number of cities including Toronto. The dining room is named 'Noir' and it is located in the basement of an apartment hotel two blocks from where I am living.
The entryway is reached by descending a flight of stairs off of Charles Street East at Church Street. Going through the door one enters a dimly lit foyer at the far side of which is a counter with menus. There are only two entrees listed each evening so the choice is simple and the woman behind the counter notes the choice. A little further along is a bar where alcoholic beverages can be ordered and the drinks will be brought to the table after one is seated.
Shortly a waiter will appear in the foyer and announce the name of the party. Once identified he will approach and ask the members of the party to follow him across to a closed door. Upon the door being opened he will ask the diners to enter into the dimly lit room behind him, place the right hand upon the right shoulder of the person in front (i.e. waiter, guest, guest and so on).
Proceeding on, the party passes through yet another door into total darkness. Remember - the waiter is totally blind but he has memorized the layout of the room and he winds his way through the tables until he reaches the designated one. As I was walking behind Ric the waiter told me to reach to my right and find the back of my chair and then to sit. Once I was comfortable he led Ric around the table to the opposite chair and asked him to be seated.
Once settled he asked each of us to explore the table with our hands to find our place mat, napkin, cutlery, bread and butter plate and water glass. Once that was accomplished he left us to chat and to listen to the voices of other diners whom - of course - we could not see. The drinks that were ordered at the bar were delivered shortly after we were seated. During our first visit we were amused by hearing the strident voice of a woman who loudly complained that, while she had ordered the beef dish, she had received something else. Our experience told us that the reason the menu was simple was so a mix-up was not likely to happen!
It was not long before our food was delivered. How does one determine what is on the plate? By touch! The second time we were there both of us ordered the steak. I ordered 'medium rare' and it was 'medium rare' but already cut up into bite-sized pieces. The interesting task was to discern by touch what was the vegetable (the potato was obvious).
We enjoyed our meals while quietly talking. No - I did not knock over the water glass but carefully searched for it to my right.
While we knew what the entree was to be, we had no idea about the dessert. I remember that - on our first visit - it was a deliciously moist piece of chocolate cake with icing. How was I to eat it? With my fingers - including the wonderfully gooey icing! I cannot recall what was the dessert placed before me on our second visit.
I was so impressed by our experience that I told a number of friends about the restaurant and a birthday celebration was in the offing for one of them. As he was intrigued by my description of our meal, he suggested to the lady who was to treat him that they dine at Noir. When I saw him again I asked how the celebration went. He told me with a chuckle that his hostess had quite a sense of humor and, while they were eating, she exclaimed, "It is so dark in here I could go topless!" Immediately the waiter appeared by her side and said, "Madam, my loss of sight is made up for by an extremely sensitive ability to hear!"
If you live in or near Toronto - and you are adventurous - give Noir a try. If you don't live near here, perhaps your nearest large city has a "Noir" too. If so - try it!
With traveling to San Francisco to visit Ric, we have eaten in many different restaurants In previous blogs (see "Food") I have mentioned the restaurant a few blocks away from where Ric lives that was owned by a black gentleman who was originally from Louisiana. The cuisine proffered reflected that culture and it was extremely good.
Also I have mentioned Pasta Pelican - a restaurant near where Ric used to work. The menu offered various pasta dishes and the sauces which went with each dish were exceptional!
At the foot of Market Street in San Francisco is a seafood restaurant where we have dined on more than one occasion. Very expensive but very delicious.
Ric's best friend discovered another restaurant which was on Market Street west of Van Ness Boulevard and about half way between there and Church Street. The restaurant was Brazilian owned and operated and was fashioned upon a type of eatery that is very popular in Brazil. The food - which consisted more of meat than anything else - kept coming and coming and coming. I do not remember what the signal was for us to stop the interminable string of meat dishes from coming. Aptly the word 'Carne' was in the name of that eatery. It is suggested that Vegetarians NOT eat there!
I felt bloated when we left but the food was most certainly good!
Perhaps you have been wondering why I chose "Steak and Eggs" as the title for this blog? Well - in Brisbane there was a restaurant on Queen Street which specialized in steaks. One evening I decided to eat there before going to a theater. I had eaten there before and thoroughly enjoyed how my steak was cooked (the restaurant specialized in the best steaks cooked as chefs in the fine restaurants of the world cooked them).
After I was seated another fellow was seated at the table behind me. When the waiter came to take his order the man said "Steak and Eggs!" This is/was standard fare in many eateries in small outback towns but this restaurant specialized in Filet Mignon, Steak Tartar and other fancier steak dishes. The waiter suggested that the gentleman choose one of those dishes but No! He wanted "Stike and Aigs" and nothing else.
I enjoyed my Filet Mignon!
I am not a gourmand (nor do I enjoy cooking) so this is a reminiscence of noteworthy meals eaten elsewhere.
The fifth anniversary of Ric and my nuptials was June 28, 2008 and, as Ric was here for Gay Pride, he suggested a '5-STAR' restaurant for our dinner. He looked into a Toronto restaurant guide, found three places thus designated, read the menus and we opted for Scaramouch at 5 Benvenuto Place.
Having not heard of that restaurant before I dug out a Toronto street map and found the address. Benvenuto Place is a small street that goes west from Avenue Road between Davenport and St Clair Avenue West. The dining room occupies the main floor of a condominium building and the south wall of the facility is a plate glass window which affords a magnificent view downhill to the core of the city. Ric sat facing in that direction so admired the skyline outlined by the setting sun and then watched all the lights come on.
I do not remember specifically what we ate but do remember that the food was exceptional. At the price that Ric paid it had to be! We enjoyed a fine wine with the meal and a rich dessert afterwards.
Now on to other dining experiences.
A Swiss chef lost his sight and then (in Paris, France) he dreamed up a unique dining experience - a restaurant where the waiters are all sightless and the patrons eat in total darkness. Now there are restaurants following that pattern in a number of cities including Toronto. The dining room is named 'Noir' and it is located in the basement of an apartment hotel two blocks from where I am living.
The entryway is reached by descending a flight of stairs off of Charles Street East at Church Street. Going through the door one enters a dimly lit foyer at the far side of which is a counter with menus. There are only two entrees listed each evening so the choice is simple and the woman behind the counter notes the choice. A little further along is a bar where alcoholic beverages can be ordered and the drinks will be brought to the table after one is seated.
Shortly a waiter will appear in the foyer and announce the name of the party. Once identified he will approach and ask the members of the party to follow him across to a closed door. Upon the door being opened he will ask the diners to enter into the dimly lit room behind him, place the right hand upon the right shoulder of the person in front (i.e. waiter, guest, guest and so on).
Proceeding on, the party passes through yet another door into total darkness. Remember - the waiter is totally blind but he has memorized the layout of the room and he winds his way through the tables until he reaches the designated one. As I was walking behind Ric the waiter told me to reach to my right and find the back of my chair and then to sit. Once I was comfortable he led Ric around the table to the opposite chair and asked him to be seated.
Once settled he asked each of us to explore the table with our hands to find our place mat, napkin, cutlery, bread and butter plate and water glass. Once that was accomplished he left us to chat and to listen to the voices of other diners whom - of course - we could not see. The drinks that were ordered at the bar were delivered shortly after we were seated. During our first visit we were amused by hearing the strident voice of a woman who loudly complained that, while she had ordered the beef dish, she had received something else. Our experience told us that the reason the menu was simple was so a mix-up was not likely to happen!
It was not long before our food was delivered. How does one determine what is on the plate? By touch! The second time we were there both of us ordered the steak. I ordered 'medium rare' and it was 'medium rare' but already cut up into bite-sized pieces. The interesting task was to discern by touch what was the vegetable (the potato was obvious).
We enjoyed our meals while quietly talking. No - I did not knock over the water glass but carefully searched for it to my right.
While we knew what the entree was to be, we had no idea about the dessert. I remember that - on our first visit - it was a deliciously moist piece of chocolate cake with icing. How was I to eat it? With my fingers - including the wonderfully gooey icing! I cannot recall what was the dessert placed before me on our second visit.
I was so impressed by our experience that I told a number of friends about the restaurant and a birthday celebration was in the offing for one of them. As he was intrigued by my description of our meal, he suggested to the lady who was to treat him that they dine at Noir. When I saw him again I asked how the celebration went. He told me with a chuckle that his hostess had quite a sense of humor and, while they were eating, she exclaimed, "It is so dark in here I could go topless!" Immediately the waiter appeared by her side and said, "Madam, my loss of sight is made up for by an extremely sensitive ability to hear!"
If you live in or near Toronto - and you are adventurous - give Noir a try. If you don't live near here, perhaps your nearest large city has a "Noir" too. If so - try it!
With traveling to San Francisco to visit Ric, we have eaten in many different restaurants In previous blogs (see "Food") I have mentioned the restaurant a few blocks away from where Ric lives that was owned by a black gentleman who was originally from Louisiana. The cuisine proffered reflected that culture and it was extremely good.
Also I have mentioned Pasta Pelican - a restaurant near where Ric used to work. The menu offered various pasta dishes and the sauces which went with each dish were exceptional!
At the foot of Market Street in San Francisco is a seafood restaurant where we have dined on more than one occasion. Very expensive but very delicious.
Ric's best friend discovered another restaurant which was on Market Street west of Van Ness Boulevard and about half way between there and Church Street. The restaurant was Brazilian owned and operated and was fashioned upon a type of eatery that is very popular in Brazil. The food - which consisted more of meat than anything else - kept coming and coming and coming. I do not remember what the signal was for us to stop the interminable string of meat dishes from coming. Aptly the word 'Carne' was in the name of that eatery. It is suggested that Vegetarians NOT eat there!
I felt bloated when we left but the food was most certainly good!
Perhaps you have been wondering why I chose "Steak and Eggs" as the title for this blog? Well - in Brisbane there was a restaurant on Queen Street which specialized in steaks. One evening I decided to eat there before going to a theater. I had eaten there before and thoroughly enjoyed how my steak was cooked (the restaurant specialized in the best steaks cooked as chefs in the fine restaurants of the world cooked them).
After I was seated another fellow was seated at the table behind me. When the waiter came to take his order the man said "Steak and Eggs!" This is/was standard fare in many eateries in small outback towns but this restaurant specialized in Filet Mignon, Steak Tartar and other fancier steak dishes. The waiter suggested that the gentleman choose one of those dishes but No! He wanted "Stike and Aigs" and nothing else.
I enjoyed my Filet Mignon!
Wednesday, 15 May 2013
Outhouses
At the Memoir Writing Group we have a system in place for obtaining subjects on which to write.
We have a bundle of small cards and a coffee can. If anybody thinks of a subject which could be fun to write about, she or he writes the title on one of those cards and tosses it into the can. When it is time to select a topic, one of us will put her or his hand into the can and draw out one of the cards. Sometimes it is tempting to throw the chosen card back in and draw another one but that is not allowed. Naturally some of the titles are similar to ones about which we had written previously. However, our agreed upon rule is that the chosen topic is the topic.
Towards the end of our session this past Monday the card chosen had one word printed upon it - 'Outhouses' - only I completely misunderstood what was read and wrote on a subject that was completely irrelevant. I am writing this blog as an attempt at atoning for my error.
Most of the houses in which my family lived until I was about 15 years old had no indoor plumbing (except for the kitchen sink) so outhouses were a necessity.
If you have been reading my blogs as I go along you will know that our first two homes were pretty primitive and there were no bathrooms. I have no recollection whatsoever of the outhouses at my grandparents' homestead nor at the cabin in the forest but I do remember the facility at the third house.
Our next door neighbors - and good friends - were Mr and Mrs Bartlett and they had some dairy cows as well as an ample garden. Therefore the area around the house where we lived and up the hillside in back was denuded of trees and left as grazing land - except for one giant Douglas fir which stood near the top of the hill. The outhouse was a number of yards out behind the house. It was a 'two-hole' affair (why some had two holes while the majority seemed to have only one I have no idea!).
This incident happened when Alda was about three or four years old. She went out to use the facility and came running back into the house sobbing her heart out. She never went anywhere without a beloved pillow and that had fallen down the hole beside the one upon which she had been sitting. Mom had no choice but to go out there, fish out the truant pillow, and then wash and dry it before handing it back to Alda. That is the only memory that I have of that pillow - it seems to have disappeared not very long after that incident.
In conversations within our family we always refer to the houses in which we have lived by the names of the landlords. The incident recorded above happened while we were living at the Williams house. From there we moved to the Black house which was situated across the road from the school that I attended during Grade 1. There must have been an outhouse but I have no recollection of it.
A photo of the 'Black House'. The black Cocker Spaniel is 'Nigger' (I mentioned him in the 'Dawes Hill - Part 1' blog).
Next was the move to Dawes Hill in Coquitlam. I have no idea as to who was the landlord so we have always referred to that place as 'the House on the Hill'. That house had an indoor toilet but baths had to be taken in a galvanized tub with water carried from the kitchen stove. Each of us had a bath on the same evening and in the water used by the sibling or parent who had preceded. Fun and games!
The next move was to the Picton house down beside the highway. Out the back door and over beside the creek (a road ditch overflow from a byway up above us) was the woodshed and, next to it, was the privy. I do remember ribald comments being made by the person who was chopping and piling wood to or about the person using the privy! Also, the water for the house came from a well which was in a field up above the house. The well was not all that deep so it contained mostly surface water. There was one summer that had very hot and dry conditions. Dad had vacation time and the family went to Bowen Island. When we returned home and Dad went up to the well he saw the carcass of a dead rat floating in it. No - we did not drink from the well until the corpse had been removed and the water purified.
From the Picton house we moved back up the hill to the Finnegan house which Dad and Mom eventually bought. When we moved in, there were a bathroom and a toilet - only they were entirely different rooms. The bathtub was in a small room on the second floor and at the top of the stairs. The toilet and hand basin, on the other hand, were in what had originally been the pantry so immediately off of the kitchen. The kitchen was huge and, while there were a dining and a living room as well, that is where people tended to gather in order to visit. Therefore the odor emanating from what had been a pantry led to many a ribald comment!
The kitchen sink was against the east wall of the kitchen while the stove was against the south wall and there was a doorway in between which led to a spare bedroom. Not long after we moved in there Dad made the move which he had been contemplating for years - converting the stove from a wood burning affair to oil. We were situated at the end of Kaptey Avenue and that road made a loop beside the back (kitchen) door. The storage tank for the oil was beside the kitchen window and - unfortunately - to the far side of the septic tank. The driver of the oil tank truck was informed where the septic tank was located so he would not drive over it. However, there was one occasion when he erred and broke the top of the tank. On the following Saturday afternoon Dad bailed out the broken tank while I had the wheelbarrow and wheeled the odoriferous sludge down a trail into the forest to a spot where I could safely tip the wheelbarrow. Now that pathway is a street lined by lovely houses. I wonder if one of those homeowners ever wonders why their flower gardens do better than those of the neighbors?
We have a bundle of small cards and a coffee can. If anybody thinks of a subject which could be fun to write about, she or he writes the title on one of those cards and tosses it into the can. When it is time to select a topic, one of us will put her or his hand into the can and draw out one of the cards. Sometimes it is tempting to throw the chosen card back in and draw another one but that is not allowed. Naturally some of the titles are similar to ones about which we had written previously. However, our agreed upon rule is that the chosen topic is the topic.
Towards the end of our session this past Monday the card chosen had one word printed upon it - 'Outhouses' - only I completely misunderstood what was read and wrote on a subject that was completely irrelevant. I am writing this blog as an attempt at atoning for my error.
Most of the houses in which my family lived until I was about 15 years old had no indoor plumbing (except for the kitchen sink) so outhouses were a necessity.
If you have been reading my blogs as I go along you will know that our first two homes were pretty primitive and there were no bathrooms. I have no recollection whatsoever of the outhouses at my grandparents' homestead nor at the cabin in the forest but I do remember the facility at the third house.
Our next door neighbors - and good friends - were Mr and Mrs Bartlett and they had some dairy cows as well as an ample garden. Therefore the area around the house where we lived and up the hillside in back was denuded of trees and left as grazing land - except for one giant Douglas fir which stood near the top of the hill. The outhouse was a number of yards out behind the house. It was a 'two-hole' affair (why some had two holes while the majority seemed to have only one I have no idea!).
This incident happened when Alda was about three or four years old. She went out to use the facility and came running back into the house sobbing her heart out. She never went anywhere without a beloved pillow and that had fallen down the hole beside the one upon which she had been sitting. Mom had no choice but to go out there, fish out the truant pillow, and then wash and dry it before handing it back to Alda. That is the only memory that I have of that pillow - it seems to have disappeared not very long after that incident.
In conversations within our family we always refer to the houses in which we have lived by the names of the landlords. The incident recorded above happened while we were living at the Williams house. From there we moved to the Black house which was situated across the road from the school that I attended during Grade 1. There must have been an outhouse but I have no recollection of it.
A photo of the 'Black House'. The black Cocker Spaniel is 'Nigger' (I mentioned him in the 'Dawes Hill - Part 1' blog).
Next was the move to Dawes Hill in Coquitlam. I have no idea as to who was the landlord so we have always referred to that place as 'the House on the Hill'. That house had an indoor toilet but baths had to be taken in a galvanized tub with water carried from the kitchen stove. Each of us had a bath on the same evening and in the water used by the sibling or parent who had preceded. Fun and games!
The next move was to the Picton house down beside the highway. Out the back door and over beside the creek (a road ditch overflow from a byway up above us) was the woodshed and, next to it, was the privy. I do remember ribald comments being made by the person who was chopping and piling wood to or about the person using the privy! Also, the water for the house came from a well which was in a field up above the house. The well was not all that deep so it contained mostly surface water. There was one summer that had very hot and dry conditions. Dad had vacation time and the family went to Bowen Island. When we returned home and Dad went up to the well he saw the carcass of a dead rat floating in it. No - we did not drink from the well until the corpse had been removed and the water purified.
From the Picton house we moved back up the hill to the Finnegan house which Dad and Mom eventually bought. When we moved in, there were a bathroom and a toilet - only they were entirely different rooms. The bathtub was in a small room on the second floor and at the top of the stairs. The toilet and hand basin, on the other hand, were in what had originally been the pantry so immediately off of the kitchen. The kitchen was huge and, while there were a dining and a living room as well, that is where people tended to gather in order to visit. Therefore the odor emanating from what had been a pantry led to many a ribald comment!
The kitchen sink was against the east wall of the kitchen while the stove was against the south wall and there was a doorway in between which led to a spare bedroom. Not long after we moved in there Dad made the move which he had been contemplating for years - converting the stove from a wood burning affair to oil. We were situated at the end of Kaptey Avenue and that road made a loop beside the back (kitchen) door. The storage tank for the oil was beside the kitchen window and - unfortunately - to the far side of the septic tank. The driver of the oil tank truck was informed where the septic tank was located so he would not drive over it. However, there was one occasion when he erred and broke the top of the tank. On the following Saturday afternoon Dad bailed out the broken tank while I had the wheelbarrow and wheeled the odoriferous sludge down a trail into the forest to a spot where I could safely tip the wheelbarrow. Now that pathway is a street lined by lovely houses. I wonder if one of those homeowners ever wonders why their flower gardens do better than those of the neighbors?
Thursday, 9 May 2013
Food
For a person living on a low income I must confess that I eat out more than my budget allows. I have two problems - I really do not like to eat alone (does that come from growing up in a family of six persons where we almost always ate together?) - nor do I enjoy cooking.
A couple of weeks ago I went to a Food Court which is in a mall beneath a department store. There are at least two dozen eateries there which serve up all sorts of different types of food. One of my favorites is 'Soup-It-Up' where there are ten or so tureens each containing a different soup. Also available is a slice of white or multi-grain buttered bread. I had a bowl of clam chowder along with the buttered chunk of the 'brown' bread.
In the center of the court are a few dozen tables and chairs and - during the noon hour - seats at these tables are hard to come by. Rarely does a person sit alone but shares a table with others who, often, are complete strangers. The other people who were already seated at the table that I chose soon left as did the party who were seated at the next table. They were replaced by a group of men who - by the looks and complexions of each of them - were of different ethnic backgrounds. Also, a fifth member of that group came along later and sat at the table where I was. We passed some amusing comments with each other but did not enter into actual conversations. What intrigued me was the different ethnicities of the food in front of each of us.
Each of them had a different ethnic food in front of him and - by the looks of each of them - not any of the foods consumed was of the ethnicity of the diner. One had souvlaki, another sushi, another spring rolls, and so on.
My mother was a good - but not exceptional - cook. Her background was British while Dad's was French Canadian. Mom had a few of her own recipes and, as time went by, these were added to with recipes from friends. There was the odd dish that Mom served which I did not care for but most of them I really enjoyed. For instance - Mom often cooked a roast of beef or pork on the weekend. The beef was always juicy, well done on the outside and pink in the middle. The pork was well done - as pork should be.
Both of these roasted meats - as did cooked fowl - left a lot of juice in the pan. The juice from roast beef was turned into a wonderful gravy while the juices from the roast pork were left to gel and became a wonderful spread called 'pork dripping' which, when cooled, became a spread to put on a piece of bread with a little salt and pepper on top. Probably these two foodstuffs lead to clogged arteries but they certainly were good!
Later in the week - after the roast beef dinner on the Sunday evening - Mom would cut up the cold beef into cubed chunks, brown them in the skillet and put them in a pot. To that was added sliced carrots which were also browned, browned onion slices, the left over gravy and some water. The pot was left to simmer on the back burner and then served with boiled potatoes for supper. I liked that recipe so much that I made the same dish with the left overs from a roast beef dinner. I have taken that dish to potluck suppers to the appreciative comments of other diners.
When it came to Christmas, Mom always made her own Christmas cakes as well as both shortbread and 'overnight' cookies and they - along with cold turkey and cranberry sauce - were the staples throughout the week between Christmas and New Year.
My partner, Ric Reed, is an exceptional cook and I have enjoyed a number of dinners which he has created. The most memorable of these was a dinner party at his apartment in Oakland, California on New Years Day, 2009. He cooked a leg of ham as his Mom cooks it back in Arkansas and, with that, he served vegetable dishes which are commonly found on tables in that State. There were eight or ten of us at that dinner - it was a buffet - and Ric received a number of compliments. What did I contribute to that dinner? I washed all of the dishes after the guests had left.
There were a number of other enjoyable meals which we shared in Oakland. For a year or two there was a restaurant not far away which was owned by a black man from Louisiana. His kitchen cooked food in a Louisiana style and the dinners were oh so good! I became friends with a black woman who - while she lives in the San Francisco suburb of Richmond - is originally from the mid-west. She recognized the recipes offered in that restaurant and had quite a lengthy and amusing conversation with the owner/chef.
Being a Canadian and growing up in a culture of British food - with a little French/Canadian thrown in - it is wonderful to see all of the people from different ethnic backgrounds who now live here and have the opportunity to taste all of the different ethnic dishes.
A block from where I live is located one of a chain of Vietnamese restaurants called 'Ginger'. They are 'fast food' restaurants and, among the staples served there is 'Pho' (a beef soup served with rice noodles and bean sprouts) as well as spring rolls and a bowl of food stuffs which is a melange of salad, barbecued beef and topped off with the usual spring rolls. A good healthy fast food.
Along the block between here and Ginger is Sushi Club where I often eat. Usually I order the menu item which includes sushi, beef teriyaki and tempura (tempura is deep fried vegetables which have been covered by a batter before being cooked).
Both Ginger and Sushi Club are east of here and there is another ethnic restaurant - the New Yorker which is a Jewish deli - up the block form here towards Bloor Street. More food to die for - and the slices of dill pickle served with the main menu items are absolutely delicious!
I cannot leave this topic with out mentioning souvlaki - a Greek dish consisting of a skewer or two of braised pork which is served with a white yogurt-based sauce.
Now I am hungry so I think that I will close and go to get something to eat.
A couple of weeks ago I went to a Food Court which is in a mall beneath a department store. There are at least two dozen eateries there which serve up all sorts of different types of food. One of my favorites is 'Soup-It-Up' where there are ten or so tureens each containing a different soup. Also available is a slice of white or multi-grain buttered bread. I had a bowl of clam chowder along with the buttered chunk of the 'brown' bread.
In the center of the court are a few dozen tables and chairs and - during the noon hour - seats at these tables are hard to come by. Rarely does a person sit alone but shares a table with others who, often, are complete strangers. The other people who were already seated at the table that I chose soon left as did the party who were seated at the next table. They were replaced by a group of men who - by the looks and complexions of each of them - were of different ethnic backgrounds. Also, a fifth member of that group came along later and sat at the table where I was. We passed some amusing comments with each other but did not enter into actual conversations. What intrigued me was the different ethnicities of the food in front of each of us.
Each of them had a different ethnic food in front of him and - by the looks of each of them - not any of the foods consumed was of the ethnicity of the diner. One had souvlaki, another sushi, another spring rolls, and so on.
My mother was a good - but not exceptional - cook. Her background was British while Dad's was French Canadian. Mom had a few of her own recipes and, as time went by, these were added to with recipes from friends. There was the odd dish that Mom served which I did not care for but most of them I really enjoyed. For instance - Mom often cooked a roast of beef or pork on the weekend. The beef was always juicy, well done on the outside and pink in the middle. The pork was well done - as pork should be.
Both of these roasted meats - as did cooked fowl - left a lot of juice in the pan. The juice from roast beef was turned into a wonderful gravy while the juices from the roast pork were left to gel and became a wonderful spread called 'pork dripping' which, when cooled, became a spread to put on a piece of bread with a little salt and pepper on top. Probably these two foodstuffs lead to clogged arteries but they certainly were good!
Later in the week - after the roast beef dinner on the Sunday evening - Mom would cut up the cold beef into cubed chunks, brown them in the skillet and put them in a pot. To that was added sliced carrots which were also browned, browned onion slices, the left over gravy and some water. The pot was left to simmer on the back burner and then served with boiled potatoes for supper. I liked that recipe so much that I made the same dish with the left overs from a roast beef dinner. I have taken that dish to potluck suppers to the appreciative comments of other diners.
When it came to Christmas, Mom always made her own Christmas cakes as well as both shortbread and 'overnight' cookies and they - along with cold turkey and cranberry sauce - were the staples throughout the week between Christmas and New Year.
My partner, Ric Reed, is an exceptional cook and I have enjoyed a number of dinners which he has created. The most memorable of these was a dinner party at his apartment in Oakland, California on New Years Day, 2009. He cooked a leg of ham as his Mom cooks it back in Arkansas and, with that, he served vegetable dishes which are commonly found on tables in that State. There were eight or ten of us at that dinner - it was a buffet - and Ric received a number of compliments. What did I contribute to that dinner? I washed all of the dishes after the guests had left.
There were a number of other enjoyable meals which we shared in Oakland. For a year or two there was a restaurant not far away which was owned by a black man from Louisiana. His kitchen cooked food in a Louisiana style and the dinners were oh so good! I became friends with a black woman who - while she lives in the San Francisco suburb of Richmond - is originally from the mid-west. She recognized the recipes offered in that restaurant and had quite a lengthy and amusing conversation with the owner/chef.
Being a Canadian and growing up in a culture of British food - with a little French/Canadian thrown in - it is wonderful to see all of the people from different ethnic backgrounds who now live here and have the opportunity to taste all of the different ethnic dishes.
A block from where I live is located one of a chain of Vietnamese restaurants called 'Ginger'. They are 'fast food' restaurants and, among the staples served there is 'Pho' (a beef soup served with rice noodles and bean sprouts) as well as spring rolls and a bowl of food stuffs which is a melange of salad, barbecued beef and topped off with the usual spring rolls. A good healthy fast food.
Along the block between here and Ginger is Sushi Club where I often eat. Usually I order the menu item which includes sushi, beef teriyaki and tempura (tempura is deep fried vegetables which have been covered by a batter before being cooked).
Both Ginger and Sushi Club are east of here and there is another ethnic restaurant - the New Yorker which is a Jewish deli - up the block form here towards Bloor Street. More food to die for - and the slices of dill pickle served with the main menu items are absolutely delicious!
I cannot leave this topic with out mentioning souvlaki - a Greek dish consisting of a skewer or two of braised pork which is served with a white yogurt-based sauce.
Now I am hungry so I think that I will close and go to get something to eat.
Monday, 8 April 2013
Part Time Work
Throughout most of my growing up years I earned a small allowance by bringing in the wood needed for the stove (before we switched to an oil burning range). If I remember correctly, my 'wage' was $.25 a week. However, upon arriving at the ripe old age of 13 or so, I was given the opportunity to earn more based upon how much I accomplished each day. The two 'jobs' of which I am thinking were picking strawberries for Tom Wesley and picking raspberries for the Smith family.
Later on - while in Australia - I picked apples, pears, grapes and watermelons and I have commented upon those experiences in the blogs about life in Tasmania and in Goodnight, N.S.W. This blog is about the summer jobs I worked at while in High School and - later - in between steady work.
One summer - during my teenage years - I was hired by our neighbor and friend, Jim Mackie, to help him with some yard work. My memory of what I did for that money is dim and I do not believe that I did much. Jim knew that we were poor and my 'hiring' was just to help us out.
Back before the '80s there were no 'Dollar Stores' but '5 and Dime' stores instead. There were three of them in downtown New Westminster and one of them was a branch of the Woolworth chain. I was hired as a 'stock boy' (another term for 'gofer') - worked there for a few weeks - and hated every moment of that!
My Dad was a millwright at the Capilano Timber Shingle/Shake Mill. On a couple of occasions I went to the mill with him to help in clean up work and, when I was in my later teens, as an employee on the afternoon shift. My task was to stand beside the conveyor belt which was taking cedar shingles through a machine which was spraying them with paint. I had a stick in my hand and, if I saw a shingle or two which were not aligned with the other shingles, I had to poke each miscreant into line. Lord - I hated that job!
Working the afternoon shift meant that I was not finished until midnight. The last bus out of New Westminster which serviced our neighborhood was at 11:15 PM but one of the city transit buses went out to Fraser Mills shortly after midnight so I would catch it to where it turned down into the mill. From that point it was about an hour of walking along the shoulder of the highway and then up the hill to our house. One evening I witnessed a 'spooky' event in the eastern sky - a full eclipse of the moon. I had not heard that an eclipse was expected so that surprised me!
.JPG)
This photograph (taken recently by a friend who lives in Vancouver) shows the view down the Fraser River to New Westminster. Below the hill (and where mooring logs can be seen) was where Fraser Mills was located. To the extreme right of the photo you can see two green residential towers. They have been erected where the large B.C. Prison was once located and , below that on the banks of the Fraser, was Capilano Timber. The next paragraph is about my working at the Royal City Cannery which was immediately on this side of the bridges shown in the background.
Royal City Cannery processed vegetables - mainly peas - (as well as fruit like strawberries and raspberries) for sale in supermarkets all over the country and abroad. This cannery was a great source of summer employment and, during the summer following my stint at Capilano Timber, that was where I worked.
The cannery was an older ramshackle building perched upon the river bank. One evening during that summer - 1954 - a fish boat moored up near the community of Port Kells was destroyed by an explosion and fire. Unfortunately, a teenage deckhand lost his life in that accident and - a few days later while we were eating our lunches - we watched a police boat (which was moored right beside the railway bridge) fishing the corpse out of the river. Not a pleasant view while one is digesting lunch - and was much on my mind a day or so later when I went out on the tiny verandah, slipped upon some green peas which had been spilled there and was lucky to be able to grab a railing - otherwise I would have been another victim of that turgid water!
One of my tasks in the cannery was to team up with another fellow to hoist a heavy tray of filled cans into and then out of the oven. In that part of the cannery there were rails upon which dollies were rolled towards and out of the ovens. I was walking backwards when I tripped over one of those rails and fell backwards upon my tailbone. That hurt but I did not bother to go to the first aid room. Dad chewed me out about that - if there were recurring problems I would have no recourse for legal action against the cannery! For years the bruised tailbone bothered me but it seems to have healed itself.
The work at the cannery was not all that pleasant but it did give me the funds to spend on new clothes for school and to afford a ticket on a Greyhound bus up to 100 Mile House, to attend the wedding of Roseanna Poirier, and to be a part of the incident involving a fishing trip out on Canim Lake when a sudden thunderstorm nearly sunk our rowboat!
During the winter of 1954/55 I attended Senior Matriculation at the Duke of Connaught High School in New Westminster and then had to wait until a position opened in the office of a Chartered Accountants' firm. In the meantime I found a part time position in the office at Essondale - the Provincial Mental Hospital - about a mile east of where we lived. There I handled the patients' "comfort money" accounts as well as meal tickets to the cafeteria for other employees. I had been to Essondale numerous times before but working with and around mental patients was daunting at first. That is - until I discovered how sweet and non-threatening those people could be. Particularly, I remember one middle-aged woman who would wander the grounds and be in and out of the 'Tuck Shop' singing 'tra la la' and telling everybody about the kittens born to her cat - "They all had such beautiful blue eyes!" Yes - she was 'nuttier than a fruit cake' but she was so sweet.
It took me a while to land a position with Chadwick Potts and Company and, in the interim, there was one more part time position. That was in the Sears mail order warehouse in Burnaby. My task was to load the parcels being shipped to people who lived all over B.C. As I have had a lifelong interest in the names of people and of communities I enjoyed the work.
The Lower Mainland of B.C. is usually free of major snow storms - but not that year. One of the other fellows who was working at Sears drove a car and lived east of where my family lived. The drive home with him on that snowy evening was a tense one - but we made it. Naturally, I would not allow him to attempt to drive up the hill to our house - I slogged up Hillside Avenue on foot!
.JPG)
Hillside Avenue as it looks today. On the evening of the snowstorm it was no more than a rutted laneway leading up from the highway at the foot of the hill. Now vehicles must turn onto Montgomery and then descend on one of the three other roads.
Later on - while in Australia - I picked apples, pears, grapes and watermelons and I have commented upon those experiences in the blogs about life in Tasmania and in Goodnight, N.S.W. This blog is about the summer jobs I worked at while in High School and - later - in between steady work.
One summer - during my teenage years - I was hired by our neighbor and friend, Jim Mackie, to help him with some yard work. My memory of what I did for that money is dim and I do not believe that I did much. Jim knew that we were poor and my 'hiring' was just to help us out.
Back before the '80s there were no 'Dollar Stores' but '5 and Dime' stores instead. There were three of them in downtown New Westminster and one of them was a branch of the Woolworth chain. I was hired as a 'stock boy' (another term for 'gofer') - worked there for a few weeks - and hated every moment of that!
My Dad was a millwright at the Capilano Timber Shingle/Shake Mill. On a couple of occasions I went to the mill with him to help in clean up work and, when I was in my later teens, as an employee on the afternoon shift. My task was to stand beside the conveyor belt which was taking cedar shingles through a machine which was spraying them with paint. I had a stick in my hand and, if I saw a shingle or two which were not aligned with the other shingles, I had to poke each miscreant into line. Lord - I hated that job!
Working the afternoon shift meant that I was not finished until midnight. The last bus out of New Westminster which serviced our neighborhood was at 11:15 PM but one of the city transit buses went out to Fraser Mills shortly after midnight so I would catch it to where it turned down into the mill. From that point it was about an hour of walking along the shoulder of the highway and then up the hill to our house. One evening I witnessed a 'spooky' event in the eastern sky - a full eclipse of the moon. I had not heard that an eclipse was expected so that surprised me!
.JPG)
Royal City Cannery processed vegetables - mainly peas - (as well as fruit like strawberries and raspberries) for sale in supermarkets all over the country and abroad. This cannery was a great source of summer employment and, during the summer following my stint at Capilano Timber, that was where I worked.
The cannery was an older ramshackle building perched upon the river bank. One evening during that summer - 1954 - a fish boat moored up near the community of Port Kells was destroyed by an explosion and fire. Unfortunately, a teenage deckhand lost his life in that accident and - a few days later while we were eating our lunches - we watched a police boat (which was moored right beside the railway bridge) fishing the corpse out of the river. Not a pleasant view while one is digesting lunch - and was much on my mind a day or so later when I went out on the tiny verandah, slipped upon some green peas which had been spilled there and was lucky to be able to grab a railing - otherwise I would have been another victim of that turgid water!
One of my tasks in the cannery was to team up with another fellow to hoist a heavy tray of filled cans into and then out of the oven. In that part of the cannery there were rails upon which dollies were rolled towards and out of the ovens. I was walking backwards when I tripped over one of those rails and fell backwards upon my tailbone. That hurt but I did not bother to go to the first aid room. Dad chewed me out about that - if there were recurring problems I would have no recourse for legal action against the cannery! For years the bruised tailbone bothered me but it seems to have healed itself.
The work at the cannery was not all that pleasant but it did give me the funds to spend on new clothes for school and to afford a ticket on a Greyhound bus up to 100 Mile House, to attend the wedding of Roseanna Poirier, and to be a part of the incident involving a fishing trip out on Canim Lake when a sudden thunderstorm nearly sunk our rowboat!
During the winter of 1954/55 I attended Senior Matriculation at the Duke of Connaught High School in New Westminster and then had to wait until a position opened in the office of a Chartered Accountants' firm. In the meantime I found a part time position in the office at Essondale - the Provincial Mental Hospital - about a mile east of where we lived. There I handled the patients' "comfort money" accounts as well as meal tickets to the cafeteria for other employees. I had been to Essondale numerous times before but working with and around mental patients was daunting at first. That is - until I discovered how sweet and non-threatening those people could be. Particularly, I remember one middle-aged woman who would wander the grounds and be in and out of the 'Tuck Shop' singing 'tra la la' and telling everybody about the kittens born to her cat - "They all had such beautiful blue eyes!" Yes - she was 'nuttier than a fruit cake' but she was so sweet.
It took me a while to land a position with Chadwick Potts and Company and, in the interim, there was one more part time position. That was in the Sears mail order warehouse in Burnaby. My task was to load the parcels being shipped to people who lived all over B.C. As I have had a lifelong interest in the names of people and of communities I enjoyed the work.
The Lower Mainland of B.C. is usually free of major snow storms - but not that year. One of the other fellows who was working at Sears drove a car and lived east of where my family lived. The drive home with him on that snowy evening was a tense one - but we made it. Naturally, I would not allow him to attempt to drive up the hill to our house - I slogged up Hillside Avenue on foot!
.JPG)
Friday, 29 March 2013
Music In My Life
It seems that we always had at least one radio in the house. For the first few years we did not have electricity so I am presuming that the radio was powered by batteries.
One fairly vivid memory of music that I have is about a song that seemed to have been quite popular during the 1930s. This song must have been written for a British Music Hall skit and the lyrics went something like this:
Knees up, Mother Brown!
Knees up, Mother Brown!
Come on, Dearie, let it go
Eei-eei-eei-o,
It's your bloomin' birthday.........and so on.
My maternal grandmother was known to all as 'Queenie Brown' so - at four years of age - I thought that she would be thrilled to be hearing a birthday song about her? No - Grandma was horrified!
When we moved to the Dawes Hill area, Alda and I were signed up for music lessons at a studio in New Westminster. Dad had had cousins who took music lessons - the girl on the piano and the boy on the violin - so he hoped that we would follow suit. However, that was not to be as our choices were the opposite. The studio loaned smaller instruments to the families of students but pianos did not fall into that category so I had to settle for lessons on the Hawaiian guitar which I hated. A piano did not arrive in the house until many years later and that was when I began lessons on that instrument. This situation lasted for a number of years but I have not touched a piano since.
Our younger sister, Babs, was coming along and she had the gift of being able to play by ear. As far as I know, that same piano is the one found in her living room in Kamloops and she still plays - but by ear.
As that music studio evolved the principal people came to be Mr and Mrs Harvey and a Mrs Brown. Mr. Harvey built a fine little orchestra and I remember the music concerts held on Good Friday evening every year - and in a high school auditorium in Vancouver. Mr Harvey was always attired in a tuxedo and, as he had a fine baritone voice, he would hum and sing along with the music. Also, he was a very proud Englishman so every concert ended with a rendition of "Land of Hope and Glory". The lyrics of the verses would be sung by a young soprano with a lovely voice and Mr. Harvey would always join in at the chorus.
Another memory of those days that has remained with me was that Mrs. Brown smoked so there was always an ashtray on the shelf above the keyboard and the room would be full of cigarette smoke. Yes - even as she was teaching we students how to play, a cigarette would be burning.
A business group in New Westminster was given a license to operate a radio station so CKNW was born. In the early years the studio was on the second floor of an older hotel on Columbia Street - the downtown thoroughfare. The bus from where we lived into town ran every two hours and this got us there well in advance of the time for our music lessons so we would go up to the studio and sit in on the broadcast. The noon hour program was 'The Roundup' and it was live. There were some local 'cowboy singers' and we got to hear them perform (my best memory is of a trio - Mike, Mark and Jack).
A number of years later I was one of a number of articled students in the office of a Chartered Accountant firm. By that time CKNW had moved the studio and was on the ground floor of a newer building and our office was immediately above them. The format was no longer Country and Western music but had become that of live talk shows and radio contests. Sometimes the jackpots offered by the main contest would reach a fairly high sum so, when we arrived for work in the morning - and especially on Mondays - when we opened the street door we had to wade through piles of envelopes containing the entries from contestant hopefuls.
While the building was newer than the original one had been, it still was not air-conditioned. As it had been built into the side of a fairly steep hill, the parking lot was out behind the building and was accessed by a ramp from the back of our office up to the door into the alley. Connecting to that ramp was a staircase up from the radio studio. A number of commercials were recorded there so, when the air was warm, the doors were left open and we would hear the same commercial sung over and over and over ad-nauseum.
Many of the guys with whom I worked were avid golfers and were buying items - especially metal tubing - from which to make golf buggies. It was only natural that the boys would become so fed up by the repetitious nature of recording the commercials that one of them would grab one of the metal pipes, quietly lower it down the back staircase and try to drown out the commercial being recorded by their vocal noises amplified by the tubing. It worked - the connecting door down below was closed!
While I was always aware of the 'Hit Parade', my musical tastes were Classical so, when I was able to, I tuned into CBC/Radio Canada on Saturday afternoons in order to listen to the live broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera House in NYC. However - I never saw a live opera performance until I lived in Prince George. An American company had been on tour in Alaska and stopped in Prince George to stage a performance in a high school gymnasium. It certainly was not like a real opera house but I - and the girls from the office where I worked - enjoyed the performance. I cannot remember which opera was performed that evening for certain but I believe that it was one which had been written by Mozart.
This is a late insertion placed here on May 11, 2013.
On this past Wednesday evening I was again a guest at a performance of the Canadian Opera Company. The opera was Poulenc's "Dialogue of the Carmelites". A friend and I saw and heard this opera performed in Vancouver many years ago. The Director at that performance used the classic ending as written by Poulenc. At the end of the performance we hear the nun's singing and - one-by-one - leaving the stage followed shortly by a 'ker-chunk' sound from the orchestra. This continues until there are no nuns left on stage.
The Director of the version currently being performed at the Four Seasons Center here in Toronto has a newer - and even more powerful - ending. The nuns remain on the stage - clad in white habits - singing and then, one-by-one, they collapse on to the floor and into the classic posture of one about to be guillotined. This continued until there are none left. There was silence from the audience followed by thunderous applause!
As I have written in the blogs which cover my time in Australia I did see - and hear - some wonderful performances while I was down there. The most memorable of those was a performance in Brisbane by a Maori group from New Zealand of Gershwin's "Porgy and Bess" - it was pure magic!
While in Brisbane I attended Kedron Methodist Church and sang in the tenor section of the church choir. I must confess, though, that I am a 'coattail singer' in that I am able to sing what you are singing - but ask me to sing a certain note by myself then I am lost! The Messiah is performed every Easter and once I was coerced into being in the choir for that. Rehearsals were in the evening and I was horrified at one rehearsal to find myself the only tenor present! There was no way that I alone could sing a certain note and be in harmony with vocalists from other sections!
As I have mentioned in some previous blogs, I was also very fortunate in being able to be at some wonderful musical performances like Gracie Fields - while on her farewell tour - and to hear the great Paul Robeson (also while he was on his farewell tour).
I love opera - and I love hearing (and watching) performances of Broadway hit shows. While I have never been to NYC I have attended performances of "West Side Story", "My Fair Lady", "The Music Man" and "Les Miserables" in other cities. Also, I must mention a performance of "Cats" at an AIDS benefit in Vancouver.
While in Vancouver I had come to know a younger fellow who had a wonderful baritone voice (he had gone to the auditions in Seattle for the Metropolitan Opera). While I was in Victoria, he was as well. He was ill with an AIDS related condition but he sang "You'll Never Walk Alone" from the Rogers and Hammerstein production of "Carousal" at an AIDS benefit concert while most of us wept.
Here in Toronto I have a friend who has two season tickets for every opera performed. Always he takes friends to these operas and I get to see and hear every other one. These, of course, are at the magnificent Four Seasons Opera House down on Queen Street West. I have seen some little known operas as well as 'chestnuts' like "Madama Butterfly" and Wagner's "Ring Cycle".
I am a regular attendee at church and - I must confess - the biggest draw for me is the music. For instance, this past weekend was Palm Sunday and the soloist was a bass baritone who sang one of my absolute favorites - "The Holy City". We have an incredible Music Director and she has her finger in seemingly all of the musical circles in the city. Therefore, we have been blessed by incredible soloists and other musical performers.
I could go on and on with this subject of music - but I will close here - at least, for now!
One fairly vivid memory of music that I have is about a song that seemed to have been quite popular during the 1930s. This song must have been written for a British Music Hall skit and the lyrics went something like this:
Knees up, Mother Brown!
Knees up, Mother Brown!
Come on, Dearie, let it go
Eei-eei-eei-o,
It's your bloomin' birthday.........and so on.
My maternal grandmother was known to all as 'Queenie Brown' so - at four years of age - I thought that she would be thrilled to be hearing a birthday song about her? No - Grandma was horrified!
When we moved to the Dawes Hill area, Alda and I were signed up for music lessons at a studio in New Westminster. Dad had had cousins who took music lessons - the girl on the piano and the boy on the violin - so he hoped that we would follow suit. However, that was not to be as our choices were the opposite. The studio loaned smaller instruments to the families of students but pianos did not fall into that category so I had to settle for lessons on the Hawaiian guitar which I hated. A piano did not arrive in the house until many years later and that was when I began lessons on that instrument. This situation lasted for a number of years but I have not touched a piano since.
Our younger sister, Babs, was coming along and she had the gift of being able to play by ear. As far as I know, that same piano is the one found in her living room in Kamloops and she still plays - but by ear.
As that music studio evolved the principal people came to be Mr and Mrs Harvey and a Mrs Brown. Mr. Harvey built a fine little orchestra and I remember the music concerts held on Good Friday evening every year - and in a high school auditorium in Vancouver. Mr Harvey was always attired in a tuxedo and, as he had a fine baritone voice, he would hum and sing along with the music. Also, he was a very proud Englishman so every concert ended with a rendition of "Land of Hope and Glory". The lyrics of the verses would be sung by a young soprano with a lovely voice and Mr. Harvey would always join in at the chorus.
Another memory of those days that has remained with me was that Mrs. Brown smoked so there was always an ashtray on the shelf above the keyboard and the room would be full of cigarette smoke. Yes - even as she was teaching we students how to play, a cigarette would be burning.
A business group in New Westminster was given a license to operate a radio station so CKNW was born. In the early years the studio was on the second floor of an older hotel on Columbia Street - the downtown thoroughfare. The bus from where we lived into town ran every two hours and this got us there well in advance of the time for our music lessons so we would go up to the studio and sit in on the broadcast. The noon hour program was 'The Roundup' and it was live. There were some local 'cowboy singers' and we got to hear them perform (my best memory is of a trio - Mike, Mark and Jack).
A number of years later I was one of a number of articled students in the office of a Chartered Accountant firm. By that time CKNW had moved the studio and was on the ground floor of a newer building and our office was immediately above them. The format was no longer Country and Western music but had become that of live talk shows and radio contests. Sometimes the jackpots offered by the main contest would reach a fairly high sum so, when we arrived for work in the morning - and especially on Mondays - when we opened the street door we had to wade through piles of envelopes containing the entries from contestant hopefuls.
While the building was newer than the original one had been, it still was not air-conditioned. As it had been built into the side of a fairly steep hill, the parking lot was out behind the building and was accessed by a ramp from the back of our office up to the door into the alley. Connecting to that ramp was a staircase up from the radio studio. A number of commercials were recorded there so, when the air was warm, the doors were left open and we would hear the same commercial sung over and over and over ad-nauseum.
Many of the guys with whom I worked were avid golfers and were buying items - especially metal tubing - from which to make golf buggies. It was only natural that the boys would become so fed up by the repetitious nature of recording the commercials that one of them would grab one of the metal pipes, quietly lower it down the back staircase and try to drown out the commercial being recorded by their vocal noises amplified by the tubing. It worked - the connecting door down below was closed!
While I was always aware of the 'Hit Parade', my musical tastes were Classical so, when I was able to, I tuned into CBC/Radio Canada on Saturday afternoons in order to listen to the live broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera House in NYC. However - I never saw a live opera performance until I lived in Prince George. An American company had been on tour in Alaska and stopped in Prince George to stage a performance in a high school gymnasium. It certainly was not like a real opera house but I - and the girls from the office where I worked - enjoyed the performance. I cannot remember which opera was performed that evening for certain but I believe that it was one which had been written by Mozart.
This is a late insertion placed here on May 11, 2013.
On this past Wednesday evening I was again a guest at a performance of the Canadian Opera Company. The opera was Poulenc's "Dialogue of the Carmelites". A friend and I saw and heard this opera performed in Vancouver many years ago. The Director at that performance used the classic ending as written by Poulenc. At the end of the performance we hear the nun's singing and - one-by-one - leaving the stage followed shortly by a 'ker-chunk' sound from the orchestra. This continues until there are no nuns left on stage.
The Director of the version currently being performed at the Four Seasons Center here in Toronto has a newer - and even more powerful - ending. The nuns remain on the stage - clad in white habits - singing and then, one-by-one, they collapse on to the floor and into the classic posture of one about to be guillotined. This continued until there are none left. There was silence from the audience followed by thunderous applause!
As I have written in the blogs which cover my time in Australia I did see - and hear - some wonderful performances while I was down there. The most memorable of those was a performance in Brisbane by a Maori group from New Zealand of Gershwin's "Porgy and Bess" - it was pure magic!
While in Brisbane I attended Kedron Methodist Church and sang in the tenor section of the church choir. I must confess, though, that I am a 'coattail singer' in that I am able to sing what you are singing - but ask me to sing a certain note by myself then I am lost! The Messiah is performed every Easter and once I was coerced into being in the choir for that. Rehearsals were in the evening and I was horrified at one rehearsal to find myself the only tenor present! There was no way that I alone could sing a certain note and be in harmony with vocalists from other sections!
As I have mentioned in some previous blogs, I was also very fortunate in being able to be at some wonderful musical performances like Gracie Fields - while on her farewell tour - and to hear the great Paul Robeson (also while he was on his farewell tour).
I love opera - and I love hearing (and watching) performances of Broadway hit shows. While I have never been to NYC I have attended performances of "West Side Story", "My Fair Lady", "The Music Man" and "Les Miserables" in other cities. Also, I must mention a performance of "Cats" at an AIDS benefit in Vancouver.
While in Vancouver I had come to know a younger fellow who had a wonderful baritone voice (he had gone to the auditions in Seattle for the Metropolitan Opera). While I was in Victoria, he was as well. He was ill with an AIDS related condition but he sang "You'll Never Walk Alone" from the Rogers and Hammerstein production of "Carousal" at an AIDS benefit concert while most of us wept.
Here in Toronto I have a friend who has two season tickets for every opera performed. Always he takes friends to these operas and I get to see and hear every other one. These, of course, are at the magnificent Four Seasons Opera House down on Queen Street West. I have seen some little known operas as well as 'chestnuts' like "Madama Butterfly" and Wagner's "Ring Cycle".
I am a regular attendee at church and - I must confess - the biggest draw for me is the music. For instance, this past weekend was Palm Sunday and the soloist was a bass baritone who sang one of my absolute favorites - "The Holy City". We have an incredible Music Director and she has her finger in seemingly all of the musical circles in the city. Therefore, we have been blessed by incredible soloists and other musical performers.
I could go on and on with this subject of music - but I will close here - at least, for now!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)