A Celebration of the Life of John R. Mills, Farrier, Renaissance Man, and Man’s Man

Preface

Celebrating the Life of John R. Mills was, and continues to be, an intensely personal affair and while I am making my insider view public by writing this blog post, I ask you to be respectful should you decide to respond, comment or question.

This account of the day’s activities is neither exhaustive nor inclusive and does not follow the precise chronological order in which events occurred. I have also taken some liberties in my role as amateur reporter to interject commentary, interpretation and analysis which, I believe, is consistent with the intent the day and enhances the readers’ understanding of both the Celebration itself and the life of a beloved Kentucky farrier

Finally, please note that I am Canadian and ‘writing Canadian’ means that some words are spelled differently e.g., I love the colour orange.

Two irrefutable facts

Today, I am a little at a loss as to how and where to begin so I shall begin starkly and painfully with the first irrefutable fact. John R. Mills is dead. [See obituary in Appendix.]

The second irrefutable fact is that John R. Mills is alive. “Film at 11” as the newscasters of early television used to say.

john

John R. Mills

Reportage (is not an equestrian sport)

I am neither a trained nor accredited journalist but today I shall engage in a little reportage of the funeral … no, service … no, ceremony … no, commemoration … no, celebration … no, party … no, event …. oh what the hell, let’s just call it for what it was – a migration of anyone who was anyone in the life of John R. Mills, Farrier and Blacksmith, to a gathering at Woodgate Farm just outside Louisville, Kentucky to pay homage through prayer, poetry, song, music, storytelling and many a glass with a “wee dram” of scotch or a ‘fizz’ of champagne raised in toasts to this humble yet “deeply intelligent, quirky and feisty” man.

John’s death came as no great surprise to anyone in the know for he had been suffering from some form of pernicious lung disease for several years. I am not going to go into the medical diagnosis and jargon here but the inside word was that John was already entering the second decade of a prognosis which had him dying half way through the previous decade. In this respect, John was a fighter and an inspiration to many, including myself, as he clung to life “for dear life.”

Stereotypes, electric bikes, full body kayak rolls and farewell tours

It is well known that farriers and blacksmiths are muscular – strong and powerful as they wield hammer against red hot metal. And no matter the season they were drenched in perspiration as they tended their forges, the little fires of hell that live in their shops and accompanies them on their trucks. Farriers are equally at home filing the teeth or clipping and shoeing the hooves of animals that can weigh a tonne (2,200 lbs) and have a propensity to kick and bite. Handling these animals requires strength, skill, tact and patience. And of course you must also possess a personality that can handle the owners of these animals, no small task.

 

img_7969

A nosy horse on Woodgate Farm Photo: Stan Marshall

 

John, the handsome and muscular young farrier and blacksmith was a stellar example of the ideal. He still exists in youthful form in photographs and lives on in the memories of those who knew him. However, the physical manifestation of that particular farrier had long fled the scene before his passing. John’s physical presence was greatly diminished in the wake of a disease and illness that slowly stole strength from his powerful frame and inevitably had a wearing effect on his psyche but not on his agile brain.

Yet, John persevered and extended his time on this earth for as long as his incredible constitution would permit. There is no doubt that these last few years were difficult ones for John, for his family and for his close friends. As you walk ever closer to the end of life, you reflect on your frailty and vulnerability and try to recapture the strength of your past. So it was with John as he began a modified ”farewell tour” about two years ago, but not just by visiting places and people from his past but by engaging in fun creative pursuits e.g., building an electric bicycle, or attempting feats which he was able to accomplish with a younger, stronger body e.g., doing a full body roll in a kayak. Just for the record, he built the electric bicycle but was not able to accomplish the body roll. No shame there as far as I am concerned. I was never able to do a body roll in a kayak and quite frankly, I doubt that I could build a satisfactory electric bicycle.

The story always begins when you meet John

I first met John when I was dating his sister, Anne, who I subsequently married with John’s approval, I believe. John and I always got along well, as we are close in age, have similar backgrounds and had similar experiences through our teenage years. Neither of us took a straight-line route to our final career destinations but we were diligent individuals (and John was intelligent) with good work ethics and somehow it turned out all right for each of us – except for the health issues of course. At age 69 John passed far too soon and I struggle with Parkinson’s disease. I shall refrain from elaborating on my condition any further except to say that our respective maladies presented us with similar real challenges and consequences that brought us closer together in these latter years.

Accounts of the exploits of John R. Mills and of his acumen as a storyteller have been circulating for years and his death serves now to detonate another explosion of tales – some well known, some dredged from almost dormant memory banks, and some newly uncovered and never before spoken about in public. Most of the stories are true and some are … well … mostly true.

img_7871

A few family and friends remembering John R. Mills  Photo: Stan Marshall

On the day of the gathering the stories fly fast and furiously. I overheard several different categories of stories. Some were intensely personal, almost private and whispered in hushed and reverent tones. Other stories are clearly part of the commons already and their telling marks just another occasion to be regaled to the point of belly laughs, all the while enhancing the details for the next telling. Still other conversations are ‘fact finding’ missions, gathering information and threads of details that will become stories in the future – or perhaps these conversational groupings are the crucible within which the narrative of the life of John R. Mills is being re-created, re-invented, or re-envisioned – spiced up or sanitized as necessary.

A ‘pop – up’ museum

The gathering to honour John R. Mills is well attended. Let me set the scene for you.

fullsizeoutput_11f8

Parking is at a premium at Woodgate Farm for the Celebration of John’s life  Photo: Stan Marshall

Your first footsteps onto Woodgate Farm take you to a greeting spot where a hammer and anvil await along with an invitation.

“Please take John’s hammer and send out a ring on his anvil. In the traditional farewell to Farriers and Blacksmiths, let the anvil’s peel [sic] carry your memories to him on his next adventure.”

fullsizeoutput_11f5

The added and unstated bonus is that the ring of the anvil alerts the bartender at the chuck wagon (built by John himself and pictured at the top of this post) that a Bloody Mary should be mixed and at the ready for the new arrival.

The house and garden at Woodgate Farm has been transformed into a small museum of John’s inventions, creations and activities – all artfully positioned such that the formal main event of the “ceremony/service/celebration” could take place unencumbered and the informal gathering with a veritable feast could be consumed with equal ease and comfort.

img_7862

The hammer and anvil beckons  Photo: Stan Marshall

John the Farrier had many clients (some two legged, some four legged and almost all had shoes) and his skills were in high demand. This was his business and while he was a master at it, and passionate about it, it was not his great passion. The real John the Farrier and Blacksmith loved to invent and build things – especially things that are useful, novel and fun.

Today, this ‘pop – up museum’ showcases a chuck wagon, a hovercraft (one of two he built,) an electric bicycle, a dog sled, steel throwing knives and hatchets, various pieces of leather work in progress, among other items.

img_7848

One of several photo displays  Photo: Stan Marshall

Annalea joins the party

John R. Mills was not a man who kept pace with information technology, the Internet and social media. Oh, he knew about it but he just didn’t know how to work it very well … or perhaps he didn’t want to know how to work it. Either way, it doesn’t really matter. He was never going to read my blog on line so I sent him hard copies.

I am not sure whose idea it was but it was a brilliant idea. Perhaps Chris and Annalea, John’s son and daughter, collaborated to make it happen. You see, Annalea could not make the party as she had returned to her home in Antigua after visiting her father in Kentucky. The first I noticed Annalea at the party she was being escorted on (in?) an iPad by Chris. Chris held the iPad out carefully so as to not fall or bump into anyone or anything, talking animatedly to himself or so it seemed. However, his behaviour made sense once you grasped that Skype can be a great way to share both happy and sad moments.

img_7990

John R. Mills with son Christopher and daughter Annalea  Photo: John P. Mills Date: unknown

Annalea had cleared her day and stocked her larder with the necessary rations – a bottle of wine, a wheel of Brie, another bottle of wine, some other unidentifiable snacks which may have included one of her father’s favourite, cheesies, and perhaps another bottle of wine. I have not verified the precise menu in Antigua but I surmise that it approximates the list above.

What I do know for certain is that Annalea was with us for a good portion of the day listening to the formal tributes and to the many informal stories about her father. She also spoke personally to many friends who gathered at Woodgate Farm. I think she exhausted the batteries of a number of electronic devices in the process. I have no knowledge of how long she was able to maintain the Skype connection as the party went in camera (ironically) after the formal program closed – a tactic everyone now supports even though there was mild resistance at the time. Keeping the party going does not mean it needs to be recorded for all time. Some things are best forgotten and other things are best remembered through the filters of time and experience.

Suffice to say that Annalea’s presence was a most pleasant surprise and surely was close to a record for unbroken Skyping.

The hunt and the feast

John and his wife Maddy (Dr. Madelyn Jacobs) have had a long  association with the local Hunt Club – usually referred to simply as “The Hunt” and is accorded a status equivalent to “Family.” You need to know that members of The Hunt along with other friends and neighbours are very experienced and efficient at pulling together the essentials of any gathering (including a memorial service) on extremely short notice. We literally watched the feast materialize in front of our very eyes as if spirited to us from chefs working underground.

White cloths covered the banquet serving tables laden with all manner of foods, some home cooked and some purchased, but all suitable for the occasion. Bloody Marys continued to flow from the chuck wagon. Scotch, champagne, wine and beer shared a common status as they lay waiting in strategically placed coolers around the patio and gardens.

fullsizeoutput_11fd

The feast is arriving   Photo: Stan Marshall

On this day of tribute to John R. Mills, the efficiency of the food preparation and presentation to the hungry mourners was a tribute in and of itself to the internal organizational capacity of The Hunt. From beginning to end, it was impressive to witness.

The skirl of the pipes

There are to be many poignant moments on this day. The skirl of the lone piper’s call across the paddocks drew everyone to the house garden for the main event … or at least the part of the day that had a formal program. I shall do my best to capture the flavour of the program but I am afraid that my efforts will result only in a poor facsimile of the actual events. I ask you to be indulgent as I relay my impressions.

fullsizeoutput_11f6

A lone piper calls us together  Photo: Stan Marshall

The poet farrier

John the farrier and blacksmith was a teacher and mentor to several young men, some of whom would go on to become, not surprisingly, farriers and blacksmiths with superior skills both at the forge and in the delicate relationships with large animals and their owners.

img_7869

Tools of the trade Photo: Stan Marshall

Isn’t it often the case that those who are creative in one area often excel in artistic merit in other endeavours? It certainly is the case with the young protégé Kraig who composed an emotional tribute incorporating the unmistakable rhythm of the farrier’s hammer shaping steel on the anvil in an adjacent barn; the peal evocative of the working life of the Brotherhood of the Farrier, and of the good wishes each mourner personally sent to John with mighty swings of the hammer on the anvil as s/he entered the grounds earlier that afternoon.

The words to the poem written by Kraig Milam, read for the very first time in public by John’s brother-in-law Gerald Smith and accompanied by Kraig Milam on hammer and anvil at the Celebration of Life, have been printed in the American Farrier’s Journal, November 16, 2016 in an announcement of John Mills’ passing. (See https://www.americanfarriers.com/articles/8791-kentucky-farrier-john-mills-passes-away#sthash.c7lvrCra.dpuf .) The poem is as yet untitled.

The tires crunch in the snow as he backs up to the barn,
the sun not yet up, the first stop of the day.
Warm yellow light bending around the heavy stable door,
it rolls open at his touch, the light and smell of the hay fall out.

Mare in the cross ties, her head hangs low,
he rubs her neck and she gives a long sigh.
she’s a good mare, would have been great if not for that knee
he’s kept her sound now for five years .

He lights the forge, the smell of smoke mixes with the stalls,
the mare lifts her foot, she knows this game.
A thin shoe hits the floor, the knife flashes, the nippers snap
with a practiced eye the rasp grates the hoof to the floor.

At the anvil, the hammer shapes red iron
the ringing muffled by the hay.
The hands swings the hammer, the anvil hits the shoe
the hand, the hammer, the anvil, three parts of the whole

Just one horse ... just one barn ... just one day.
How many of each, the numbers blur.
Tomorrow another horse will need him,
And he’ll swing the hammer again.

One day he'll lay down that hammer.
The anvil no longer will ring
but the farrier will live on forever,
in the memories of horses he's touched.

A long moment passes before the peal of the hammer fades into the warm Kentucky sunshine and the mourners, already struggling with their composure, hear a second poem penned by the young protégé. It is equally beautiful, equally fitting, equally poignant. Our emotional mettle is being severely tested.

A Renaissance man and a man’s man

In his opening remarks, neighbour and friend, Colonel Walter Herd (Retired,) emphatically referred to John R. Mills as a “Renaissance Man” citing his many and varied interests, talents, skills, abilities, and accomplishments, as well as his wide circle of friends drawn from across a wide spectrum of social and economic groupings. It should not surprise you that in true Renaissance fashion, John mentored Kraig (the “Poet Farrier” mentioned above,) and two other young apprentices, Albert and Brandon, in both the finer and coarser points of his chosen trade. He also helped set many others onto a better path in life, and enjoyed a special relationship with his “little brother,” Quinn.

And equally, Colonel Herd knew John to be a “man’s man.”  This designation might seem to be in contradiction to the Renaissance Man label but that is the reality – sometimes the Supreme Being doesn’t arrange character traits to be allocated in homogeneous bundles to individuals. So it was that John was at home with guns, knives,hatchets and axes. He forged and shaped serious throwing knives and axes – heavy ones that reinforced the feeling that you were holding something lethal in your hands. I doubt that there was a single grandchild, niece or nephew who ventured on the property who did not receive a lesson from John in throwing knives and axes.

img_3155

Target for throwing knives and axes Photo: Stan Marshall

It follows then that he also had no objection to hunting as a sport and he did make some forays into the hunting terrain beyond the fox hunt.

Colonel Herd also noted that John’s  experience in the mounted force of the Toronto Police Department demonstrated that John had the mental and physical toughness to face any adversarial situation.

img_7846

John doing what a man’s man does. Photo: unknown

 

Thoughts and memories

Whoever drafted the program for the Celebration of the Life of John R. Mills knew that each successive item on the program would raise the emotional quotient within the mourners exponentially, setting the stage for the final farewell.

Three members of the Mills’ and extended Mills’ family were given free rein to relay their thoughts on John’s passing and their memories of him through the years. I was privileged to join John’s son Christopher Mills and brother-in-law Gerald Smith (married to John’s sister, Wendy) to make some remarks. I found it a tough assignment to narrow my reflections to fit a tight schedule for the agenda and to give proper due to the man for whom we were all gathered. The following are my notes for trying to manage the impossible.

Notes on memories as delivered by Stan Marshall, brother-in-law

[Caveat: May not be exactly as delivered.]

It is an honour to say a few words on behalf of John’s sister Anne and our portion of the family (our daughters, Natalie, Sophie, Kristen, and Alexandra and their respective husbands and partners.)

John was Anne’s big brother and she tells me he was a pretty fine big brother … did the usual things that a big brother did with a little sister … rough housed and wrestled, teased, and told her stories … but did not throw knives as far as I am aware.

… And whenever she talks about him, it is clear to me that she witnessed the early development of an impishness and outright silliness that we all saw in the adult John R. Mills … later in life … and throughout his life.

Anne tells me that John read to her, told her stories and sang songs for her. This is not surprising. John loved a good story and he loved songs that told a story, like Big John, or maybe Stompin’ Tom Connors singing “Tillsonburg, Tillsonburg my back still aches when I hear that word” – in recognition of his tobacco picking days in Southern Ontario.

John loved a good re-hash of a true story especially one in which he was personally involved. But it had to stretch your imagination ….a story like one I just heard the other day …. And I am by no means recommending this action no matter how captivating the challenge may be …. A story about the early teenage John devising a plan to steal a steamroller and outrun the authorities….  Seems like a challenge. If you want to know how he was successful in doing exactly that, I am afraid you’ll have to find someone else to tell you the story … and the secret.

I think we all know that John was no fool. If something didn’t smell right in a story he had a way of wrinkling up his nose in a way that said “uh,uh” … and he scrunched up his face into a disbelieving look – that’s when you knew he was onto you and the gig was up.

He knew the essential difference between a story and a tale, but more importantly he knew when that difference, made a difference.

By the way, Anne has inherited that same skill and sometimes I see John’s scrunched up face of disbelief on Anne’s head, and that is when I know I am not fooling her or anyone.

Among our children Uncle John has long enjoyed legendary status as they recognized the qualities that made John R. Mills … well … John R. Mills. When asked to describe him in a word or two they use words like “silly, funny, jolly, happy, jovial, warm, creative, great personality.”

When pressed harder they volunteer, “Goofy in a way that is funny for kids and just as endearing now that I am an adult. “

One daughter says, “He reminded us that while being a grown up is hard, we can’t forget to have fun and try new things. “

I think John learned to be creative early in life and that it is hellishly fun to be creative – hellishly fun! You can see that as you look around this farmyard at the wide variety of “toys” he built using skill, knowledge, and problem solving abilities.

Both Anne and I are thrilled that their Uncle John with his personality and his creative vision has influenced our children in a positive way.

This influence was not always one of playing the “jokester.” One daughter says that she has “a cute memory” of a tender moment between John and the good Dr. Jacobs in the early days of their relationship …. a memory which our daughter now credits as instrumental to understanding that adults are permitted to show affection for one another. A good influence indeed!

However, I will leave it others to wax poetic about John in the role of “romantic lead.”

It is safe to say that the influence of John R. Mills on our collective children and indeed on Anne and me, ranges from the “goofy” e.g., hiding a rubber snake in their beds…. to the “fantastical,” the stories of his many adventures and escapades…. to the “creative,” his skills and talents as a craftsman, designer, draughtsman, artist … to the “socially adept,” his ability to connect with a wide range people from many different circumstances and stations in life … to the “sensitive and caring,” his underlying compassion for community, friends and family, no matter how thorny his exterior visage could be … to the romantic …. and back to the “silly” and “goofy” again.

I got to know John in a more in depth way at Wendy’s and Jerry’s cottage on Lake Kawawaymog in Ontario. We spent many an early morning looking out over the misty lake … ‘swapping a few lies.’ It is here that John provided inspiration to me – inspiration to hone the art of the raconteur, the storyteller – the art of knowing the small interstices within a story where the truth can be “massaged” or embellished for effect, or altered to ensure the lesson within the story is learned. I learned that I had to walk the edges of veracity carefully, because if I saw that “scrunched up disbelieving face” of John R. Mills, I had failed.

img_4536

The mist slowly lifts off Lake Kawawaymog in Ontario, Canada  Photo: Stan Marshall

It is also at Lake Kawawaymog that I began to understand John’s life and … why I fell in love with his sister … and her often scrunched up disbelieving face.

In part, it is because John and Anne share much of the same creativity and the same sense of whimsy.

Sometimes the simplest things say it all when it comes to silliness… clever silliness.

One day at the cottage, John heaved himself off the couch with great effort, almost leaving his feet as he stood up, raised his arms fully to the sky in his best victory pose, announcing in his best sportscaster’s voice, “He really stuck that landing,” as if awaiting huge applause from the crowd.

Silly? Yes.

Clever? Yes.

Words that will be repeated in our home forever? Yes.

Each of us here today will have similar, simple memories which will forever form our own individual gateway into the complex life of a husband, father, brother, uncle, and friend – John R. Mills.

 He is loved and missed

img_0055

Canoes pass in the early morning mist on Lake Kawawaymog  Photo: Stan Marshall

Speech by Christopher Mills, Son of John R. Mills

Christopher (Chris) has a wide variety of memories of his father but the ones that stick with him are the ones which highlight John R’s sense of humour – the funny stories, the desire to do things that are a little off beat. In this respect the apple has not fallen far from the tree and Chris is funny in a quirky sort of way himself. I often refer to Chris as “the funniest man on the planet” and he replies immodestly, “you mean the funniest man in the universe.” Chris has been on the edges of some very funny and creative endeavours and for a while was in a band that toured extensively in Europe. He can be spotted from time to time as an extra in one of Canada’s favourite TV shows, Murdock Mysteries.

img_0377

John and Christopher all clear for a hover over Lake Kawawaymog  Photo: Stan Marshall

Chris understands that the imperative in breaking new ground in any field is to take some chances. This is not inconsistent with his father’s approach to life I believe it is this trait that led Chris to be quite provocative in his address to the gathered mourners – particularly about the human half of the clientele of his father’s farrier business. The safe thing would be to say something like, “My father’s recipe for success was one part skill, one part personality, and one part business acumen.” Of course mixing this cocktail is not as simple as pouring scotch over ice  and adding a splash of water – something John had also mastered. In any case, Chris did not do the safe thing, he just laid it out there by revealing that in the latter years, in order to be a client of his dad’s farrier business, the owner must be notable in some way, have a quirky personality, be intelligent and inquisitive, or be a reservoir of inside information. It is hard to say what characteristic would tip the scales in your favour but you most certainly could not be average or dull. In fact, if you were not a client then you were just “boring.”

There was laughter at this point – but was it genuine funny laughter? Nervous laughter? Snorts of indignation? Embarrassed chuckles? Small breathy wry smiles? Who knows, but Chris’ provocation did set people to remembering John in multi-dimensional terms.  There was nothing one-dimensional about John R. Mills and there is nothing one-dimensional about his son, Chris Mills.

img_3181

Just some of the animals in John’s clientele?  Photo: Stan Marshall

Chris’ comments got me thinking about the time I accompanied John on his rounds and I had a chance to observe John at work. I think that Chris has not only hit the gathered grievers over the head with his observation that if you were no longer interesting enough, John did not make any extra effort to keep you as client, but he has hit the nail on the head in understanding the role of farrier. You see, John in many ways was a ‘curmudgeon’, which is just an interesting word for an ill-tempered crusty old man. Oh, he wasn’t a curmudgeon all the time, just when he wanted to be and he cultivated his image as that of a “lovable curmudgeon.” Being both lovable and a curmudgeon allowed him to ferret out the most fascinating information about people and to relay that information in story form to others. OK, this may just be a fancy way to say that he was a ‘gossip.’ Oh my, ‘gossip’ is such an ugly word in this context and many take it to mean, “spreading untrue rumours” but this definition is not one that describes John. In John’s case it is more accurate to say that a ‘gossip’ is someone who likes to talk about the private lives of others.

Remember earlier I said that the safe thing for Chris to say would be that the recipe for John’s success as a farrier included one part business acumen. Well, the farrier is a natural communication conduit, carrying information from client to client as he makes his rounds. For John to be successful, he had to use his business acumen (ability to understand and reason) to decide what information to pass on, when to pass it on, and to whom he should pass it. This communication of vetted information from reliable sources, especially in the days before social media, provided a valuable service to the community and accorded the farrier a certain amount of power and influence. It is hardly surprising then that the more interesting and fascinating the private lives of the owners, the better it was for business and the more interesting and often powerful his position became. In other words, no one should be shocked that John chose his clients using criteria that had nothing to do with the animals. He was just taking care of business.

Speech by Gerald Smith, Brother-in-law and Elder Statesman

Gerald (Jerry) Smith is married to John’s sister, Wendy, and that means he is one of the favourite brothers-in-law. Jerry is known to be worldly, sophisticated, educated, articulate, and erudite not to mention politically astute, community conscious, a friend and patron of the arts, a loving husband, father (Kerri) and stepfather (John E.), and respected by all. By virtue of these qualities and the fact that on his next birthday he will turn the page on three-quarters of a century, Jerry is most deserving of the honourific title of “Elder Statesman of the Extended Mills’ Family” (ESEMF).

The following paragraphs are the notes from Jerry on his remarks.

Three themes:

Being first born and only son (you, me and Christopher) [includes John R. Mills, Gerald Smith, Stan Marshall and Christopher Mills] shaped us when it comes to responsibility, caring and nurturing, patience . . .

John R. was more into the hunt than the kill; notwithstanding the boar shot with bow/arrow, or the snake skin on the wall, it was more about solving problems, figuring things out – witness the 2 hovercraft, recumbent (electric) bicycle, dog sled; witness cottage projects including solar power, 5.0 hp pump to get water from the lake, hot water shower system, learning to execute Eskimo roll in kayak AND the 7 hour boat!

Finally, our favoured toast – after scotch and before a great meal – ” family, friends, food!”

img_0400

Rowboat built for Wendy. Photo: Stan Marshall

Jerry captured the moment succinctly as usual – although at peril of disagreeing with the Honourable Elder Statesman, I don’t believe that John R. successfully executed the kayak rolI – at least not in the last five years. But … that is probably a debate, a question, and a story that will be told and re-told, hashed and re-hashed in the coming years. I bet that at this very moment there are some who would be willing to place a small wager that they personally witnessed John R. coming up out of the water in full body roll pose with the kayak, his round face spluttering, but smiling! Do I have any takers?

The horn and the pipes

The Hunt Club acts as a large (functional) family on occasions like this one. They have the leadership and organizational skills to muster their membership to coordinate with family and friends to meet the needs of any member of this ‘Hunt family’. Food and drink appear on cue; memorabilia, artifacts and inventions are displayed to great effect in the house and around the farm yard; the agenda is put together with care and its execution is seamless with other parts of the day; and when it is all over and the night has swallowed the last of the revellers … er mourners, the visible components of the day have disappeared and if one looks carefully around the farm many things including the hovercraft can be seen back in their assigned storage places. All food, dishes, warming plates, and heaters have disappeared. It brings to mind the old adage “Everything has a place and everything in its place.”

Before our emotions had fully settled following the poems penned by Kraig the farrier, the sob filled silence was broken by a long and mournful tone blown on the hunting horn by Alf Caldwell (LRH Huntsman, MFH*.) At the end of the wail, Alf calls out with a catch in his voice “Gone hhh oo   mmme” – traditionally signifying disappointment at the end of a long day’s hunt, but today poignantly marking the passing of John R. Mills.

Tears, sobs and sniffles ensue.

fullsizeoutput_11f7

Children love to play on the dog sled   Photo: Stan Marshall

In a tree’s shadow, slightly off to the side of the gathering, a lone piper stands just behind three of John’s creations (the electric bicycle, the hovercraft, and the dog sled) silently filling her pipes’ bag with air in preparation for a rendition of Amazing Grace, the immensely popular Christian hymn written by John Newton 242 years ago!

Amazing Grace is almost the perfect complement to the readings and message delivered earlier by the Rev. Joey Pusatari. The hymn seems chosen deliberately for its message that “forgiveness and redemption are possible regardless of sins committed and that the soul can be delivered from despair through the mercy of God.” This message resonates with hundreds of millions of people worldwide and it is no less resonant in Kentucky. The promise that the soul of John R. Mills will live on forever as a result his good works and kind heart, and that John, not a known church-goer, may indeed be granted salvation at this late hour, is greeted with tears of joy, and the only dry eyes are those fixed steadfastly to blades of grass on the ground.

The piper expertly transitions into a rendition of My Old Kentucky Home ** which signals that the celebration of John R. Mills’ life and accomplishments is to continue. I confess that the rush to the bar for more champagne (or scotch in my case) distracted me from noticing whether the piper expertly uses the last of the air in the pipes’ bag without the drones continuing past the end. I assume nothing less.

Reportage ends

To my knowledge there is no reportage of any behaviour, word or deed, subsequent to this moment as the gathering goes “in camera” and reporters and journalists are banned.

There is nothing left but for the party (for it is truly a party now) to continue in earnest as the breadth and depth of grieving has affirmed the first irrefutable fact that John R. Mills is dead.

It is only fitting that there is already a rumour that some stories (embellished or not, who knows?) from the “in camera” party have already leaked out, confirming the second irrefutable fact that John R. Mills is alive.

Time has a way of preserving the richness of the past so that great storytellers may convey it in the future. The richness that is John R. Mills lives on.


*LRH stands for Long Run Hounds which is the the second oldest recognized hunt club in Kentucky established in 1961. MFH stands for Master of Fox Hounds and that individual is in command of the hunt in the fields and in the kennels. Joseph “Alf” Caldwell has been the MFH for LRH since 2011.

** John R. Mills was born in Toronto, Canada and he remained a Canadian all his life. Kentucky though was his adopted home for approximately 30 years. He carried a deep love for both.

APPENDIX

 Obituary

john

John Robert Mills
1947 – 2016

Born October 9, 1947 to John Porter and Joan Whyte (nee Ross) Mills in Toronto, Canada. Stepson of Frances Mills. John died at home on Tuesday, November 8, 2016 surrounded by his “guys”, just as he wished.

Survived by his beloved wife, Dr. Madelyn Jacobs (nee Jackson) and his two children; Christopher David of Toronto and Annalea Juliet (Chris Harris) of Antigua, and his grandson and the light of his life, Marlin Mills Harris.

Loved by his sisters, Wendy Joan Smith (Gerald) of Toronto and Anne Frances Marshall (Stanley) of Ottawa, Canada, as well as nephew John Descheneau and nieces, Natalie and Sophie Malek, Kerridwen Smith and Kristen and Alexandra Marshall and his extended family, colleagues and friends.

An avid member of the Long Run Hunt Club, he truly valued those hunting friendships and shared memories. He spoke so highly and lovingly of Jeff and Ellen and Grace, Walter and Anne, Lisa and Tim, Marilyn and Uri, Jim Marcucci, Bruce and Shawna and Karen and Bill and Toody and Bruce. Margaret and Quinn held a special place in his heart. He deeply missed his friends David and Carroll. He loved his time cruising in his hovercraft with Hover Dave and enjoyed seeing the rivers of Kentucky and the northern Ontario lakes. He was a skilled farrier and teacher and master problem solver. He took great pride in the skills of Kraig, Albert and Brandon. Deeply intelligent, quirky and feisty, he will be missed.

The family would like to thank Dr. Dale Haller for his outstanding care and the wonderful nursing provided by his trio of Brianna, Dawn and Faith.

In lieu of flowers, the family would appreciate donations in John’s name to Big Brothers Big Sisters of Kentuckiana [http://www.bgckyana.org/]

Published in The Courier-Journal on Nov. 13, 2016 http://www.legacy.com/guestbooks/louisville/john-robert-mills-condolences/182484454?cid=full

© Stan Marshall (The PD Gardener)

In the Parkinson’s Garden: Ruminations on Love, Intimacy and Sex

In the Parkinson’s Garden: Ruminations on Love, Intimacy and Sex

Preface

It has been quite some time since my last post. I assure you that I have not been idle, just facing a number of challenges which have required close and careful attention. I have been relearning how to walk after losing this capacity quite suddenly over a period of 4 – 5 days in January 2016. As part of this challenge I had a total replacement of my left knee in late August. I am now a little over two months post surgery and have completed my knee rehabilitation physiotherapy program. I have some things to say about the surgery and the rehab as well as the frustration of losing all capacity to walk and not finding a suitable explanation as to why this should happen. However these are topics for future posts.

The biggest reason for the delay, or should I say hesitancy in making my thoughts public, is the sensitive and tricky nature of the subject matter. While the topic has been bouncing around in my mind for quite some time, personal thoughts about sex, love and intimacy are not something that spills onto the page without some considerable thought – especially because my wife and lover will read it with a most critical eye, and rightfully so (see Note 1.)

OK, you might well ask: “Who in their right mind wants to read a blog post on love, sex, and intimacy through the lens of a 67-year-old male Person with Parkinson’s (PwP.) Already I can hear bleats of protest, if not indignation and outrage, ranging from: “Oh God, No!” “Cover your eyes and ears,” “Spare us!” Yikes!” “Lock up your children,” ”Gross,” “You deviant,” “You pervert” and worse. If these represent the tenor of the thoughts going through your mind, then I sincerely hope that I do not live up (more precisely, down) to your expectations.

To be honest, I do have some reservations about embarking on this journey, mostly because my thoughts on intimacy, sex and love have a much greater probability of being misunderstood than my thoughts on many other topics. Still, I tell myself that I am being honest in my approach and it has never been my intention to write a “tell all story” or an exposé on the sex life of a PwP. Those of you who are expecting a titillating account of sexual encounters (creepy, romantic, or both) or have a prurient interest in the sexual appetites, activities and proclivities of those who suffer from chronic, debilitating disease and find ways to overcome obstacles to intimacy and sexual satisfaction, can look elsewhere.

When I started this post, I wanted to write about how sex, love and intimacy are just as important to Persons with Parkinson’s as they are for so-called “normal” people. More precisely, I wanted to write about a “normal guy with Parkinson’s” who

  • Has dopamine deprivation such that his physiological and the neurological systems are not playing well together;
  • Has so many motor and non-motor symptoms of Parkinson’s that his personality, his essential self, disappears into the visual busyness that is Parkinson’s;
  • Has difficulty making his views heard and understood outside of a very small circle of friends and family;
  • Desperately wants to deny that the disease is not only advancing but will eventually render him incapable of activities of daily living and totally dependent on others for care;
  • Wants to live and feel that complex of human feelings and behaviours we have come to associate with intimacy, love and sex.

Let’s be clear. I am quite sure that any talents I possess as a writer or a story teller will not be adequate to the task of explaining the permutations and combinations of love, sex and intimacy along with the almost infinite number of accompanying human emotions. Nevertheless, I shall do my best to begin this conversation in the only way I know how – using a blend of personal experience, critical self-reflection, knowledge (lived and acquired) , and informed awareness of the issues.

[Please note that I have not included any analyses of the tremendous love and support I receive from my family and friends as it is of a different order of love and intimacy.  If anything they should feel relieved by this omission rather than slighted.]

Two particular unrelated events, one hundred years apart, have been instrumental in the formation of my views on intimacy, love and sex, and on my decision to voice them in a public forum.

So, let’s get started shall we?

Eloping: Guns Blazing?

 [Love was smouldering in the gardens and orchards ….]

What better place to begin a search for true love than with a story about true love. The time is 1915; the place is Deerwood – a small Manitoba farming community on the rail line between Altamont and Miami; and the key protagonists are my paternal grandmother, the auburn-haired Maud Moorhouse, her father Henry Moorhouse, and my grandfather, Robert Egerton Marshall, neighbouring farmer and “ne’er do well.”

marshall-lands

Map showing the proximity of the Marshall and Moorhouse farms

I do not recall my grandparents being wildly in love but obviously there was something smouldering on November 23, 1915 when they evaded the pursuit of the bride’s father to elope and marry in Winnipeg, Manitoba. The story of the elopement has always been told in our family with a certain amount of humour – a story about how Maud (20 years old) and “Old” Bob (15 years her senior) had outfoxed Maud’s father and run off to Winnipeg together. It was pretty racy stuff for rural Manitoba in 1915.

In an undated and unpublished manuscript, Not Because of Beginnings, Dr. H. H. Marshall, the first-born child of the eloping couple outlines the facts of the matter.

“On November 23, 1915, Bob drove his horses the long roundabout way to approach the Moorhouse farm from the Deerwood side, which was mostly hidden from view from the house. A deep ravine crossed the south part of the Moorhouse farm and between the Marshall farm and Deerwood. There were no approaches for three miles to the east but the west approaches could all be seen. While her father’s attention was diverted, Maud walked down through the wooded ravine pasture to meet Bob. They then drove to the railway station at Deerwood, where he had bought tickets earlier. The train was on time and they were on it. Father [Henry Moorhouse] was furious when he learned what was happening but he had been delayed some. He took his good team of horses and a shotgun to follow the elopers but he arrived at the station after the train had left. He tried to follow but was left far behind. Bob and Maud traveled to Winnipeg to be married by Rev. Ridd, a minister who had served at Miami. Henry was forced to accept the situation, although he certainly would have fumed and stormed for some time.”

The story has been told and retold many times over the years (and will continue to be) and each telling will be as understated or as overstated as the teller wishes it to be. Undoubtedly, many of the accounts will contain embellishment in keeping with the storyteller’s character and his/her skills at weaving a good tale. The fun may have been in outsmarting father Moorhouse who would be painted as a gruff old bugger with no love for an underachieving neighbouring farmer almost as old as himself. It could be accompanied with appropriate narrative describing the farming economy of the day and Marshall’s poor prospects coinciding with his decidedly very poor agricultural land, barely suitable for pasture, as the backdrop to Marshall’s desire to spend most of his time on horticulture and fruit growing rather than traditional farming. I have heard some say that he was a “damn poor farmer.” The punch line would be that Marshall’s inclinations were correct and his observations that this land would produce excellent produce led him and Maud to some notoriety as innovators in fruit and vegetable growing and other horticultural pursuits. Not to mention that their genes and the environment they created produced their first-born son Henry who would blaze his own path as an innovator in horticulture. The irony would not be missed in the fact that Henry Marshall was named after his maternal grandfather, and young Henry would soften the gruff old man and become Moorhouse’s (only) favourite among the five grandsons Bob and Maud gave him.

img_3731

Maud and Bob Marshall with a selection of their produce. Photo: unknown

Or the storyteller might chose to elaborate on the secretive courtship, the ruse, the deception, the chase and the sweet victory of true love in Winnipeg. The collusion and collaboration by those in the know to ensure that the lovers were able to escape the disapproving father required some intricate maneuvering given the communications of the day. The lovers would be trying to leave unobtrusively. Upon learning of the plan Old Moorhouse would run his horses to the sweat trying to beat the lovers to the train, falling just short; guns blazing as the train sped out of sight.

The best stories are ones that are true for the most part but leave the storyteller some leeway to work magic at the edges of the veracity. What is the real story behind the elopement of Bob Marshall and Maud Moorhouse? Who pursued whom before old man Moorhouse pursued them both? Was Maud’s sister, Ethel, a co-conspirator seeing this as her way to avenge her father’s firm  refusal to approve her own potential marriage? Who knows for certain?  I hope I have the opportunity someday to return to these events so important to my family’s history.

uw_wcpi_14925_a0465

Henry Moorhouse and daughter Ethel c. 1927. Photo courtesy of Western Canadian  Pictorial Index, University of Winnipeg Archives

For now, I can only say with some certainty that there was love smouldering in my family’s gardens and orchards in those years and that realization is part of the impetus for me to reflect on love, sex and intimacy from the warmth and love generated within the confines of our present day Parkinson’s garden.

Okay, that is the first reason for writing this particular blog posting. As always, it is best not to charge ahead too quickly without understanding all of the antecedent reasons for proceeding.

Wife/Caregiver Takes a Lover

[The honourable thing may be to face the music and end the charade; just don’t expect accolades or applause.]

Some months ago I read an article that I can’t seem to get out of my mind. In Australia the wife of a Person with Parkinson’s, revealed through a Christmas missive to friends and family in 2015 that she had taken a lover while still living with, and caring for, her husband.

The Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC.net.au 2016) aired a documentary called The Three of Us: Carer, Husband and Lover which is about … well … about the three of them. The short story is this: Damian, Elaine’s husband, has early onset Parkinson’s and frontotemporal lobe dementia; Elaine, Damian’s wife and ‘carer,’ takes a lover, Trevor; Trevor becomes Damian’s friend, and lives a few blocks away from Elaine and Damian. Elaine and Trevor, it seems, are fine with this arrangement and she reveals all to the world in a Christmas letter – a commonly accepted vehicle for disseminating information – joyful and sorrowful – throughout the Christian world. This function continues even as social media gallops ahead of the Christmas letter curve primarily because the Christmas letter can disguise itself and hitchhike within the links and attachments of social media.

img_1269

Christmas letters bring joy and sorrow

I am not sure what to say about Elaine’s letter. Is it a joyful one because Elaine has found happiness and a new love? Is it sorrowful because the marriage between Elaine and Damian has broken down and Elaine has moved intimacy and “romantic love” out … and into another relationship? Is it sorrowful because Parkinson’s and dementia have robbed Elaine and Damian of the opportunity to maintain a ‘real’ marriage (“‘til death do us part”,) with long-term physical and emotional commitment including sex and intimacy? Is it joyful because Elaine has found the wherewithal to carry on as a ‘carer’ fulfilling another commitment in the marriage vows (”in sickness and health”) by providing tender loving care? Is it joyful that Damian and Trevor have established a friendship? Is it joyful for children and/or others in the family who are now freed from the worries of how to provide care for Damian? Or is that sad too?

Interestingly, the hit Netflix series Grace and Frankie has weighed in on the same issue using Alzheimer’s as the disruptive scenario. It is not surprising that mainstream entertainment is latching onto these moral issues as important topics for viewers. After all, millions of people worldwide face this dilemma every day. Grace meets a boyfriend (Phil) from her past. They each have a desire for this relationship to be rekindled when Grace discovers that Phil is still married to Elaine (ironically) who suffers from Alzheimer’s and drifts in and out of reality. Of course, this immediately raises the moral question of whether Grace should date and become a lover to a man still married to, and is caregiver for, his wife – albeit a wife who no longer has her full faculties. Spoiler alert: Grace decides initially that she cannot continue on a path to reunite with the old flame under these circumstances. In a later episode she reconsiders and the relationship continues with a steamy hotel meeting that is interrupted by a call notifying Phil that Elaine is missing. The realities of life with someone with Alzheimer’s hits home and the moral question lays there like ‘a turd on the rug’ as a former colleague of mine used to say. The last I remember Grace is calling the whole thing off … or not.

Wait! The Patient Has a View Too

[Hey! I am inside here, you know.]

Let’s return to the Australian Broadcast Corporation documentary for a minute. Journalist Kirsti Melville takes great care to say that she didn’t expect the husband, Damian, to have a coherent and cogent opinion about the relationship between Elaine and Trevor. However, as the making of the documentary progresses she realized that she was wrong on this score and that she should ask Damian for his views, as he deserved that much respect at least. I personally think that it should have been more than an afterthought but I am relieved that she came to see Damian as a human being affected both by the process and the decision. Quite eloquently, the youngest son expressed his wish that his dad not be “reduced to a list of symptoms,” and Melville seems to have taken that request to heart.

For his part, Damian does seem aware that his relationship with Elaine has changed and that he and Elaine each have a different relationship with Trevor. Damian seems to accept this reality with equanimity in the same way he accepts that his health is deteriorating, that he needs assistance and that life is now better under this new reality than it was previously. Do I sense a hint of relief on everyone’s part here? What if Damian had rejected the new arrangement? Melville concludes the documentary by saying that this is a “gorgeous story.”

As a sentient human being myself, albeit one that has Parkinson’s, the enormity of the sadness I feel whenever I consider the possibility that Anne (my wife and lover) and I would have a relationship other than the one we currently enjoy is so massive that it sends cold turbulence through my emotional self; an icy chill freezes all rational perspective; a numbness deadens sensation in my lips, fingers and hands; and a deafening silence fills a space previously filled with words unnecessary to be said aloud.

It is to be unthinkable, yet it is almost a certainty that Parkinson’s, Lewy Body dementia, old age and worn out body parts, or some combination of those conditions, will upset the apple cart. I am not in the least suggesting infidelity. Rather, I am admitting that changes in physical and mental health bring with them some new rules, and even if a relationship remains emotionally true and intact, it does not remain identical through each moment of time as each year unsympathetically exposes more warts and frailties.

Am I allowed to be sad about these eventualities creeping ever closer into our foreseeable future? Yes, of course. Is Anne allowed to be sad? Yes, of course. But let’s be clear; being sad about the probability of something happening in the indeterminate future is a poor way to live everyday life. It is far better to rejoice in the pleasure of the moment. Uh, oh. Is that too hedonistic? Not for this PwP. I have a pretty good idea about my long-term prognosis and I happily accept any burden hedonism might impose in the short term.

I apologize but unwittingly, I have strayed a little from the main point. Whether we are allowed to be, or should be, sad is not the question. The question is: Are we allowed to move on when (if) a significant change occurs in the conditions within which a relationship lives? That question is not so easy to answer.

On the basis of what you have read so far I wouldn’t blame you for concluding that I think Elaine in Australia is wrong to have taken a lover while caring for her Parkinson’s husband. But to be truthful, I am not sure. What I do know is that I am not qualified to make that judgement. However what I am qualified to do is to ensure that the voice of the person being cared for (the patient, PwP, disabled, person with dementia) is heard and not dismissed as being something other than compos mentis.

No Fighter, Including Muhammad Ali, Ever Went into the Ring Unprepared

[Is thinking too much about bad things a bad thing, or is it just that thinking too much is a bad thing?]

The longer you live with Parkinson’s the more you accept that it is a progressively degenerative disease. It will advance in a predictably unpredictable manner through stages – sometimes slowly and sometimes quickly.  You will feel each new symptom, or worsening of old ones, at the very moment that it occurs. You will choose either to ignore or deny the change but no matter how much you put your head in the sand it will wear you down until you accept the change as the “new normal.”  You are forced to admit grudgingly that Parkinson’s marches on as inevitably and steadfastly as life itself.  You come to understand that Parkinson’s travels incognito for years before it merges with the final steps of life’s journey to reach death, a destination it could not locate on its own.

Oh, there will be “cheerleaders” exhorting you to fight on, to resist, to beat the odds, to delay (or defeat) the advance of Parkinson’s. We all need encouragement to keep active – exercise, cycle, walk, run, swim, box, dance, do physiotherapy, do Pilates, do yoga, sing, play music, write, paint, garden, or do any other activity to keep our minds sharp and our bodies in fine fettle. In combination with diet, medical devices, pharmaceuticals (old and new) medical procedures and surgeries such as DBS (deep brain stimulation) or duodopa intestinal pumps and transdermal delivery systems, physical activity gains a better quality of life for us, over a longer period of time. The problem is: I know that, at the present time at least, I cannot outlive Parkinson’s anymore than I can outlive death, no matter how many cheerleaders there are on the sidelines.

There is a maxim, “We do not die from Parkinson’s but we will die with it” which implies that Parkinson’s is not a cause of death.  While it is largely true, it is not the whole of the matter. There are many symptoms of Parkinson’s which appear to aid and abet death at the very least. For example, The Michael J. Fox Foundation claims “the leading cause of death in Parkinson’s is aspiration pneumonia due to swallowing disorders.”  In addition to dysphagia we could add depression and loss of balance as other factors leading to death. You may have died of a brain injury when your head hit the ground, but the ‘real’ cause of death was that you lost your balance and fell because you have Parkinson’s.

Why does the maxim “We do not die from Parkinson’s but we will die with it” bother me? Aside from the fact that there is a question as to its veracity, it effectively minimizes the onerous path that Parkinson’s can take you along before you die. There is no cure for Parkinson’s, just as there is no cure for death, and I can expect that my body and/or mind will decline significantly along the way because my symptoms will intensify and multiply. Having Parkinson’s places your life at a point closer to death than it would be otherwise. In other words, you have a  shorter life expectancy if you have Parkinson’s.

Many of you will feel that I am being defeatist or depressing (if not depressed.) You would be wrong. If you want to give it the good fight you have to know what you are up against. No fighter, including Muhammad Ali, ever went into the ring unprepared. I am telling you though, that the mental preparation necessary to face the probability of altered personal and intimate relationships is the toughest preparation I have ever had to do, maybe even tougher than facing the physical demands of Parkinson’s itself. The energy and focus it has taken to write this blog post is but a small part of this preparation. There are no blueprints or manuals. The challenges are different for each individual and vary according to stage of disease development.

Of course, many PwP turn to clerics armed with Faith and religious texts or counsellors armed with knowledge from social – psychological studies to provide the  strength to buttress yourself against the physical, social, mental and spiritual turmoil you will face. Choose the approach (or more than one) with which you will be most comfortable as you travel on your journey: Yoga, meditation, Pilates, faith, spirituality, religion, love of family, exercise, or any other of dozens of choices, will give you peace and serenity.

I suspect that only the strongest of relationships are long-term survivors of a Parkinson’s diagnosis. After diagnosis it is not long before work colleagues and other friends drift away but they may well have done so anyway, after the workplace connection is broken by long term disability or retirement.   Outside of personal intimate relationships, the toughest loss to deal with is the loss of “close” friends who will exclude you because … I am not sure why. Perhaps, your interests and/or lifestyles diverge or they may buy into the belief that Parkinson’s is associated with cognitive decline. In the wake of such losses, I comfort myself with the knowledge that very few people keep good friends for a lifetime even in the most ideal circumstances. Still, these are not the relationships with which I am primarily concerned as my thoughts are focussed on relationships involving love, sex and intimacy.

What Does Baseball Have To Do With It?

[Whatever gave me the notion that people would continue to play fair when they fell “out of love” is beyond me.]

img_4430

The Major leagues were a long way from our little ball field. Photo: S. Marshall 2015

It might seem trivial at first but when I was a lad of about eight years old, Roy Campanella, star catcher of Major League Baseball’s Brooklyn Dodgers (1948 -1958) was one of my heroes. Campanella broke into the major leagues in 1948, one year after Jackie Robinson broke the colour barrier. Unfortunately, Campanella’s career was cut short by an automobile accident that left him a paraplegic. I thirsted for knowledge about Campanella back in those days but we did not own a television and radio reporting was sporadic in rural areas, although my little transistor radio could pick up faraway ball games on crisp late summer and early autumn evenings after local stations reduced their wattage. Moreover, there was no library in Altamont, Manitoba so my father arranged that I could have borrowing privileges with the University of Manitoba Extension Library from which I could order books to be sent by mail. I recall devouring The Roy Campanella Story by Milton J. Shapiro (1958).

Then about a decade ago I read something about the breakdown of Campanella’s relationship with his second wife that profoundly saddened me. The exact sentence is still fresh in my mind. “Campanella’s wife Ruthie, unable to cope with the loss of physical intimacy imposed by the accident, left him” (see Note 2.)  In other accounts I read that she would leave their home in the evenings flauntingly seeking male companionship. For some reason this repulsed me greatly and even though I knew that Campanella had his own share of infidelities over the years, I had great sympathy for him. I am not going to go into a long discourse on this matter other than to say that I was repulsed by what I perceived as a deliberate and flagrant desire on Ruthie’s part to hurt Campanella, a man who could neither fend for himself nor defend himself. I guess this is a variation of the old idiom “don’t kick someone when they are down” and appeals to some sense of “fair play” – that people should not play “dirty.” Is this an accurate interpretation? Probably not and it probably doesn’t really matter to most people, but that is how I felt when my brain first processed this information.

And Then Ruby’s Feelings Must Be Considered

[this song will not end with Ruby and her man getting back together.]

The perils of love, intimacy and sex as experienced by Ruthie and Roy Campanella was brought sharply back to my memory in the song, Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town written by Mel Tillis and originally recorded by Johnny Darrell in 1967. Waylon Jennings, Roger Miller, George Jones and many others have covered the song but it is Kenny Rogers’ release in 1969 that is accepted as the best version and a blockbuster hit. The original lyrics were about a veteran of the Korean War and his wife, but in the late 1960s people widely believed it to be about the Vietnam War and Rogers’ release of the song was very controversial at the time.

I personally don’t associate the song with either Korea or Vietnam but when I hear those mournful lyrics

It’s hard to love a man whose
Legs are bent and paralyzed
And the wants and the needs of
A woman your age, Ruby, I realize

I cannot help but think of Roy Campanella. Of course Tillis’ lyrics, written for public entertainment and mass consumption, are among the best in a long tradition of ‘hurtin’ country and western music, a mixture of everything good and bad about love and deception. In the end, even the murder of the offending wife is contemplated but that deed cannot be fulfilled leaving … what? … a disabled man helpless; Ruby free to do what she pleases; and a clear indication that this song will not end with Ruby and her man getting back together.

And if I could move, I’d get my gun
And put her in the ground
Oh, Ruby, don’t take your love to town
….
Oh, Ruby, for God’s sake, turn around

In any case, about a year ago I heard Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town and I remarked to some friends that I thought it was a terribly sad song. I relayed my understanding of the situation faced by Ruthie Campanella when Roy was left paralyzed and how she couldn’t cope with the loss of intimacy and sought to fulfill those desires elsewhere. Perhaps I have been too quick to criticize Ruthie (and Ruby in the song) because my comments were met with a sharp retort from a female friend, “For God’s sake, get over it! Why shouldn’t she find someone else?”

OK then. There we have it. Or, do we?

Romantic Love

[Unlikely as you may think it to be, some lads hunger for a tender kiss.]

When and where do boys first become aware of romantic love? I doubt if it is when they begin to read the sports pages or gossip columnist stories about sports heroes such as Roy Campanella or in the top 10 pop hits list of the entertainment section. I am convinced it happens much earlier but be relieved that I am not going to go into a psychological exegesis about memories of being birthed or suckling at my mother’s breast as my first formative moment(s). [I am not sure that I did suckle at her breast for any extended time, as breastfeeding was not in vogue during the 1940s and 1950s in Canada.]

But if birthing and breastfeeding were defining moments, I don’t recall it that way – in fact, I don’t recall that part at all. Rather, my first memory of such a thing called love between two humans – a love that was not a familial love but a love that encompassed intimacy – was the love my Uncle Henry and Aunt Eva had for each other, at least as I witnessed it as a child. Yes, this is the same Henry, first-born child of Robert and Maud Marshall after they eloped in 1915. In retrospect I am convinced that my aunt and uncle had a tenderness and a tangible common understanding of commitment that exceeded the norm for most other relationships – I say this confidently as I reflect on my own 60 plus years of study as a participant observer of human behaviour (non-scientific I grant you but observational data points nonetheless.)

As this is not a “tell all” blog post (it is hardly even a “tell something” post) don’t expect me to go into great intimate detail of my uncle’s and aunt’s lives spent in love, other than to say that there is something about a chance observation of a noon hour kiss on the lips, a genuine tender kiss, neither a peck nor a slobbering, groping tonguing, that left this small boy entranced, longing to know the secret to such an uninhibited demonstration of love. I witnessed this portrayal of affection many times in my formative years when my uncle would arrive home for lunch, having spent the morning in the gardens and greenhouses of the Brandon Experimental Farm. On occasion they were a little more demonstrative and disappeared into their bedroom for some cuddle time. I spent a few weeks each summer at the Experimental Farm with my cousins and the expression of genuine affection between my aunt and uncle never changed over that time. Low key, long term, lasting, love. What I witnessed was neither titillating nor tawdry but it was a powerful introduction to what I believe is the most powerful of human feelings.

henry-and-eva-2-img_3787

Henry and Eva Marshall Photo credit: unknown

It seems that my remembrances of my aunt’s full bodied gentleness, my uncle’s strong gardening hands, and their lips caressing in a short soft noon time kiss create the ideal segue for me to talk about love in our present day garden.

My Love Affair With Roses

[Thorny as they may be, it is impossible to plant a rose without giving it a hug. See Note 3]

Some might say that the men (and some of the women) in my family loved their gardens and orchards more than they loved their women (or men.) I like to think, somewhat selfishly I suppose, that the quantum of love is equal in each case and this is perfectly in order as long as the love for your human lover is of a magnitude required to sustain the relationship over a lifetime.

This history of love for gardens and orchards in my family may go some distance to explaining why I seem to be having a love affair with roses this past year. It is not entirely surprising that roses should seduce me now. Oh, we have always grown a few roses, mainly those developed by my uncle, Henry Marshall, who was instrumental in developing the Parkland series of roses at the Morden Research Station (see Note 4) but to say that I was crazy in love with roses before this year would be incorrect.

There is no doubt about it; this year is different. I now have a full-blown infatuation, or dare I say, fixation, or maybe obsession, with some specific species and varieties. Under normal circumstances one might interpret such a state of mind as being one of great joy but in the sanctuary of my garden, alone with my innermost reflective thoughts, the joy of being so intimately close to a beautiful rose that her love bites are evident in the sanguineous contrails on my arms, is often tinged with the sadness of knowing that my desires are partly the last ditch efforts of this gardener (the PD Gardener) to experience as completely as possible one of the most sought after perfections of love – roses – before he is no longer capable of the husbandry required for them to flourish and the mental acuity required to bask in the romance and intimacy that they proffer.

Not surprisingly I guess, I have been reflecting mightily upon life and love, especially life and love in a world with Parkinson’s disease, my constant and most abusive companion.   I have come to look to the rose, iconic as it is of love, to override the ravages of Parkinson’s, to perfume the ether for lovers whose wings take them to those lofty heights, to provide the beauty that is in the eye of the beholder. I desire desperately to be in that select category of “lovers” known only to poets, song writers and composers – you know those romantics who make you want to hurl your stomach contents into the shrubbery and who, at the very same time, make your insides come alive with butterflies of anticipation as you sense the presence of a new lover. [The difference between literary excellence and soap opera cheesiness gets a little muddied sometimes.]

It is small wonder then that this is the year of my love affair with roses. For this year I crave reassurance in all matters of love, especially as the staccato ‘rat-a-tat-tat” and “thrum thrum” of the advancing drums of Parkinson’s often obscures mellow intimate tones, and may even cause them to flee. The Parkinson’s drum corps is relentless in exhorting the destruction of the final few neurons capable of dopamine production. It has been a difficult year with many health challenges nipping at my heels at a time when I maybe won’t be kicking up my heels quite so much in the near future. I desperately hope this prediction is not the case and that The PD Gardener has many more years of flirtation with flora of all species.

In my sanctuary, in my garden, I stay the course, gather my strength and turn a deaf ear to Parkinson’s heartless beat. The garden works a therapeutic magic, magic so strong as to suppress temporarily the tide of muscle movement disorder and non-motor symptoms. It grants me peaceful interludes to reflect on my family and good fortune.  In the garden I am mostly a labourer, often a gardener, sometimes a landscaper, occasionally a naturist, once in a blue moon a horticulturalist, frequently a social historian, and always an amateur philosopher.  I know deep in my heart that each role cannot save me, individually or collectively, from Parkinson’s. But these roles, individually and collectively, provide vehicles through which flora in general and roses in particular (at least this year) seduce me into accepting that, even outside the garden, I am loved as much or more than I love.

Having a new desire, a new focus for your attention, is an important part of the seduction.  There are many new roses on the market making a trip to the nursery even more exciting than usual. I find myself hanging around the rose sections of various garden centres, surfing the Internet for new information and photographs, and being distracted anytime I come near a rose. I have relentlessly pursued some varieties, unsuccessfully as it turns out, until my children hooked me up on blind dates.

To be clear, my affections run strictly to shrub and rugosa roses. I have little interest in tea roses or other roses that I consider high maintenance and finicky. And if it is not hardy to our climate (zone 3 or possibly 4 in some isolated micro- environments in our garden,) I don’t have much use for it either. I am not a protective kind of guy when it comes to roses in winter and I leave them to fend for themselves no matter how severe the weather during those months. They live or they die. If they die I am sad of course but I accept no blame – winter is winter and largely beyond our control. Oddly, I do become more protective when it comes to hot weather or arid conditions. I do want the roses to survive heat waves (and we seem to be having more of these periods as the planet heats up.) I will water roses to keep them healthy and to ensure that they bloom profusely.

It is not easy to describe my love affair with roses but let me try by describing some romantic interludes with several “Rosa.”

Rosa x ‘Oscar Peterson’

I had my eye on several young roses but it was Rosa x ‘Oscar Peterson’ who lured me into a tantalizing, thorny and crazy love affair. This newest rose in the Canadian Artists Series is named in honour of jazz great, Oscar Peterson. I know, Oscar Peterson is male and I am not gay so what is the attraction? In my world, roses are always referred to as being female but in fact, roses are hermaphrodite plants i.e., they have both male stamen and female stigma on the same flower. Monoecious plants have separate male and female flowers on the same plant, and Dioecious plants have only one flower, either male or female, on each plant. Consequently feel free to refer to roses as female or male as is your desire.

Rosa x ‘Oscar Peterson’ is not shapely but is an almost compact square at 1.5 meters x 1.5 meters.  Its buds emerge with the colour of Creamsicles (one of my favourite childhood treats) before maturing into pure white blooms with yellow stamens – no less inviting.

oscar-petersonn

Rosa x Oscar Peterson  Photo: S. Marshall 2016

Oscar Peterson’s developers were clear in their evaluation of the rose that it met the standards of excellence exemplified by Oscar Peterson as a musician and they encapsulated those thoughts as follows:

“Oscar Peterson’s music was seamless, as if it flowed from his fingers like a spring of clear water. Those who understand music know that such perfection is the result of hard work and endless practice.”

“It is fitting that the new ‘Oscar Peterson’ rose has attributes of perfection. Its flawless, deep green foliage acts as a perfect foil for blossoms that appear as if from a never ending floral spring. These glossy leaves are the result of the hard work and patience of generations of breeders who have worked to create roses with superb hardiness, disease resistance and great beauty.”

Image result for orange creamsicle images

“The semi-double flowers begin life in a shade of softest yellow cream, especially in cooler weather. Often the tips of the petals are lightly touched by red. Soon cream turns to glistening bright white and a contrasting boss of golden yellow stamens. The flowers are arranged in sprays, and, like a musician who finishes his set with style, the petals drop cleanly away once the show is over.”

Far be it for me to attempt to wax more poetic than the above passage to explain why this white rose should be named for a Canadian black musician whose music captivates our minds and captures our hearts, rendering us defenseless to resist its charms. The subtlety and simplicity of the melody cavorting with the complexity of the phrasing plays delicately upon our emotions equally as much as it plays with our emotions, lifting us to the very height of hopefulness, far away from the din of despair. Don’t believe me? Listen to Night Train (released in 1962) the landmark album of the Oscar Peterson Trio (Peterson, Ray Brown and Ed Thigpen.) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dyip9jykZ7o

For me, this is enough said. However, others who are more closely attuned to the sociological phenomena of race, culture and inequality have voiced their view that it is appropriate that the rose named for Peterson is white as it fits his blend of jazz – ‘White’ and not ‘Black.’ Others attribute this white rose faux pas as yet more evidence of a white culture’s ignorance of the racial dynamic.  I fear this horticultural and socio-cultural debate will have to await another occasion – perhaps when another of my favourites, Erroll Garner’s Concert by the Sea, can be introduced into evidence.

Rosa x ‘Emily Carr’

I really must apologize as I intentionally told you a little “white” lie in the previous section – Rosa x ‘Oscar Peterson’ was not my first dalliance in the Canadian Artists series. About three years ago we came upon Rosa x ‘Emily Carr’ with her clusters of deep red blooms calling out for your attention at all hours of the day … and night for that matter. While she is advertised as being wider than she is tall, in our garden she sends up canes 8 feet tall (almost like a climber) on which she proudly displays clusters of  gorgeous blooms continually through the hot and steamy summer.  Surprisingly though she does not rest until a hard frost halts her in her tracks.

img_7586

Emily Carr Photo: S. Marshall 2016

“You come into the world alone and you go out of the world alone yet it seems to me you are more alone while living than even going and coming.” ~ Emily Carr

Such a bleak picture to paint. Being alone is a complete package from birth to death and in between. It can be a sad thing but it need not necessarily be so and we often choose to be alone at various times in our lives. Indeed, we are often happy to be alone at those times. Being lonely though is a different matter and is by definition sad as it means the soul is not being nourished. I am not a religious person so I will resist the temptation to speak of faith in a Supreme Being as nourishment, but I know for a fact that the “quiet nothingness” of a loving relationship with another sentient being is indeed nourishment for my soul. [I will elaborate more on “quiet nothingness” later.]

 “Be careful that you do not write or paint anything that is not your own, that you don’t know in your own soul.” ~ Emily Carr

This is a most difficult stricture to follow but I have to say that, even as a want-to-be author, when I do know something in my soul, the words fly off my fingers as if by ordinance finding their place on the page even before meaning, context or content is fully fleshed. Conception and birth occur in one singular flash and there is no room to be alone in that moment of spontaneous combustion, that instance of chemical reaction, that indefinable electrical spark giving life to foggy neurological pulses within our brains.

However, if you have been fortunate enough to know that “quiet nothingness” of love “in your own soul,” you will spend your lifetime searching for ways to express it. I have no intention of competing with Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s straight to the point question in Sonnet 43 How do I love thee? (see Appendix A.) Let me count the ways, of course. But that is exactly what knowing love in one’s soul should be. While the letters may fly off my fingers, I still search for words, phrases and punctuation to convey the perfect image for love. I invariably fail as my talents as a writer are woefully inadequate to meet the task. I do not possess otherworldly attributes necessary to paint the page with words that would liberate love from the constraints of a Parkinson’s world where one’s soul, no matter how willing it is to being a host for love, is rarely sought out for that purpose.

Rosa x ‘Hope for Humanity’

It was in a previous quest for a rose to represent Jean Madill, a centenarian from Altamont, Manitoba, that I began to explore the depths of the new roses. “Hope for Humanity” attracted my eye not only for its beauty but for the political statement that she makes – it is uncommon for the names of roses to be overtly political but Dr. H. H. Marshall did not shy away from politics when he named one of his roses, Adelaide Hoodless, an early suffragette and feminist with both conservative and progressive tendencies which was not uncommon for women of her time.

hope-for-humanity

Rosa x Hope for Humanity   Photo: S. Marshall 2016

Oh, There Were Others, I Confess

[… and they are all named Rosa ….]

I am afraid that there were others on whom I showered my affections and with whom I spent more than a few afternoons cavorting in the dappled shade of the garden; a few mornings frolicking with my toes moist with dew; hypnotized in cold early October by silvery ‘pre-crystalline’ raindrops on leafy vestments; hungering in early summer for the sweet nectar enjoyed by their rotund Apis mellifera lovers but forbidden to me; caressing the softness of their blooms whilst striving (unsuccessfully) to avoid the bloodthirsty thorns protecting their bodies; being intoxicatingly dizzy from the fragrance of forbidden love in the dusk of the day (or perhaps it is intoxicated by their dusky fragrance at any time of the day.) I say this unashamedly as I now admit openly that I have succumbed to their big city, sophisticated, hybridized ways.

Should I name names? I am not going to go into great detail about the attributes of all of these loves, all named Rosa, as it will be too time consuming, but there are several that deserve more attention. See Appendix B for still others.

Rosa x ‘Campfire’

‘Campfire,’ named after a famous painting by renowned Canadian artist Tom Thomson, was released in 2014. The description on the Canadian Artists series website pretty much says it all.

Campfire, the painting , shows a fire burning in front of a tent lit inside by a brilliant yellow light. It is a masterpiece of design and colour. The rose ‘Campfire’ is afire with the same smouldering blend of yellows and reds.

campfire-photo

Rosa x Campfire Photo: S. Marshall 2016

Rosa x ‘Campfire’ shows a profusion of blooms with colours that are both bedazzling and mesmerizing. Of course I am drawn back to my childhood and the many times I stared into the flames of a campfire while camping, at a family “wiener roast” or at the teenage triple X rated (for offensive language, drunkenness, overt attempts at sexual activity however inept, and outright teenage stupidity) version of a wiener roast. No matter the context, you cannot help but be drawn into Campfire’s flames where your desires, excited by the heat, race through your arteries in a desperate attempt to carry oxygen to the “smouldering” coals, freeing any inhibitions. If you place ‘Campfire’ within the context of sex, love and intimacy, its mass of blooms might very well conjure up the word “orgy.”

Rosa x ‘Bill Reid’

Rosa x ‘Bill Reid’ is a rose I longed to acquire because we had no surviving yellow or gold roses in our garden. A small yellow tea rose did not survive the winter a few years ago leaving us without the sunny spectrum. ‘Bill Reid’ is named for a legendary broadcaster, writer, poet, storyteller and communicator who introduced much of the world to the art traditions of the indigenous people of the Northwest Coast.

“His legacies include infusing that tradition with modern ideas and forms of expression, influencing emerging artists, and building lasting bridges between First Nations and other peoples.”

“He combined European jewellery techniques with the Haida art tradition. His passion for Haida art was kindled by a visit to Haida Gwaii in 1954 when he saw a pair of bracelets masterfully engraved by the great master carver and his great-uncle, Charles Edenshaw, after which, to use his own words, “the world was not the same”. For the next 50 years Reid embraced many art forms. His many powerful sculptural masterpieces include The Raven and the First Men, the Haida creation story, and The Spirit of Haida Gwaii, showcased at the Canadian Embassy in Washington, D.C. and at the Vancouver International Airport.”

“The Bill Reid rose is reminiscent of the medium the artist Bill Reid often used: gold. The rose itself has a vibrant golden hue, which it retains even under the strong rays of the summer sun. The colour denotes energy, warmth and vitality. And much like the artist, the Bill Reid rose flowers prolifically, more so than other yellow roses. In true Canadian fashion, this rose is hardy to zone 3.”

Needless to say I was thrilled to come across Bill Reid, quite by accident, at the garden centre. In fact, it was early one Monday shortly after opening, and I was at the cash when a supplier for the nursery was unloading a small wagon load of roses. There was Bill Reid, tucked in the back of the wagon, in full golden glory highlighted by the early morning sun. I asked if it was for sale and was told yes but it hadn’t been priced yet. I was unconcerned about the cost as I was smitten with it from first sight and after the business dealings were completed I whistled my way home excited by the knowledge that I would soon hug Bill Reid and position him in a suitable sunny spot.

bill-reid

Rosa x Bill Reid      Photo S. Marshall

Every once in awhile there are love affairs that remind you that the course of young love does not always run smoothly and that you should be cautious, especially in the early stages. So it was with Bill Reid. It was not long before I noticed some vile critters inhabiting Bill’s foliage and blooms. They looked very much like the Japanese beetles that have a voracious appetite for soft rose petals. Immediately I began the ugly process of picking the beetles off and depositing them in a solution of detergent and water. As I write this, I have quite a horrific soupy mess in that container. My objective is to contain the invasion although I have discovered that the beetles also love Canna leaves and Lythrum flowers. After several days my picking finally slowed down but I am realistic enough to know that an infestation will be avoided only if my neighbours are as diligent as I am in harvesting the little buggers (a word my father would definitely use in this circumstance.) To make matters worse the Japanese beetles dine on some 200 different species of plants. I will make every effort to avoid using pesticides.

Image result for Japanese Beetle Canada image free

Japanese Beetle   Photo: Wikipedia

The meeting and courtship of Bill Reid was quick, easy and intense. However, as is often the case, inattention to certain health matters may strain the relationship in the short term if not in the long term.

Rosa x ‘Marshall’s Peace Garden’

Rosa x ‘Marshall’s Peace Garden’ is a ‘sport’ of the popular Morden Blush, bred by Dr. H. H. Marshall and a favourite of ours for many years. I am counting on Marshall’s Peace Garden to capture my heart and make me blush with its abundant creamy white flowers and glossy foliage on a tiny 2 ft. x 2 ft. frame. I am told that it has a wonderful fragrance but as I have Parkinson’s most of my sense of smell disappeared long ago. Listed as hardy to zone 2 there should be no winter-kill problems in our area.

peace-garden-2

Rosa x Marshall’s Peace Garden          Photo: S. Marshall 2016

My particular affinity for Peace Garden stems from the fact that it is named in honour of my uncle Henry who was a member of the Board and Horticultural Planning Committee of the International Peace Garden (see Note 6.) Peace Garden was propagated by Terry Roszko, Canada, circa 2000 and introduced commercially in Canada by Jeffries Nurseries Ltd. in 2012 as Marshall’s Peace Garden Rose. In fact, the specimen that I planted just this morning was a gift from my daughter and her partner who made a side trip to Jeffries Nurseries while visiting family in Manitoba, carefully bringing Peace Garden’s spiky fullness as carry on luggage on their flight home. I had been trying to source Peace Garden locally without success. When my daughter and her partner surprised me by introducing Peace Garden on a blind date if you will, the excitement of meeting this unexpected and beautiful rose was palpable.

Sex, Love and Intimacy

[Put sex, love and intimacy together in one human relationship and ....]

OK, enough with the roses. Back to the main topic. Many people are too shy, inhibited or embarrassed to talk openly about sex, love and intimacy, preferring to keep such information close to their vests or perhaps close to their hearts? Others succumb to a commonly held societal belief that these emotions and thoughts are “dirty” and not to be discussed “in polite company.” Still others would allow that only researchers with a PhD in psychology and a specialization in sexuality be permitted to explore these basic elements of human instinct, analyzing and discussing it in ‘academic – speak.’ Heaven forbid we should actually feel something.

Sex, love, and intimacy are three of the most important words in the language of relationships but I suspect that they are three words often shunted to the sidelines because, when spoken aloud, these words cause us to be awkward and self-conscious about what we perceive to be personal and private matters. Yet, love, intimacy and sex make sense only in the context of a relationship between at least two individuals so absolute privacy is automatically abandoned upon the necessary formation of a single dyad (sounds like an oxymoron.) In other words, by definition, there is always someone else who has inside information on your love life, your comfort level with intimacy, and your sexual proclivities. So, let’s not get too hung up on an argument that personal and private matters are … well… personal and private, belonging only to ourselves as individuals.

It is also the case that love, intimacy, sex are often compartmentalized and treated each unto itself as a separate concept, with separate meanings and a separate set of feelings … and sometimes they are distinct. Language, being the primary vehicle for discourse among humans, must possess a certain precision that enhances understanding. But surely that does not mean that we must always drill down in a reductionist way to the most infinitesimal element. Having said that, while it is true that a convincing argument can be made that love, intimacy and sex can be defined individually, it is only when these three powerful human emotions and behaviours are put together in a ‘mash up,’ as younger folk say these days, that the truth is revealed. They are really individual recognizable segments of something that is greater than the sum of its parts. Regular readers will recognize this as a recurring theme in my posts – society is greater than the sum of its parts. I blame it on Emile Durkheim and my training in sociological theory.

Let’s complicate things just a little more by adding that in today’s world much emphasis is placed on the use of “clear language” in an attempt to cut away the superfluous, to enhance communication so that ideas can be discussed with equal precision among all participants irrespective of class and other social or economic divisions. I understand the necessity for clear language in many situations but I don’t subscribe to the “clear language is always better” approach. I believe that it takes many levels of discourse to understand the complexities of life. Oh sure, sometimes language is frustratingly complex, unnecessarily obtuse, and gratuitously verbose but a living language will evolve both to smooth out the rough edges of precision and to give precision to the softness of fuzzy articulation. The aggregation of several meanings into one concept or construct is one such smoothing technique which allows language to reach precision through a higher level of discourse.

Let me illustrate it this way: put love, intimacy and sexuality together in one package in the entertainment industry and you have a blockbuster hit rocketing to the top of the charts – “number one with a bullet” as DeeJays used to say. It will hit the jackpot, be a winner, a jewel, and ‘toadilly awesome.’ It will also, most likely, be fiction. But put love, intimacy and sex together in one human relationship and … well … (thinking … thinking … thinking)… there are no words …. and it (the love, the intimacy and the sex, individually and collectively) will inevitably be real –  often sought, rarely realized.

I know, you are thinking, “The PD Gardener is off on one of his tangents again, spouting off about things of which he knows nothing.”  Hmmmm … maybe, maybe not.   Stay with me to find out if I can tie up this seeming stream of consciousness with a pretty bow.

Love is “Quiet Nothingness”

[ … a life free of drama …]

Image result

Image from Wikipedia

Obviously I am not the first to have contemplated the complexity of sex, love and intimacy and the importance it plays in our lives. Cheryl Saban has a series of short posts on the topic that are worthwhile reading. I am not going to summarize her thoughts but I will draw your attention to a couple of specific observations. The first of which is that she is writing from a woman’s perspective when she observes that a female’s sex drive is more than just survival instinct.

“As a species, our sex drive is a survival instinct. But as a female, your sex drive is obviously more than an instinctual need; it’s wrapped up in feelings of comfort, love, companionship, excitement, naughtiness and hope.”

Well, I have news for you; these feelings are not reserved for females alone. Still, I suspect that in my early, more macho male life, my desires and emotions were not anchored in this approach. I had a process of maturing to go through, including a divorce and a somewhat painful but finally fruitful search for my – Gawd, I can’t believe I am going to say this – “soulmate.” As much as it pains me, I will leave the forgoing sentence in tact as “soulmate” does have meaning in romantic discourse to most people and that is that common understanding I wish to convey here. But there is more. In fact, what I was searching for and what I found was a relationship where love, intimacy and sexuality are in a state of ‘quiet nothingness.’ [Okay, I am counting on you not to shout “drivel” and hit the escape key to exit this nonsense. Please bear with me.]

Do not take this literally to mean that sex, love and intimacy are nothing because it is impossible to conceive of “nothing” unless we also acknowledge the existence of “something.” Put differently, we can approach a state of “nothing” but we cannot achieve a state of “nothing”.  To approach “nothing,” “something” is minimized or simplified to its most basic ‘somethingness’. I like to think of it as an expensive sound system with a complicated soundboard where all the elements of great sound are captured but everything is turned to its minimal reading. We hear nothing but the lights are lit and flashing. Intimacy, love and sex are in “quiet nothingness,” simmering, occasionally showing energy genuine to each element but always at the ready to arouse positive emotion. The simplification and minimization means that the relationship is held in tact with little work. Achieving this state of “quiet nothingness” is to achieve a state of togetherness of two minds and bodies, perhaps analogous to Zen. A key descriptive phrase for me is “free of drama.” I have been truly fortunate in that I know first-hand what that state of mind and body feels like … but it can be fleeting if one is not careful.

It is no secret that the soundboard controls the eruption of displays of energy from time to time.  When such energy is incorporated into the structure of the music for example – as a bridge, a chorus, refrain, verse, coda (or in any other creative way)  – the music and the sound can approach such perfection that only a highly trained ear can detect the subtleties defining it as otherwise. It is the same with the “quiet nothingness” of love … flying low in stealth mode beneath the radar … lethal in its efforts to target and destroy thoughts and behaviours that inhibit intimacy, and … complicit in bringing to life a sexuality  which would be declared illegal by those who have not experienced “quiet nothingness.”

Parkinson’s is a Troubled Dance of Rationality and Irrationality

[“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself ….”]

Parkinson’s is such a complex of motor and non-motor symptoms that in its early stages we often overlook symptoms related to our psychological well being e.g., it increases anxiety and stress, plays with our emotions and leads us towards feelings of depression and sometimes despair. So we begin a troubled dance between rational and irrational thought especially when it comes to love and intimacy.

I reason (rationally and correctly I believe) that the further I travel along the Parkinson’s road, the greater the probability that the usual nasty features of Parkinson’s including Lewy Body dementia will compromise my ability to sustain an intimate relationship.  How tragic that would be! But let me be clear: as I write this there is no tragedy in my life and each day is replete with reaffirmation of my love for Anne and her love for me. Still, even the most serene individuals have anxieties and are susceptible to irrational thinking from time to time. Parkinson’s provides sustenance for those anxieties, keeping them on a slow burn until fear and insecurity blows them out of proportion.

Fortunately most anxieties are relatively minor and can be handled effectively with planning and successful experience e.g., anxiety about how Parkinson’s will behave when traveling or when attending a special event. Other fears are more serious e.g., a fear that your Parkinson’s creates an unbearable burden for your spouse, partner and/or lover leading to a tragic end to an intimate loving relationship. In matters of the heart the emotional roller coaster of Parkinson’s can entice you into jumping too quickly and erroneously to that conclusion. In fact, insecurities may spawn unacceptable jealous behaviours that put enormous strain on intimate relationships, perhaps to the point of breakdown.

You might ask the question: Why would a PwP want to destroy happiness and contentment and replace it with a tragic heartbreaking ending?  Rationally, there are no compelling reasons to do so but when you are trapped in the world of irrationality where Parkie lives, fear can become an almost crippling burden, and if we are not careful, it can become a self- fulfilling prophecy.

Perhaps Sir Francis Bacon was correct when he wrote “Nothing is terrible except fear itself”) or maybe we should attribute it to Franklin D. Roosevelt, the 32nd President of the United States, who said in his first inauguration address on Saturday, March 4, 1933

“… let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is … fear itself — nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”

Parkinson’s disease is a fearsome thing. It can strip you of every dignity at a moment’s notice if you are not attentive to your medical, pharmaceutical, psychological. dietary and physical regimes. It is not stretching it to say that Parkinson’s plays a wicked game of chicken with you in your social relationships. It dares you to consider that it has not diminished you. Maintaining your mental strength in the face of such a challenge is extremely difficult because you notice and feel any newly acquired Parkinson’s symptoms so acutely that you are certain the unreasonable demands of your Parkinson’s are denying your spouse, lover, partner a full and complete life. The threat to the viability of your relationship is real and you take full ownership of that ‘failure’ because it is your Parkinson’s disease that is responsible.

Not only is the PwP responsible for the burden but the onus and indeed the impetus is on that same PwP to “free” her/his lover so that s/he may leave the relationship (or any part thereof) to pursue a full and more complete life elsewhere, maybe with someone else. Voilà, guilt free extraction from a life of burden for which you ‘did not sign up.’ Okay, maybe there is some guilt but it is ameliorated by a complex of rationale and justifications. These fears and insecurities are real to a PwP … well, they are real to me anyway.

Facing a life with Parkinson’s alone is extremely difficult. Facing those travails as a couple in an intimate relationship or as a family can make the journey more tolerable but it also means that the path may grow bumpy if one of more of those individuals go outside the understandings of the others. If the commitment is love and the understanding is that love is sexual, intimate and forever, and one individual no longer accepts this commitment, the whole deal goes sour – sometimes very quickly.

I am in a loving relationship and I would never say that my lover should end it because I have Parkinson’s. Why would I be so foolish? We have a love that is exquisitely painted, as if the muse was in full control; a love with great swaths of colour and texture like fields of lupins strewn in purposeful abandonment by Mother Nature; a love brushed into place with the precision of computer technology and the creativity of the Group of Seven.

img_1805

Mother Nature’s portrait of a field of Lupins   Photo: S. Marshall 2014

It is true that Anne does provide care for me … but she does not identify herself as my caregiver nor do I want to reflect her role back to her as that of being a caregiver. Anne is my wife and lover. It is also true that I thank her every day for her support … but I am most thankful that we share a love that is not rooted in caregiving. My greatest task is to return her love by projecting myself as her husband, lover, friend and not as her patient or worse, as her burden. Maintaining and strengthening relationships is much easier if one can avoid using pathos as the glue that holds the relationship together.

Relationships and Adversity

Okay, so far so good, but the bad news is that “quiet nothingness” is not impermeable and there are many threats to its fabric e.g., a diagnosis of a terminal or chronic disease not only changes how you perceive yourself but how others perceive you. This certainly has been my experience after a diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease – a progressive neuro-degenerative disease for which there is no cure. Oh, there are medical, pharmaceutical, physiotherapeutic, psychological, and exercise/movement programs designed to enhance quality of life but inevitably your life will take a path that you would not choose if you had a choice. The rules of the game for relationships may change and the potential for increased tension and stress increases along with a concomitant likelihood that “drama” will result.

When a relationship is under stress you might think that the survival instinct would kick in to override any “soft” emotional feelings, but that is not what happened to me. By the time of my diagnosis of Parkinson’s, I was in my mid – 60s and procreation was far behind me. I already had four perfect daughters in a perfectly blended family.

When I attempt to isolate the key factors contributing to my emotional well being, I am hard pressed to come up with any that are more important than feelings of self-worth. You see, Parkinson’s robs you of your sense of self-worth; it diminishes you. Like a thief in the night it silently robs you of your ability to be the strong one in a relationship. Ironically and wickedly, that same attack on self – worth robs you, as a person in need, of the ability to accept assistance and care, and you can lash out at those who care the most; those who love us; those with whom we have intimate relationships.

If you do have an illness though, life and relationships can change drastically. Karl Robb sums it up this way,

“Realize that an illness can either help bring you and your partner closer together or push you further apart, depending upon how well you are able to cope with challenges and the strength of your bond, prior to illness.”

I am not as charitable as Robb in that I don’t think that Parkinson’s brings many people closer together, at least not in the long term. There is no cure.  It is progressively degenerative and it will advance in both the number and severity of the symptoms.  No matter what some people say, you cannot delay its onslaught forever. It will catch up to you, one way or another.

Indeed, my perception is that if you and your partner didn’t get along well before your diagnosis, it is a good bet you won’t get along any better after diagnosis and certainly not after nasty symptoms or side effects of the drugs begin to rear their ugly heads – dementia, dyskinesia (exaggerated involuntary muscle movements which are often the side effect of the drugs,) cramping, difficulty swallowing, loss of balance resulting in falls with injuries, incontinence, constipation, rigidity, Bradykinesia (slowness), decreased sexual desire and increased sexual dysfunction, hallucinations, violent lashing out during vivid dreams, and loss of the ability to conduct activities of daily living, to name but a few. None of these symptoms are known to increase the likelihood of developing an intimate relationship if there is no prior history of such a relationship between individuals. Parkinson’s works against you every step of the way.

The Importance of Intimacy

[As we slide closer to each other, my lover whispers provocatively, “… and she felt the gardener’s work roughened hands on her skin …”]

When Parkinson’s destroys intimacy in a relationship, it wins. You slip from being lovers to being caregiver and patient, a misstep (in my view) that changes how each person perceives the other person and in the end destroys any sense of self-worth a PwP has remaining. Once the non-PwP in the relationship believes that intimacy, love, sex (and sexuality) are no longer important in the relationship, the gig is up. I hasten to point out however that the same is true if a PwP is no longer is invested in maintaining an intimate relationship with her/his partner.

Cheryl Saban describes succinctly just how important romantic intimacy is.

“Romantic intimacy and the idyll of two people bonded in love, that most sacrosanct of emotional states, is something most of us desire and in fact, need. Love is a crucial part of our lives, connected as it is to our sense of well-being and worth. The blend of love and sex requires commitment, a special type of chemistry between the two of you, and an ability to build intimacy.”

Intimacy is a word that is both innocuous and intimidating. At first glance, it seems to be something less than ‘love’ but upon closer examination it is a keystone in the foundation of close relationships. Being intimate with someone, while not the same as being in love, is something we are likely to experience with very few others in a lifetime … if we are so fortunate.

Jonathan Lenbuck in “How does sex differ from intimacy,” defines sex and intimacy in ways that I find very helpful to understand the role Parkinson’s plays in relationships.

“Intimacy is at the heart of a strong relationship. Intimacy is about knowing someone deeply and being able to be completely free in that person’s presence. It is an emotional state that is often reserved for just one person.”

“Being intimate with your partner requires you to be open and honest with him or her, and it is from this state of intimacy that great sex grows. This can sometimes be a hurdle in a relationship.”

Undoubtedly, young onset PwP are at a time in their lives when dating and sexual relationships occupy proportionally greater space in day-to-day relationships compared to those of us who are diagnosed in our 60s and heading into our 70s. A reduction in the amount of time, effort, money, etc. put into a sexual relationships is likely for those 60 years of age and older, but don’t ever fall into the trap of believing that it occupies no space in those relationships. On the contrary, love, intimacy and sex may be more central to living a healthy life with Parkinson’s (is that an oxymoron?) than we think. Hopefully some of us have found a relationship that satisfies our physical and emotional selves. I was going to say that some are patiently waiting for such a relationship but it is more likely that they have given up the quest, giving in to impatience rather than patience, resigning themselves to never finding this nirvana. Some are living in relationships devoid of love and intimacy (and probably sex) but do not take measures to change. Some of us live a bittersweet existence with memories of the ecstasy of being in love and the heartache of a life gone too soon.

Pay Attention

[Be careful, the rules can change…]

Parkinson’s changes the rules of intimacy. The inability to show emotion (particularly laughter) through facial expression, (the “mask “associated with Parkinson’s) can change the dynamic of a relationship which relies upon knowing and almost invisible facial cues and eye contact. Involuntary muscle movements can make even simple loving actions such as hand holding or cuddling impossible or so difficult as to be frustrating for both you and your partner. The excitement of close sexual contact – so thrilling and rewarding in the prime of your life – is often turned cruelly against you, as if your Adrenalin has been turned on to hyper speed, increasing debilitating involuntary muscle movements and rendering both intimacy and sexual gratification unattainable. Such frustration can exacerbate issues of erectile and sexual dysfunction already prevalent in Parkinson’s.

Changes in self-perception and how others see you can spark a destructive mutually reinforcing downward spiral (the more your self-worth is diminished the more you engage in behaviours that reinforce that self-image and the more you project a picture of low self-esteem to others which in turn contributes to others behaving differently towards you and on … and on.)

No matter the stage of the progression of Parkinson’s, any couple in an intimate relationship will face the almost ever-changing challenge of maintaining a relationship that provides food for the emotional self. The European Parkinson’s Disease Foundation (EPDF) has an excellent article on intimacy, sex and sensuality.

“If you are in an intimate relationship then you will both probably experience some difficulties regarding intimacy, sex and sensuality. These can be associated with anatomical, physiological, biological, medical and psychological factors, all of which can impact on self-esteem, quality of life, mood and relationships.”

In no uncertain terms, the EPDF alerts us to potential dangers and urges us to pay attention to intimacy, sex and love because they impact on our sense of self – worth and our ability to combat Parkinson’s, to the extent that we can combat it.

img_0006

It may appear beautiful but it is quite frozen and dead  Photo: S.Marshall

Some may argue that intimacy can be based on caregiving. Perhaps, but that intimacy is of a different nature – in fact, it is nurture. Nurturing can be intimate but it is not the whole of an intimate relationship – the “quiet nothingness.” The step from sexual intimacy to caregiving intimacy is a large one. Once one stops desiring a partner sexually, perceptions on both sides of the relationship equation are turned – probably irrevocably forever. At this point it matters not whether your mother/father, your sister/brother, your wife/husband, or a paid caregiver from a public not-for-profit or a private for-profit agency is caring for you. The intimacy is gone – and you just can’t get it back.

Conclusion

[We carry these desires with us to death, illness or not]

If you think that Persons with Parkinson’s (PwP) are not sentient, sexual, sensual human beings then disabuse yourself of that notion immediately, especially if you are the significant other of such a person. I am entering the “early elderly” – a stage of life where I do not wish others to deny my right to desire love and intimacy. If you think that we don’t have such desires, you diminish us as human beings.

If you have accepted “cargiving” as the only meaningful relationship that you share with your PwP partner, then at least understand what that means for each of you. As a PwP, I would be grateful for the care, but I would saddened immensely more by the loss of love and intimacy – you see, that loss transforms care giving into an obligation and therefore a burden.  It is likely that by the time this transformation took place, I would be incapable of doing anything about it, other than to look quite pathetic and therefore even more expendable in emotional terms, making the situation all the more catastrophic and tragic.

Finally, I may have Parkinson’s disease but I am not looking for a caregiver, I am looking for love.

AFTERWORD

[You never promised me a rose garden …”]

This has been a story of family, love, sex, intimacy, fidelity, roses, Parkinson’s (the rational and the irrational) and its ravages, self-worth and relationship survival. I hope it has provided some insight into what a PwP … well this one at least, thinks about these matters.

Ever since I began my affair with the roses this past summer, my lover is fond of saying, “ you never promised me a rose garden but I should have known better because I am married to The PD Gardener.” My comment is that The PD Gardener (both the gardener and the Parkinson’s disease) was residing within me when we met, courted and married but Parkinson’s only stepped out of the shadows recently. The rose garden though is a family characteristic. In many ways it is a family heirloom. It came with me but I did not create it.  Roses are my link to the past, my anchor in the present, and my guide to the future with the additional benefit of being an iconic gift to my lover.

stan-anne-sept-2015-1

The PD Gardener and his lover 2015

I sometimes joke that the irrational thinking arising from Parkinson’s gives me only one fundamental concern. Anne has a brother and a sister and each of them has been married three times. This is the second marriage for both Anne and me.  My concern is that Anne may wish to marry a third time to catch up to the family average (it’s a joke remember.) Of course, there is every likelihood that Anne will outlive me and she may well marry again after I have left this mortal coil. Let it be known that with whatever ego that Parkinson’s has not stripped from me, I do fantasize that I am her one and only great love … but I know that our “quiet nothingness” does not include unreasonable strictures that exceed the bounds of my lifetime.

My most fervent desire is that our relationship continues on in “quiet nothingness” – love, intimacy, sex, all with no drama. However, if there is to be drama let it be with my caregiver and not with my lover.

The path through this blog has been circuitous as usual: from the elopement of my grandparents to a PwP’s wife taking on a lover; from baseball to country and western hurtin’ music; from love affairs with roses to the many ruminations of a PwP on love, sex, and intimacy; from fear to insecurity to trouble to “quiet nothingness;” and much more.  I began this journey with ruminations on love, sex and intimacy. It ends as a love letter, a love letter that reveals my deepest fears and codifies my unwavering love and commitment to provide nourishment for an intimacy my lover and I will share over our years together.

NOTES

  1. Geez, two paragraphs into a posting about love, sex, intimacy and Parkinson’s and I am already bringing down the mood with a “Note.” Sorry about that but I find it necessary to provide some context and juxtaposition for these concepts and to advise that these words are always presented “in no particular order” throughout this text.  Sex is the “hard” word in the triumvirate and intimacy and love are the “soft” words. Sex can be reduced to the enactment of basal instinct while intimacy and love rest in the innermost niches of our secure selves (when all is right.) Love is virtually impossible to measure – according to MarsBands.com there are over 97 million love songs in the world. Intimacy is often secretive and may be intimidating. Sex can be either a dominant feature or a silent partner and sometimes masquerades as “sexuality,” a seductress embodying desire and lust. In any case, rarely are all three found in perfect harmony within a single human soul. Such harmony is contingent upon the degree of equilibrium (and disequilibrium) created by these three powerful human forces as they sing together – either in harmony or discordantly as the moment commands. Mastering the harmony, the contentment, and the equilibrium is one of our greatest challenges to ensuring that a soul is at peace.When communication between two individuals is sufficiently advanced to articulate such contentment, [I bet you are thinking that I will say “two souls become one” but nope – too sappy, done at too many times at too many weddings] then tranquillity and quietude subsumes all tempests in human emotion, whether in a teapot or on stormy, high seas. There is no need for these souls to be lashed to the mast; they are free yet secure against the buffeting of dark forces within our psyche and free of any temptation to follow the song of the Sirens (female and male.)
  2. Encyclopedia.com, Notable Sports Figures | 2004 | Belfiore, Michael copyright 2004 The Gale Group, Inc.
  3. It is impossible (for me at least) to plant a rose without giving it a hug. As I lower the root ball into the already watered hole, I reach around her to ensure that she has the proper orientation and that I can reach the excavated dirt on all sides in order to scoop in handfuls around the rose’s roots. I hand tamp it firmly into place and placing my hands on top of the soil near the base of the union, I give it a final firm caress and press the soil snugly around her. In the summertime, I am most often in the garden in a short sleeve T-shirt.   The result is predictable. I look down at my arms to discover (once again as I never seem  to learn) that my rose has decided to object to the cuddling, if not the coddling, and has bitten me in several places, severe enough to draw blood, running down my arms in streams, drying and sticking to my hair as it as it flows, giving it crime scene worthiness as an image. More than once I have emerged from the rose garden to shouts of “Don’t you get mud and blood all over the house!” And later I am treated to sighs of resignation as my lover states the obvious, “I am married to the PD Gardener. What did I expect?” For my part, I continue to hug my roses as necessary throughout their existence and my arms get punctured and leak blood occasionally. [Did I mention that I hate long sleeve heavy work shirts?]
  4. The Winnipeg Free Press notes that “Marshall, cross-breeding with wild roses he dug out of ditches, oversaw the introduction of over 40 new rose varieties, including the Parkland series.” The rose development program of the Morden Research Station was privatized in 2008 and is now operated by the Canadian Landscape Nursery Association.
  5. Creamsicles were one of my favourite treats when I was a child. Vanilla ice cream on a flat stick with flavoured ice on the outside. My favourite flavour was orange and for a long time I believed there was only one flavour but there are others including blue raspberry, lime, grape, cherry and blueberry. Nevertheless, I still think there should only be orange.
  6. The International Peace Garden was dedicated on July 14, 1932 in front of some 50,000 persons.  A cairn is inscribed with a “promise of peace:”

cairn-peace-garden

“To God in His Glory

We two nations dedicate this garden and pledge ourselves that as long as men shall live we will not take up arms against one another.”

7. “Robin Williams’ Widow Pens Emotional Essay About the Comedian’s Final Days – ABC News – abcn.ws/2di34WH via @ABC

APPENDICES

Appendix A

How do I love thee (Sonnet 43)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

~Elizabeth Barrette Browning

Appendix B

Here are some more “Rosa” who have captured my eye over the years. They are scattered throughout our garden. I am afraid I will have to wait for a later post to wax poetic about their qualities.

fireglow

Morden Fireglow  Photo: S. Marshall

prairie-joy-img_7160

Prairie Joy  Photo: S. Marshall

blush

Morden Blush  Photo: S. Marshall

belle

Morden Belle  Photo: S. Marshall

centennial

Morden Centennial  Photo:   S. Marshall

img_6135

Morden Amorette  Photo: S.Marshall

REFERENCES AND RESOURCES

Anapol, Deborah, Ph.D. “What Is Love, and What Isn’t?” from Love Without Limits Psychology Today https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/love-without-limits/201111/what-is-love-and-what-isnt

Australian Broadcasting Corporation http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/earshot/the-three-of-u­­­s-carer-husband-and-lover/7566610

Birth Psychology https://birthpsychology.com/journals/volume-2-issue-4/significance-birth-memories

Canadian Artists Roses http://www.canadianartistsroses.com/en/roses.html

Canadian Geographic http://www.canadiangeographic.com/wildlife-nature/?path=english/species/honeybee

Deeth Williams Wall http://www.dww.com/articles/canadian-designs-morden-%E2%80%9Cparkland%E2%80%9D-roses

Encyclopedia.com http://www.encyclopedia.com/topic/Roy_Campanella.aspx

European Parkinson’s Disease Foundation, “Intimacy, Sex and Sensuality,” updated June 2015. http://www.epda.eu.com/sl/pd-info/living-well/intimacy-sex-and-sensuality/

Gardening.about.com http://gardening.about.com/od/gardenproblems/a/Japanese_Beetle.htm

http://www.greekmythology.com/Myths/Creatures/Sirens/sirens.html

International Peace Garden http://www.peacegarden.com/index.html

Lenbuck, Jonathan, “How does sex differ from intimacy,” World Psychology http://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2013/04/26/how-does-sex-differ-from-intimacy/

http://lyrics.wikia.co/wiki/Johnny_Darrell:Ruby,_Don’t_Take_Your_Love_To_Town

Manitoba Agriculture Hall of Fame biography of H.H. Marshall http://www.dirtytshirt.net/ahof/ahofmember/marshall-henry-heard/

Mars Bands.com http://www.marsbands.com/2011/10/97-million-and-counting/

Marshall, H. H. Not Because of Beginnings, undated and unpublished manuscript

Michael J. Fox Foundation, FoxFeed Blog, “Swallowing and Parkinson’s Disease,” posted by Michelle Ciucci, November 05, 2013. https://www.michaeljfox.org/foundation/news-detail.php?swallowing-and-parkinson-disease

Oak Leaf Gardening http://www.oakleafgardening.com/glossary-terms/hermaphrodite-monoecious-dioecious/

Pembina Today http://www.pembinatoday.ca/2010/08/09/famed-rose-program-leaving-morden

Poets.org https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/elizabeth-barrett-browning

Robb, Karl “In sickness and in health: Intimacy and Parkinson’s,” National Parkinson Foundation, http://www.parkinson.org/understanding-parkinsons/newly-diagnosed/intimacy-and-parkinsons

Saban, Cheryl, “Sex, Love, Intimacy: Understanding and Enjoying Your Sexuality,” http://www.care2.com/greenliving/sex-love-intimacy-understanding-and-enjoying-your-sexuality.html

Shapiro, Miton J. The Roy Campanella Story, New York: Messner 1958

Sing Out.org http://singout.org/2016/04/11/ruby-dont-take-your-love-to-town/

The Honey Bee Conservancy http://thehoneybeeconservancy.org/2015/09/13/enemies-to-bees-pesticides-and-hybridized-plants/

The Old Farmers’ Almanac http://www.almanac.com/pest/japanese-beetles

Turtle Mountain Star, Newspaper Archive, Rolla North Dakota, May 2, 2011 http://tur.stparchive.com/Archive/TUR/TUR05022011p009.php

Winnipeg Free Press http://www.winnipegfreepress.com/arts-and-life/life/bloom-off-rose-for-morden-breeding-program-100178814.html

© Stan Marshall (The PD Gardener) 2016

LEARNING TO WALK AGAIN … OR … READING BETWEEN THE LINES

Learning To Walk Again … Or … Reading Between The Lines

Author’s foreword

Readers of this blog know that I have been accused of (and admit to) writing extremely long blog posts with content that takes many twists and turns before finally arriving at some evident, or not so evident, conclusion. Now, I am aware that many people neither like, nor read, lengthy posts and they have articulate reasons for their inaction and inattention.

Equally, I am aware that there is a long and honourable tradition among those who love newspapers (and especially among those who impress upon others that they read their broadsheet newspapers from cover to cover,) to read the headline, a few of the sub-heads and first sentence and then move on to the next article. Naturally, they look at the photos – in a kind of reverse approach to how many men say they read Playboy or Penthouse. 

Today, I acquiesce to this reading style by writing in a form to match i.e., this post will consist of one headline with five sub-heads and respective opening sentences mimicking the content many readers would actually read even if the article were thousands of words longer.  I approach this project fearfully as it is a major departure from my usual style and so many words will have to die in the editing process. Read on to see how this works out.

PERSON WITH PARKINSON’S RENDERED IMMOBILE

The PD Gardener, having walked and cycled almost all of his life was understandably shocked at becoming almost completely immobile i.e., not able to walk without assistance, over a very short time span (4 – 5 days.)

IMG_0105

The PD Gardener doing what he does. Photo: Anne Marshall 2014

Looking for answers (in all the wrong places?) 

“Doctor, Doctor, Mister M.D. Can you tell me what’s ailing me? “ (Endnote 1)

and

Knee bone connected to the thigh bone

Thigh bone connected to the hip bone

Hip bone connected to the back bone (Endnote 2)

The above lyrics sing to me as I struggle to understand the crisis that currently engulfs my body and brain but unfortunately the answer seems locked forever in a “song that never ends.” (Endnote 3)

‘Advance’ and ‘progress’ are positive words, aren’t they?

It is a sobering moment when you realize you are ticking off the progress of your new and/or worsening Parkinson’s symptoms on a mental score card of scientifically established, empirical milestones signifying the intractable advance of Parkinson’s.

Symptoms defy explanation say medical specialists

“Appointments with various physicians, surgeons and other health professionals have left us confused and frustrated.”

The new normal 

Physiotherapy, Pilates and exercise show definite promise to lead the way back to a new normal … but why does the new normal feel like walking on bubble wrap?

IMG_2389

Better take provisions if the journey is 1,000 miles like this first mile.  Photo: The PD Gardener 2015

Next step
“It is often said that ‘a journey of 1,000 miles starts with a single step’ (end note 4) … but the importance of finding the start line and the correct direction should not be underestimated,” the PD Gardener notes sardonically.

IMG_3159 (1)

Perhaps the answer is just around the corner and down the hill…. Photo: The PD Gardener, 2015

End Notes

  1. “Good Lovin’ “ lyrics by Rudy Clark and Arthur Resnick. Number hit for The Young Rascals 1966.
  1. “Dem Bones” is a spiritual written by James Weldon Johnson circa 1920.
  1. Origin of “This is the song that never ends” or “This is the song that doesn’t end” is unknown but seems to have been made popular by Shari Lewis and Lamp Chop.
  1. Attributed to Lao Tzu, a contemporary of Confucius and a major figure in Chinese philosophy.

© Stan Marshall (The PD Gardener) 2016

In Altamont, Living to be 100 is Old Hat or Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?

Author’s Foreword

hat Thepdgardener IMG_0608

It happens sometimes that people are overlooked. They shouldn’t be but they are. I was looking at some old photos the other day and it occurred to me that in my last blog post I unintentionally neglected another centenarian, a remarkable woman who just happens to be my daughters’ great, great aunt (my ex-wife’s great aunt to be precise.) So it is that Jean Madill joins Jemima (‘Aunt ‘Mime) Wilson, Mary Anne Scoles and Mary Armitage as centenarians I have known.  Jean was not only a contemporary of these three women but she shared that same four-mile geographic proximity to Altamont, Manitoba. The probabilities of a convergence of people (all women in this case) who live to be 100 or more years old within the same locale must be pushing the boundaries of something more than mere coincidence. If living to be 100 years old is getting to be “old hat,” then I would like my old hat to join that select grouping in another 33 years!  It seems a little premature to celebrate that occasion just yet given that I am a Person with Parkinson’s (PwP) and have other health problems… but you never know.

This post has taken me eons to write. I thought it was going to be a quick exercise to correct an oversight but it has turned out to be an excursion into social and health policy on care and care giving for those with chronic conditions. Many of these thoughts were sparked in a round about way by memories of Jean Madill, some were honed with the assistance of my friend Selma Garten and some were rekindled in recent days with the passing of my cousin, Bob Marshall, after a long battle with Parkinson’s and dementia.

But I have to start somewhere so let me give you the lowdown on Jean Madill and how her story relates to the importance of family, ideology and public policy in determining how and where we live out our “golden years.”

Jean Madill

Born: December 14, 1905 in Altamont, Manitoba

Died: November 6, 2006 in Notre Dame de Lourdes, Manitoba (100 years 325 days.)

Father: R. W. (Wes) Madill. Born February 5, 1871 in Ontario. Died: July 3, 1944 in Altamont

Mother: Jane Elizabeth (née Maloney) Madill. Died: June 15, 1955.

 

Jean Madill Sadie Dawson Wilson IMG_1569

Jean Madill (L.)  Sadie Wilson (R.)  In Sadie’s grocery store. Photo: S.Marshall c. 1982

Why have I been thinking about Jean? Is it that she joined that select club of being a woman centenarian who lived in Altamont?  Partly I guess, but that is not the whole of it. Jean was a unique individual who lived a unique life in unique circumstances. To be blunt, she was a character who would have had to be invented if she did not exist in real life. She deserves to be accorded a special place in the recorded annals of Altamont, Manitoba. Unfortunately though, I don’t find much of her in those records.  Maybe I am not looking in the right annals?

Please bear with me while I think this through a bit. You see, I knew Jean mostly during the 25 year period after she turned 50 years of age.  Minor arithmetic will tell you that while I am able to relay some of my own personal memories and thoughts from the time period I knew her best, I can only touch indirectly upon her first 50 years and her final 25 years.  Still,  Jean’s life has me thinking about care for the elderly, disabled, mentally ill and those with chronic health problems.  She provides a springboard for a discussion about the ideology, values, and the evolution in treatment for those with mental health problems and the pressing need in today’s society for care of the elderly with or without chronic health complications.  Prior to retirement my job required me to be knowledgeable about health policy and the politics of health care.  Now, I am a Person with Parkinson’s (PwP) and these matters are much more in my face in a very personal way.

No memories are insignificant 

I feel it is only fair that you should know that my recollections of Jean and others have been processed, filtered and stored in my cerebral cortex waiting for the appropriate stimuli to unlock them.  I am not certain how memories are for others but mine do not flow over my brain like a smooth, soothing stream of healing water.  No, any particular memory making its way through my brain crashes against the folds of my cerebral cortex  and against other memories. The energy released from these collisions is what I call ‘gray energy’ inasmuch as it emanates from the intersection of the gray matter of my brain and the gray areas in my memory.  This ‘gray’ energy has an irradiance and illuminance enabling the “mind’s eye” to detect subliminal images within the darkest recesses of the cerebral cortex.   [Sorry to disappoint you but ‘gray energy’ in this context has nothing to do with the burning of fossil fuels, and ‘subliminal’ has nothing to do with whether you are unknowingly being tempted to buy popcorn at the concession in the movie theater.]

Memories are critical to how I interpret the world and releasing them is sometimes a curious procedure.  Although the process I outline above seems rather ad hoc and perhaps chaotic, I don’t believe that ‘Chaos Theory’ plays any role in the formulation of my beliefs i.e., in my brain there is no equivalent of a butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil, creating (or preventing) a hurricane in Texas.  While my heart may flutter from time to time for good reason (perhaps romantic, perhaps physiological) and my dopamine deprived brain will challenge my equilibrium, my perception of the world remains firmly rooted in whether ‘facts’ and memories line up. You see, I don’t believe that my memories, even seemingly insignificant ones, are ad hoc.  Memories surface in a never ending human quest to understand and explain our existence, and in our innate drive to improve our lives (not just individually but also collectively.)

The more memories of Jean Madill rise to the surface, the more I realize that these particular images lead to substantive questions of social policy and social change. How does society care for those who have chronic and long term illnesses?  Who has the financial resources to meet the level of care required –  the state, institutions, communities, families?  Who has the capacity to ensure that the burden of care giving does not weaken and destroy the structure of support around those who need care?   Can a rose with a cloying name assist in understanding the values of a caring society?  What does the stigma of mental illness have to do with anything?  Some of these questions may appear to be unconnected but often the circuitous ‘milk run’ is the best way to see the incredible beauty of the countryside … or if you love train travel you will have the advantage of observing the backbone or the back side (some say backside) of every community.

Altamont 1906 IMG_6001

Altamont 1905   Photo from Memories of Lorne 1880 – 1980.

The photo at the left shows the main street of Altamont in 1905, the year Jean Madill was born. Only the United Church building (white A frame building at left) remains today. The train tracks cross the photo at the bottom.

Children of the 1950s

I will begin my journey with a brief look at children in 1950 rural Manitoba. When I was a child we would tease Jean Madill. I don’t recall it being malicious teasing and there were many occasions when I remember Jean laughing at a trick or two she played on us.  Still, you know how seven and eight year old boys behave sometimes – fuelled by a mixture of underdeveloped (not undeveloped) testosterone, a surfeit of bravado, boundless mostly misdirected and misguided energy, powered by a brain roughly equivalent to that of a chimpanzee, making for unpredictable and borderline acceptable social behaviour.

In the 1950s these chimpanzees … er … children were set loose to run unsupervised up and down the main street in Altamont on a Saturday night, the night when both farm and town families ventured into the stores to shop for groceries, get a haircut, skate or curl in winter, visit with friends and those acquaintances who lived farther away, and for the men to disappear into the Altamont Hotel slaking their chapped lips and dusty Souls with a few drafts of beer, away from the prying eyes of wives and other busy bodies. [Hey, I am just calling it like it was.] In other words, the adults were busy and the chimps … er … children had slipped their minders. A friend of mine used to categorize children as being “rug rats” until they could run and climb at which point they became “yard apes” or “street monkeys.” I guess we were the latter.

Sometimes the street monkeys would hurl taunts at each other and tease anyone who was different or appeared vulnerable.  Animal behaviours can rise to the surface in uncontrolled situations.  Jean Madill was one of the vulnerable and we (I am admitting my culpability here) would race past her chanting

Jean, Jean made a machine

Joe, Joe, made it go

Art, Art blew a fart

And blew the whole damn machine apart.

I guess you have to be in Grade 2 or 3 to appreciate how close this is to genius poetry for a seven-year old … well, a seven-year-old boy anyway.  Obviously, this little rhyme has been around since the 1950’s as I personally recall using it during those years. It was reprised with widespread attention in 1987 as “Zed’s Poem” in Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol. However, the rhyme is a variation of this older version originating in the 1920s.

Gene, Gene, made a machine

Joe, Joe, made it go

Frank, Frank, turned the crank

His mother came and gave him a spank

Sent him over the river bank. (See note 1)

Of course, as we were chanting it directly to our Jean Madill, we always thought the rhyme referred to “Jean, Jean” and not “Gene, Gene.”

Mental illness or mental health?

Why were we teasing Jean Madill?  That is a very good question with a not very good answer, I am afraid. Today, we would probably say that Jean had a mental illness or disability. It may even have a name although I don’t know that it does.  In the 1950s such conditions were described in common parlance as crazy, loony tunes, nuts, crackers, whacko, or some other not very helpful appellate. Not very adult I know, but at what age does adulthood begin? [When do street monkeys become sentient human beings?] As a corollary, is it too much to expect children to be adult? Whatever the answer, it is never too much to ask adults to be adult and the fact that many adults also said these same insensitive things is telling of both the “adults” and the times. Very often, people of that day did not address mental illness openly or compassionately and it was almost impossible to escape the stigma attached to it.

Looking back on it, I do sometimes think that maybe we children were a slight bit more adult than I give us credit for being.   To the best of my recollection, I never heard children say Jean was a “retard,” an “imbecile,” a “moron,” an “idiot,” or a “lunatic.“ Ironically, these were names we reserved for our close friends or those with whom we wanted to be friends, but weren’t.  It turns out that sociologists and criminologists studying deviant behaviour and government social policy experts and administrators had already reserved these names for use in their professional studies. Individuals were placed in “lunatic asylums” or “insane asylums” because they were “criminals,” “dangerous,” “maniacs“ or better yet, all three.  I cannot imagine that any of these descriptors were seriously applied to Jean Madill.  I certainly never saw her this way.

Most likely, we did not call Jean those names because Jean, 45 years older than we were, was not in our cohort.  She was of our parents’ and grandparents’ generations. We knew she was “different” but none of us perceived her as a threat. She was a benevolent figure from another dimension in our dramatis personae.  I have to be careful here not to leave the impression that we somehow were “enlightened” and should be applauded. Save your applause.  Consciously we weren’t but underneath our chimp behaviour lay a child’s inherent trust – not always to be relied upon but in this case a good barometer.

I have not read extensively on the subject of mental health but what I have read indicates that “mental health” as a concept was not in vogue at the turn of the 20th Century.   Put another way, mental illness had not yet been re-branded as mental health.  In fact, the first Mental Health Week in Canada was declared only in 1951, a full 46 years after Jean Madill was born. At the time Jean entered this world,radio was still two decades away from being the latest craze and the widespread use and ownership of television sets was even further away. Social media campaigns such as Bell Let’s Talk Day were unheard of and it would be almost fifty years after the first Mental Health Week before the Internet and social media would provide a platform in the struggle to end the stigma of mental illness; to highlight the need for access to care and services; to provide guidance for workplace mental health initiatives; to fund research on treatments and cures; and to support community organizations in their local programs and services.

logo_letstalk_2en

The 2016 Bell Let’s Talk Days raised an astonishing $6,295,764.75 from 125,915,295 calls, texts, tweets and shares. Since 2010, the total contribution is approaching $100,000,000 to mental health programs. We should be encouraged by the support this campaign has received but we have to wonder why, more than 110 years after Jean Madill was born, the conversation about mental health remains so difficult and illusive.

The language of mental health

As a child the most charitable thing I recall hearing in relation to Jean Madill’s situation is that she had been studying to be a nurse when she had a “nervous breakdown” (see Note 2.)   I was eight years old and I was not exactly sure what this phrase meant. I am not sure I know even now. I do know that the term is not a medical one and it does not refer to a specific condition. In general, it describes a period of stress (usually temporary) where a person is not able to function normally in daily life. Everything just becomes too overwhelming. (See Note 3)

What is mental health anyway? About 30 years ago some friends were visiting with their precocious five-year-old daughter. Let’s call her Abigail.   Abigail and I had been dispatched to the corner store for some milk and as we walked she started a rather serious conversation about how she was feeling. She suddenly stopped walking, stood back, put her hands on her hips, looked me straight in the eye and announced quite pointedly, “I have had several mental breakdowns, you know.” It took me by surprise and I snorted a little laugh before recovering quickly to say sympathetically, “That’s too bad but I understand that you grow out of them.” Almost immediately she switched to another subject and nothing more was said about her breakdowns. When I relayed this story to her parents later that evening they laughed and explained that “temper tantrums” in their family are referred to as “mental breakdowns.” It seemed reasonable at the time but now it has me wondering where temper tantrums fit in the typologies of disorders in relation to depression or anxiety, and whether ‘tantrums’ could ever constitute an inability to function in daily life, or at least be a symptom of mental illness, an indicator of things to come.

I can only imagine that my own parents and other family members must have wondered about my early childhood behaviour at times. Some of my very earliest memories involve throwing temper tantrums when I didn’t get my way. I recall one occasion when I threw a huge tantrum, a performance worthy of an Oscar – full out crying/wailing, foot stomping, yelling, and screaming. I don’t recall pitching anything but I may have.  To make matters worse we were at my aunt and uncle’s house and I am certain my parents were mortified by my behaviour.  I recall being banished to a quiet room from which I escaped to hide in the car because my parents were going to go into the city and weren’t going to take me!  The forgoing “drama”unfolded but I feel compelled to reserve more specific details for another blog posting – or maybe for the next time I have an opportunity to occupy a therapist’s couch!

Stan c 1952 IMG_6054

The PD Gardener c. 1952   Photo: R. B. Marshall

My point is that the language of mental illness and mental health is tricky and in Jean’s case categorizing the problem as a “nervous breakdown” seemed carefully designed to project 1) an impression that Jean had been “normal” but had some sort of mental collapse from which she was not able to recover; 2) that she was intelligent and studying to take on a respected and important professional career; and 3) she was to be treated with kindness and respect.  Aside from some teasing and mild harassment by unthinking, uncaring, and unaware chimpanzees/children, I perceive this to be the case but I am certain there were undercurrents through the community that were not as innocuous. You would think that something unsavoury had to have happened in the 100 years of Jean’s life, but if it did, I don’t know what it was.

The changing landscape of mental health

When the Manitoba Asylum at Selkirk, Manitoba was built in 1886, it was the only facility on the Canadian prairies with separate facilities to care for the mentally ill.  It shouldn’t surprise anyone that overcrowding was an issue almost immediately.  As a result, a “Home for Incurables” was established in Portage La Prairie and in 1891 a second asylum opened in Brandon. By 1914 there were about 1,500 patients in the three Manitoba facilities combined. While it is true that more attention was being given to mental illness, care for patients was not well understood and both psychiatry and psychiatric nursing in Manitoba were still at rudimentary stages. The nurses’ residence did not open at the Selkirk Hospital until 1926 and it wasn’t until 1960 that Psychiatric Nursing was established as a separate professional entity in the province. But by 1950 the number of patients in psychiatric hospitals in Canada ballooned to over 66,000.

The distinction between a mental health concern and a mental illness [a mental health concern becomes a mental illness when ongoing signs and symptoms cause frequent stress and affect your ability to function, see Note 4] was not well understood nor were the wide variety of symptoms and behaviours. People did seem to understand that stress, a traumatic life experience, an abusive relationship, brain damage, chronic medical conditions, or drug an alcohol abuse might cause mental illness.  Even so, there was often disagreement on treatments and availability of treatment was not guaranteed.

Have mental health matters become more clear in a present day world?  I am not sure, as there is a bewildering array of concepts joining the aforementioned “nervous breakdown” and “mental breakdown,” challenging the layperson to keep abreast. Just what are the differences and similarities among concepts such as mental illness, mental disability, mental impairments, mental retardation, learning disability, psychiatric disability, intellectual disability, anxiety disorder, mood disorder, depressive disorder, affective disorder, seasonal affective disorder (SAD), schizophrenia disorder, dysthymia, obsessive compulsive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, to name a few?  I do understand that specificity in definition is required to advance science but sometimes in the interests of awareness, simplicity works. Mental illness comes in many shades and shapes and when a mental illness interferes with the performance of major life activities, such as learning, working and communicating, etc. it is a disability.  (See Note 5)

So it was that Jean Madill was a young adult in the 1920s with a mental illness/disability. Available facilities for the treatment and care of mental illnesses were nascent and poorly equipped to classify patients, never mind actually treat them.

The changes in the name from “Goal” (sic) [I assume it should be Gaol,] to “Manitoba Asylum”, to “Selkirk Insane Hospital” [1910], to “Selkirk Hospital for Mental Diseases”, to “Selkirk Mental Health Centre”, reflect the changes in attitude, philosophy and function that mark the course of progress in the care and treatment of the mentally ill. (See Note 6)

These name changes coincide with a policy to shift care from institutions to community in the 1950s in an attempt to eliminate or at least soften the negative effects of institutions. New and better medications, approaches that stressed rehabilitation, and a program of foster care for children during the 1950s and 1960s, dramatically reduced patient populations in institutions. Institutions did however pick up the pieces when families and/or communities failed or where the patient was not suitable for placement in the community.

Eva IMG_3777

Genevieve Evangeline (Eva) Marshall   Photo credit and date unknown

[Interestingly, my Aunt Eva Marshall played a key role in many children’s lives as a foster parent during this time period. I recall meeting several of her foster children when I visited with my cousins during summers at the Brandon Experimental Farm. While there was some “drama” from time to time, I do not recall any interaction as being upsetting … or uplifting for that matter. It just was.]

Two cases from the mental hospital grounds: Jessica and the King of Prince Edward Island

In the late 60s and early 70s, I played hockey in Brandon and Selkirk which coincidentally were the locations of mental hospitals in Manitoba.  In Brandon my teammates and I would often go to the grounds of the mental hospital to play soccer, Frisbee, baseball or just hang out on nice warm spring days.  Often, we would encounter staff and “inmates” as we called them from the hospital. I was totally ignorant about almost every dimension of mental illness. I recall being very surprised to encounter the teenage granddaughter (let’s call her Jessica) of some people I knew. I met Jessica on several previous occasions at her grandparents’ house. Apparently she was well known to my friends as someone who was being treated as an outpatient at the Hospital and liked to engage in sex talk.

The few times I saw Jessica on the Hospital grounds we were with our respective groups of friends – all girls in her group, all guys in mine. I recall the encounters as hyper – dramatic, foul – mouthed displays of aggression graphically punctuated with shouted litanies of various sex acts and behaviours.  It was not the innocent, humorous and flirtatious banter between teenage girls and boys intent on striking up friendships and romances or even temporary sexual dalliances. Jessica and her gang never escaped the collective persona of a slut. What was the collective persona of the gang I was with, you ask?  Good question. We were probably closest to a tormentor, willingly providing the stimuli, the mean teasing, and the suggestive contexts for the sluts to hurl the filth that we wanted to hear.  I don’t know if we took Jessica’s gang down to our level or vice-versa but the fact is that we were both at the same low-level level – so far down that no lower level could be achieved without physical contact.  But to my knowledge, no relationships, sexual or otherwise, ever developed between members of our groups. It seems weird but we always parted somewhat amicably as our ‘fuck you’ and ‘fuck off’ goodbyes and other creative invective hurled in both directions were pinned in the air like corsages and boutonniere to be cherished forever as keepsakes.

I was accustomed to crude behaviour as it is the norm among young hockey players but I have to say that these experiences with Jessica and her friends rattled me a little. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a saint by any means but I was fresh off the farm so to speak and had never encountered such explicit behaviour in girls. I suppose Jessica might have been concerned that I would rat her out to her grandparents but I doubt that this was a major issue. She needn’t have been concerned anyway as I didn’t know them well enough to broach this topic, and I can’t imagine what I would have said to her grandparents that would have been helpful to keep the conversation going. “Oh by the way, I saw Jessica on Saturday and she asked me to …. “ I don’t think so! Besides, it has taken 50 years for me to even let it rise to the surface. I never saw Jessica after those few encounters that summer.

In Selkirk, several of my friends worked at the Selkirk Mental Hospital. Sometimes a few of us would go to the manicured green spaces of the Hospital to beat the summer heat. Often we would encounter a friend who was on the grounds working with a patient or two. I don’t have very fond memories of those occasions. From my perspective there was always an element of the unknown, a concern for safety, and there was an undercurrent of ridicule and nastiness of staff and visitors towards patients that sometimes surfaced in ways that were seemingly innocuous, but were anything but innocuous. At the time we thought it was funny to ask one particular patient repeatedly, “What is your name?” And when the patient answered just as predictably and repeatedly, “The King of Prince Edward Island,” we would laugh uproariously. Like small children we, including the patient it seems, never grew weary from the repetition and only stopped when the orderly ordered us to stop. While hospital staff was complicit in these exchanges, to their credit they were the ones who knew to draw the line when our games became too harassing.

I am not sure if either the Selkirk or Brandon Hospitals were options for the Madill family in their search for treatment for Jean. I would be surprised if there were not inquiries and/or consultations. However, I am not privy to this information and while I am interested from both an academic and a personal perspective, these details are not germane to the story I recount today. Suffice to say that by the mid 20th century the paradigm for the delivery of mental health programing had shifted from institutions toward community and family.

The importance of family

The Madills had roots deep in the community going back to the early 1890s.  R.W. “Wes” Madill married Jane Elizabeth Maloney in 1894 and went to Altamont from Austin, Manitoba to manage a retail store owned by his uncle John Sampson.  Wes would buy the business in 1902 and run it for the next 28 years.   On the Maloney family side, Elizabeth’s father, Henry, came to Altamont in 1890 and was Postmaster from 1907 – 1920.  Prominent in business and public service, both families were well known and respected throughout the community.  [Coincidentally, my own father was the Postmaster from 1955 – 1972.]

Those deep roots and the relationships that grew from them would cement Jean’s path in the future. In essence, the family pulled its own ‘safety net’ tightly around Jean such that she was able to live her long life in relative dignity in the same small community where she was born – a claim few others can make.

Jean had three brothers. Clifford married Jessie Skinner; Gordon married Fanny Acaster; and her twin brother Ken married Elsie Snowdon. Her two sisters were Mabel, married to Jim Dean, and Grace who married Jack Shellard. Cliff and Gordon continued to live locally and I recall the others were in contact regularly.  Over the years these siblings, their partners, extended families, and other community members provided a safe haven for Jean – one that permitted her not just ‘to survive’ or ‘to exist’ but ‘to live’ with some form of dignity.

To be blunt, providing care for someone with a long term illness requires considerable financial resources irrespective of whether the care is provided in an institution, the community or by the family.  My understanding is that one source of financial support for Jean was her parent’s estate. Her father, Wes Madill, died July 3, 1944 at age 73 when Jean was 38 years old and she was 49 when her mother, Jane Maloney Madill, died on June 15, 1955.  No one could have guessed that Jean would live to be almost 101 years old, outliving her immediate family members and most of her contemporaries in the community.

The Madill estate included some income-generating property such as the “Madill Block” established on Altamont’s Main Street at the turn the 20th century. Unfortunately the store was destroyed by fire early in the morning of December 3, 1905. The loss of the store and stock was valued at $10,000 and was insured for only $6,700 but Wes continued to operate the store out of the Maccabbee Hall [another interesting topic for a future blog post] until 1907 when a new building was completed. The risk of fire must have been very high in these communities [I plan to explore this theme of fire in future blog posts] as on a Sunday morning in May 1923 fire levelled Madill’s store once again. And, once again Wes Madill operated the store from another property until he could rebuild. The business was finally sold to George Bishop in 1930 but I believe the Madill family retained ownership of the Block.

Madill Block 2

Photo showing the Madill Block in early 1950s. Fire would soon destroy the hardware store at the left. Photo: unknown

In the 1950s the Madill Block had two competing grocery stores coexisting side by side on the street level. (I remember my dad telling me that we should patronize each store to an approximate equal amount.) There were also three or four apartments on the second floor. The Block has specific memories for most children of my generation. It certainly does for me. The very first time I watched television was in Orville Bishop’s apartment in the Block. Orville was a bachelor farmer who moved to town and he owned the first and only TV in the community at the time. Along with his farming and bridge playing buddies, he watched hockey on Saturday nights but on Saturday afternoons, Orville’s apartment became the local cinema as his door was open for us to watch Horse Opera.  We huddled around the small black and white screen where Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Zorro, Rin Tin Tin, Wild Bill Hickok, Hopalong Cassidy, Wyatt Earp, The Lone Ranger, Maverick, My Friend Flicka, The Rifleman, Texas Rangers, The Last of the Mohicans, and others were central to our socialization into a culture where good guys wore white hats and bad guys wore black hats – and women played subordinate roles …. and everyone used guns. How did we escape this experience to become enlightened adults? … or did we?  Another topic for another day …. but right now we should return to the key figure in this story.

‘Stick it where?’ money

Jean Madill also lived in an apartment in the Block for quite some time; her small quarters piled high with papers and magazines. She subscribed to one of the Winnipeg papers – I am not sure which one but it was clear later in my life that if you were a Conservative you subscribed to the Winnipeg Free Press and if you were a Liberal you subscribed to the Winnipeg Tribune and maybe the Star Weekly. If you were NDP, you subscribed to the Toronto Star Weekly, and maybe the Tribune. I remember my friend R.W. and I reviewing the results of the Altamont poll after an election. We discovered that three people in the poll had voted NDP. We knew who two of them were but couldn’t place a name beside the third NDP vote. I think I know who it was but without absolute proof, I leave it a mystery. Anyway, I am not sure how much Jean knew about, or cared about, politics but I do know she read the papers – and then kept them in her apartment.

Family members dropped by from time to time to take Jean to a neighbouring community for lunch. She enjoyed such outings but before she returned other family members had swooped down upon her apartment, taken the reams of paper and cleaned up. Her place was nice and tidy again. Jean of course would be mad as a hatter and would curse at everyone involved. She sometimes remembered from one time to the next and would refuse to go for lunch at the next invitation … but mostly she liked to lunch and the ritual would continue – swearing and all. I like to think that she played the game and played her family, but who knows? Whatever the case, her family was doing its best to look after her interests.

Main St West scrnshot

Desolate winter view to the west. Post Office is on right. The “A” frame building is United Church.  Photo: S. Marshall 1982

When Jean began to receive Old Age Security, she enjoyed the freedom of having money over which she had some control. In fact, she occasionally offered money to family members for cleaning her apartment or for inviting her to lunch or dinner. Sometimes she left the money later, under a vase or lamp, upon visiting that person’s home. Of course, family members would not take Jean’s money, and Jean, feeling the power of her independence would retort indignantly, “Well, stick it up your ass then!” Others are in a better position to confirm this story but I understand the money was kept to offset Jean’s unforeseen expenses and/or future needs. The money accumulated and it was commonly known among family and friends as “Stick it up your ass money.”

Cookies and commerce

When a new friend Bruce and his family moved to Altamont from Winnipeg, we played at their apartment and in the hallways of the Block, and Jean would often invite us into her apartment or sometimes a group of kids would knock on Jean’s door. We would crowd in when she answered and stand in a small clump (there were no chairs or couches free of papers or boxes) and she would offer us cookies, or bread with uncoloured margarine the same as Aunt ‘Mime would, except the bread was not as appetizing. In fact, Jean was most often very apologetic as she proffered treats, “I am sorry that I don’t have much to give you but take some of these cookies, they’re going mouldy anyway.”  My recollection is that we always ate what was offered and none of us suffered any negative consequences.

When I was about 10 years old, dad put me to work in the confectionery which was separated from the Post Office by a thin half wall of 2 x 4 studs and plywood with wire mesh to the ceiling. To get from one side to the other you used an interior particleboard door which had no lock. I remember my father laughing after the Post Office had been burgled (it was robbed more than once) that the crooks took time to smash the door down when all they had to do was turn the handle. Before I get side tracked on the history of burglaries in Altamont (fodder for another blog), let’s return to Jean Madill.

Father's store Manitoba IMG_4393

Altamont Post Office, Confectionery and Bus Depot    Photo: unknown

Jean usually made the short walk (about 75 meters) to the Post Office each day to pick up her mail after which she would often purchase a treat in the confectionery. In order to pay, she would search through a big shopping bag pinned to her sweater or coat to retrieve another smaller bag containing a smaller purse, and inside the purse was a small plastic change squeeze. She would dig out her 25 cents for payment and then patiently return any change (yes, change from 25 cents!) to the squeeze purse that was then returned to its assigned space deep inside the succession of bags. Sometimes, there were more bags than at other times and it may not have been the height of fashion but it was a security system that seemed to work, as I don’t recall her ever being burgled.

Squeeze change purse

Squeeze change purse

Fashionista meets the fashion police

Jean was also a bit of a fashionista – maybe a “victim of fashion and accessories” (with a nod to Carol Pope and Rough Trade.) Given the multi – bag design of her purses, you might think that Jean is the classic homeless “bag lady.” You would be wrong.  She did not carry an excessive number of bags, just enough to keep her money safe and she lived in her own place in the Block and in the iconic Altamont Hotel after the Block succumbed to a declining rural economy, losing its tenants, and falling into disrepair and disuse.

Jean was rarely in accordance with fashion trends and charted her own course. She loved interesting clothes and different colours. As I recall she particularly liked to wear leggings, pants, skirts, blouses, sweaters, scarves and jewelry in any combination or number, in colours that were appropriately gaudy and outrageous, incorporating dots, stripes, checks, paisley or any other pattern, the permutations and combinations of which were seemingly limitless. This was haute couture a la Jean Madill.  I am not sure where she purchased her clothes but there has to be a story there. In the end though, the colours per se were not the problem. No, it was her style and the way she wore clothes that led to most of her transgressions with the Altamont fashion police.

In the mid 1960s she caused some consternation when she began to wear maternity tops – much cooler in the summer she reasoned. Fair enough, but generally speaking unless you were pregnant, it was not acceptable to wear maternity clothes, reasoned the local fashion police and others who had influence in her life.

Hott pants

Don’t forget though that this was the late 1960s and early 1970s (I never liked the exactness of defining cultural eras according to the precise numerical value of any decade i.e., 60s or 70s) and “fashion” for teenage girls ranged from headbands to hot pants and ponchos to peasant blouses. I waffle (not the NDP waffle) back and forth as to whether fashion was always a year or two (or ten) behind in rural Manitoba compared to the big centres or if some fashions just bypassed us altogether. In any case, I recall a group of local teenage girls headed “across the line” to Fargo and Grand Forks, North Dakota for a little shopping trip one spring. The teenagers returned with peasant blouses that to the entire world looked just like maternity tops … and they weren’t pregnant … were they? … Well … I am pretty sure they weren’t…. Maybe Jean was ahead of the curve on this fashion trend…?

Fly-fishing

The fashion police worked overtime to watch Jean even as others made fashion faux pas after fashion faux pas. I have to say that the attention was not always unwarranted. Somehow this question arose in Jean’s mind: Is it acceptable for a woman to wear men’s jeans with the fly undone during the summertime?

“A lot cooler,” Jean reasoned, and she was the first to sport this fashion statement on the streets of Altamont.

“Likely true,” the norm setters (if not trend setters) replied, “but it does fly (so to speak) in the face of community standards.”

Jean, I have to agree with them on this one. It doesn’t matter who you are, you don’t go around with your fly unzipped. Why do you think men have developed surreptitious ways of checking to see if the fly is all the way up? And even then we miss it sometimes and have to be reminded by someone who walks up with a big smile on his/her face and says, “What does an airplane do?” That is your clue to surreptitiously place your hand on your belt buckle, let your fingers drop ever so slightly as to sense the openness or ‘closedness’ at the front of your pants. Some people call this manoeuvre “fly fishing.” If it is open, you abruptly execute a pirouette (if you are very adept) or a demi – rond (if you are not so adept) pulling the zipper up as you do so, your whirling body providing diversionary cover for the covert action of nimble fingers. However, if your zipper is closed, someone has played a trick on you. Embarrassing one way but funny the other way, although it is infinitely more embarrassing when they don’t tell you and you walk around for a large portion of the day with your fly wide open as if airing the family jewels. As I grow older and more forgetful, the more important it has become for Anne to take seriously her duty to give me the once up and down every time I come back from the restroom or leave the house. I believe that all men need a zipper monitor. It was recently reinforced to me that if I slip up and don’t zip up, I am left to walk around the Christmas craft show most of the afternoon looking like Baaaad Santa. Remember: “Zip it” is more than just code for “keep your mouth closed.”

Belt buckle IMG_5831

Belt Buckle commemorating Altamont’s Centennial  Photo: The PD Gardener 2016

What can we draw from these observations about fashion? Oh boy, I might find myself in trouble here. I offer some possibilities: 1) Fashion is not fashion for everyone; for one thing it has to be age appropriate. If that is the case, Jean, you are out of luck. You were on the wrong side of the age watershed for clothes that can double as maternity as well as peasant blouses. 2) Perhaps those who had influence over Jean didn’t have the same influence over teenagers. After all, the 1960s is noted for teenage rebelliousness. 3) These teens knew that their parents would disapprove of hot pants so they erred, ironically, on the conservative side by choosing hippie peasant blouses. (Is a ‘conservative hippie’ an oxymoron?) I am not sure it matters much as all the teenage girls were right in style in hot pants a year later anyway. I am glad Jean who was well into her 50s by this time never picked up the hot pants fashion. At least, I never witnessed it. I only wish that some other women of her age group were as sensible. … I am stopping this line of thinking now… in the interests of self-preservation. 4) Finally, we can conclude that the only safe way to ensure you are zipped up is to wear clothes that have no fly, giving whole new meaning to that traditional campfire song (possibly written by Pete Seeger,) “There ain’t no flies on us.” Nevertheless, it does beg the question of whether men can wear jeans that have no fly? I wonder what Jean would think?

‘Jeannie from the Block’

Let’s leave Jean’s jeans and get back to a more serious look at ‘Jeannie from the Block’ (apologies to J. Lo.) I know very little about the ownership and management of the Madill Block. It generated income I am certain but how much I cannot say and it is not a matter of great concern to me. I do believe however that there was a concerted family effort to provide Jean as much independence and the best quality of life possible, and the Block was central to that goal at least in the early days. I am pretty certain though that for a large portion of Jean’s adult life, the resources of the extended family were called upon to meet basic needs. Knowing the Madill family as well as I do assures me that Jean was in good hands.

Madill Block text no toolbar

The Madill Block in 1982 looks much the same as it did in 1950.  Photo: S. Marshall 1982

If Jean lived in a larger urban setting, would she have fared better? Some will argue that she would have better access to programs that would meet her specific needs. Others will say that family and a close knit rural community was all that Jean needed. Of course, we will never know for certain. Was the reality of her life a success or a disaster? On balance, I would say that it was a success; it certainly wasn’t a disaster. There will never be unanimous agreement on the benefits and shortcomings of rural life but Jean spent most of her almost 101 years living among family and friends in the same small community into which she was born. There are many who will be envious of her achievement. As people approach end of life they often express a desire to return to their families and spend their final years “at home.” You know the saying “It takes a village to raise a child.” Perhaps the parallel credo in this instance is “It took a village to ensure quality of life for Jean.”

Jean’s relationship to others in the community, family or not, was a symbiotic one. In many ways, Jean was an unofficial ambassador for Altamont providing a warm and friendly greeting to all who came within its boundaries. No event held in the community was really ‘official’ until she graced it with her presence. In villages you get used to the fact that everyone knows everyone’s business. That is certainly the case in Altamont but it is not always a bad thing. It meant people were watching out for Jean, and conversely she was watching out for them. And if they weren’t watching out for each other, they were just watching each other. Jean would raise her voice if we children were stepping out of line or if other strange “doings” were in the works. She also tidied up around the village keeping common spaces free of garbage. I believe she was compensated in some manner but I don’t know how much or who paid. I do not believe that she was exploited in this arrangement.

It all seems a little idyllic and idealistic, doesn’t it? Is the secret to providing care for someone with a chronic illness or disability that simple? Family and community to the rescue! Well, not exactly, but before I digress into some political theory, it is time to stop for a moment to smell the roses.

A Rose for Jean

In my previous blog post I recommended a specific rose to represent each of the other three centenarians I have known. Keeping with that theme, Jean Madill deserves an appropriate  rose.  I thought long and hard about which rose I would chose, not just to celebrate her long life but to represent her story.  Inevitably, I gravitated toward the Hope for Humanity Rose developed at the Morden Research Station by Lynn Collicutt in 1984 in the Parkland series and introduced by Agriculture Canada in 1995 in honour of the 100th Anniversary of the founding of the Canadian Red Cross. This compact rose might be overlooked except for clusters of very dark red roses that bloom continuously in the growing season and through which she shouts, “Hey! I am here! I am beautiful!” It is a truism, I suppose, that everyone has detractors and some claim that Hope for Humanity requires extra care and pruning and is therefore “high maintenance.” Some say they hate the name … too cloying, an excess of liberal sentiment that almost makes them gag … but purchase the rose anyway for the beauty of the blooms.

In truth, neither the rose nor Jean Madill is “high maintenance.” All roses do require some regular care and pruning and Jean required familial oversight and a safe haven to thrive … and perhaps a little fashion advice and assistance with housekeeping along the way. Roses bloom with an ethereal beauty that is difficult to capture even with the latest technology. Similarly Jean Madill’s personality, nurtured by family and a caring community, carried a sparkle that shone through the gray of mental illness. 

Hope for Humanity: More than meets the eye

From the moment I first heard it, I was smitten by the phrase “Hope for Humanity.” Some would say my infatuation is just the “bleeding heart liberal” or the “social democrat” in me coming to the surface. Maybe that is the part of me that makes others gag?  Whatever, I do find the name “Hope for Humanity” thought provoking and uplifting.

We forever have Hope – a concept that I find somewhat mushy in the abstract but extremely sharp in its realism. For example, I hope for a cure for Parkinson’s disease. I carry that hope with me always even though it seems a bit vague, more like wishful thinking for something, anything, to happen. Hope is put into sharp focus though when the reality of what the fulfillment of wishes, prayers, and hopes actually means for persons living with Parkinson’s, their spouses, lovers, family, caregivers, and friends. It means a release from a complex of motor and non-motor symptoms that may range from annoying to unbearable, from predictable to unpredictable, from inconvenient to debilitating, from muscle movement irritants to excruciatingly painful cramping, from mildly intrusive anomalies to completely dominating regularities, from optimism to pessimism, and from joy to depression – all on any given day, at any given time, sometimes repeating with a relentless ebb and flow throughout every 24 hour period … forever. I witness that reality in myself and in my Parkie friends every day. When you understand the magnitude, the depth and breadth of this existence and the enormity of the joy that a cure would bring to our hearts, the relief it would bring to our minds, and the release it would bring to our muscles and brains, then Hope is no longer mushy; C’est clair!

Humanity” appears to be a straightforward concept meaning “mankind” or “humanness.” A literal interpretation of “Hope for Humanity” would be that we have “hope for mankind,” a lovely thought in its generality but it leaves too much unsaid for my liking. Ironically, I have to seek the abstract before I can understand the concreteness. Abstractly, humanity embodies qualities such as “benevolence,” “compassion,” “generosity,” “charity,” and “kindness.” You might argue that these are merely synonyms but I maintain that they form a package, reinforcing and strengthening each other to create an invincible mesh, a “social safety net,” the concrete manifestation of the altruism necessary for social and economic security.

“Social safety net”

Please excuse me as I continue my digression from roses per se to reflect on the fact that liberal democracies provide some form of “social safety net” for citizens. The term “social safety net” has many definitions ranging from minimal economic support or welfare (provided by governments, charities, informal social groups, and churches to citizens who have fallen on hard times) to the comprehensive supports provided by the modern “welfare state.” I truly dislike the term “welfare state” and I am in a mild state of shock that I have even raised it here.  I guess I would prefer ”social democratic state” in recognition that social responsibility is at its core.

In a social democratic state, the “social safety net” expands to include universal health care, unemployment insurance, public education and social services, state pension plans such as the Canada Pension Plan (CPP,) among other things. It springs from an ideology of an equal playing field to achieve success and redistribution of wealth occurs primarily through progressive taxation and access to services on the basis of need. My own personal beliefs fall very closely to these ideals. The state has a mandate to provide the structures of economic and social security for its citizens, intervening with various supports where necessary. No one should be left behind. (See Note 7)  It occurs to me that the values of a ”social democratic state” mirror the qualities in our earlier definition of “humanity” e.g., “benevolence,” “compassion,” “generosity,” “charity,” and “kindness.”

It should come as no surprise then that the “Hope for Humanity” rose has a complexity of her own being a hybrid of Prairie Princess, Morden Amorette, Morden Cardinette, R. rugosa and R. arkansana giving it a deep, almost blood red bloom to separate it from the landscape, a hardiness to cold weather, a resistance to disease, and all with a fragrance that does not overwhelm. For me, the heritage of the rose and the intricacies of “Hope” and “Humanity,” confirmed the Hope for Humanity rose as most appropriate to accompany Jean Madill.

IMG_6141

Two blooms on recently acquired Hope for Humanity Rose in our garden.  Photo: The PD Gardener 2016

Is family the answer?

I would not blame you for saying; “The PD Gardener has led us through a small, quite simple maze where the last turn opens into a clearing where all becomes …well … clear.” We could, quite correctly I believe, conclude that mental illness in Manitoba was not well understood at the turn of the 20th century and treatment was primitive within asylums and hospitals. This approach began to show its cracks and by mid-century treatment was shifting to community. Sadly, small communities such as Altamont (population ~200) within the Municipality of Lorne (population ~ 3,000) were unable to provide mental health and disability programs that would aid Jean’s treatment and care. Moreover, she did not have a disability that prevented her from participating in activities of daily living so there was an expectation that she could live with a certain independence outside of an institutional setting.

“Aha!” you say, “Then it is the family’s obligation and duty to care for the family member.”  You conclude that this is a story about how family provided for Jean and all was well. You are correct to a certain degree.  I believe Jean’s family did indeed ride to the rescue – out of love, duty, obligation, responsibility or whatever you might call it –  in the interest of choosing a reasonable option for Jean in a society with few options at the time. The family and many others from the community are to be commended for the role they played in Jean’s integration into community life. Altamont provided the environment Jean Madill needed and with family financial resources, the ‘safety net’ was in place.

Normally, I might be comfortable to let this observation be the end of our discussion but not today because a key question is prodding provocatively at my political core. Does it naturally follow that if we have a mental illness, disability or other chronic condition such as Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, then family is the preferred social unit for provision of care?

I fear that I have now opened up another can of worms and my moral and political compass must withstand intense interference as I pass through a very dangerous highly charged magnetic field.   My good friend Selma Garten states unequivocally  that the only real safety net for anyone requiring care is family.  Put bluntly, families are reservoirs of love and do not permit family members to be abandoned.  Selma speaks from much experience having cared for parents beginning at a very early age, and for her sister as they grow older. Her thoughts speak volumes to me in that one of the greatest fears I have as a PwP is the fear of abandonment as Parkinson’s advances and takes a greater and greater toll on my body and mind, as well as on the bodies and minds of those I love and who love me.  I don’t believe that this is an unreasonable fear on my part, not because I do not have faith that Anne and my family love me (I believe with all my heart that they do and I return that love unequivocally) but because the crushing weight of the care giving function in terms of time and resources may be just too much for any family to shoulder if a ‘social safety net’ is not in place to enable and assist the family to play its role over an extended period of time.

It is probably safe to say that the ideal scenario has us spending our last years with our families, secure in the knowledge that these years will be the ‘best’ years of our lives.  Equally, I believe  that it is safe to say, “That ain’t going to happen for many of us.”  I say this not because I am depressed ( I am not) or because I do not have confidence in my loved ones, but because the cards are stacked against us as we try to reach the ideal. For families to be the ideal, our society (social, political and economic life) must provide families with the capacity to meet the demand and their mandate. To date, social democratic states have not been able to meet the test of the ideal although they are working to fund and deliver “humanity” in long term care and end of life care.  Institutional care is most often described as cold and impersonal whether provided by the state, charitable organizations, or for profit entities. In 1977 Daniel Jay Baum characterized the nursing home industry as Warehouses for Death to warn us against the institutionalization of care for the elderly. The warning continued the move started in the 1950s and 1960s toward community care – not to be confused with family care. Nevertheless, recently I heard an interview on CBC Radio with Kay Parley, a psychiatric nurse who was also a patient of that era and she claims that the move to community care was not always the best move for patients – that they would have received better treatment in institutionalized settings such as mental hospitals where patients were “pushed to do things” instead of getting treatment under the “medical model” where the focus was on curing and looking after the patient.

Now 40 years later, the warning  about nursing home care is as salient as ever and few would agree that institutional care is to be preferred over care provided by families.  In fact, it is difficult to argue against family values when they are posed as compassionate and progressive ideals in contrast to institutions. But I am about to do just that. You see, the problem is that families most often can’t meet the test either.

If we assume that family is best suited to provide care for those who are mentally ill, it should also be best suited for other critical societal responsibilities. “Home schooling” would be the norm instead of public and/or private systems of daycare, kindergarten and grade school. At the opposite end of the age spectrum, elder care would be a family responsibility and government run care and private, for profit care would be least desirable. However, I have a gut feeling that some people are less likely to situate elder care in the family than they are to situate early childhood education there. Elder care has a different labour intensity and is, considering the cost of medical devices and pharmaceuticals etc., more expensive than childcare and early grade school.  The shorter duration of elder care may offset some of the cost. To be very crass about it, youth represent ‘future value’ and while the chronically ill elderly are ‘treasured’ for past contributions, the cost of care discounts their current value.

I want to be clear that I am not ruling out family as a legitimate option in individual cases. However, I am ruling out family as the primary and most effective provider for a complex set of societal needs e.g., health care, care for the mentally ill and disabled, all levels of education, unemployment assistance, pensions and retirement income, and many other responsibilities.

Even if family values and the family unit were extremely strong in our culture (and I am not sure it is that strong) the tensile strength (See Note 8) of the family cannot be infinite. There is a point at which the ability of the family to withstand stress fails. Oh sure, the strength of each family is different resulting in uncertainty and unpredictability when one or more of its members require care outside of the norm. How a society identifies and deals with situations requiring care are important questions.  Can family be the backbone for all health, and social and economic welfare or, asked slightly differently, can family be the ‘social safety net’ from first report to last resort?

Please bear with me. You see, I can’t get it out of my head that the different types of care required for the wide array of health and mental illnesses alone places huge stress on families. Over the century of Jean Madill’s life, the identification, classification, psychological and psychiatric therapies, drug therapy treatments, and social and education programs changed significantly. These changes were both qualitative and quantitative, and included new and better therapies as well as different locations for the responsibility, administration and delivery of programs. These changes require financial resources and human labour to navigate and implement successfully – resources most families do not possess. In truth, the modern family unit is not designed to accept these obligations on an individual basis never mind on a societal basis

Two critical stressors

Families are never exempt from the stresses of having to care for someone with a chronic condition.  Financial burden is one such stressor and is most acute when the family is not able cover costs of care. This burden is somewhat less if you live in a functioning “social democratic state.” The more complex the care and treatment, the more costly it is. The longer the duration of care, the greater the financial burden. The good news is that if you are very wealthy, maybe you can manage. However, it is likely the threat of bankruptcy or significant loss of wealth is omnipresent. Bankruptcy resulting from the cost of health care is common in the United States even if the family has some type of health insurance. It is not so common in Canada, which has more public and subsidized health care.

Caregiver burden is a second stressor and accrues to family member(s) over time. The longer the family member requires assistance and the more complex the care is, the greater the caregiver burden. However, the good news is that the more responsibility for care is spread across the extended family, the more caregiver burden can be ameliorated for any individual family member.

Today, families are faced with a rapidly increasing incidence of neurological conditions e.g., Alzheimer’s which is a common form of degenerative dementia and Parkinson’s disease where an estimated 50 – 80 percent of Persons with Parkinson’s (PwP) will develop Parkinson’s dementia within ten years of diagnosis. PwP will require increasing levels of care even if there is no dementia present as its advanced symptoms and the side effects of the drugs are extremely debilitating.

Usually a person newly diagnosed with Parkinson’s will have a high degree of physical and mental functionality permitting independence on matters of daily living including continuing to work in many cases. This independence diminishes as the disease advances but the life expectancy of PwP, while shorter than those without Parkinson’s, is still a good long time depending on the efficacy of the pharmaceutical treatments and physiotherapy/exercise programs followed.

While the family will remain at the core of activities of daily living and non-medical care for a lengthy period of time, there will be an increasing reliance on professional support including neurologists, family doctors, nurses, pharmacists, psychologists, psychiatrists, physiotherapists, speech pathologists, social workers, Parkinson’s organizations, exercise coaches, gym instructors, support group volunteers, and a whole raft of others. Many PwP will develop dementia and be forced onto a path of complete dependency. The cost of care and therapies increases almost exponentially as the disease progresses. If there is no extended health insurance coverage, the cost can be crippling for the family.

As Parkinson’s is a progressively degenerative disease, caregiver burden also increases as the disease progresses although not necessarily in a linear relationship with time. It may progress quickly, slowly, or not at all during some intervals, but know this; while it may take a hiatus from time to time, it will inevitably advance.

Along with that inevitability, PwP will eventually require more care than most families are capable of delivering at a cost that is much greater than most families can afford.

Very few families possess the tensile strength to fulfill the needs of family members who have significant health needs. In other words, in general the family is not well suited to be the ‘safety net of last resort.’

Long-term care is a vital component of the Ontario health care system. While most seniors can expect to reside in the community throughout their later years, a significant number will require institutional care to ensure safety and well-being. The need for long-term care services and supports is often greatest for those who are considered the most vulnerable – those who are frail, or have complex health conditions, or psychiatric disorders. (See Note 9)

What is my advice? If you believe that family is your safety net, then accumulate wealth and establish financial stability as quickly as possible and never relinquish it. At the same time get busy with making a large, cohesive, extended family, one that doesn’t suck up all your wealth. I say this tongue in cheek as liberal democracies are trending toward greater inequality between the top earners in the population and everyone else. According to Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives researchers

The richest 1% of earners in Canada accounted for 32% of all income gains between 1997 and 2007. That is four times their share of total income gains during the 1960s (another period of rapid growth) and almost double the share of gains of the 1% during the Roaring Twenties. (See Note 10)

I wish you good luck in making the top 1 percent of earners as not everyone can or will. At the same time the nuclear family is getting smaller not larger.

The average number of children per family decreased from 2.7 in 1961 to 1.9 in 2011. During the same period, the average number of people per family declined from 3.9 in 1961 to 2.9 in 2011. (See Note 11)

I think it is clear that it is not possible for financial and caregiver stressors to be alleviated solely through generation of wealth and increasing family size.  Policies designed to redistribute wealth are essential but run counter to policies of wealth accumulation. Decreasing family size means that care is less likely to be spread across the family. Add to that an unwillingness to sacrifice earning potential i.e., to leave the labour force to provide care, means that caregiver burden will continue.

Finding The Foyer

But have I convinced you that institutions are the best alternative?  Not likely.  As I said earlier, ideally we all would like to be with loved ones until the very end … or put another way, do not want to be abandoned.)  In the end though, our receptivity to, and acceptance of institutional care probably is conditional upon specific circumstances and we must prepare ourselves to make this decision.

I believe that Jean Madill’s family came as close to meeting the tensile strength test as any family has … but Jean lived to be over 100 years old, a wonderful achievement! She outlived most of her immediate family and contemporaries placing considerable responsibility and stress on extended family.  Altamont served as the secondary safety net for most of Jean’s life and certainly played a key role in ensuring that she was able to live out her life in dignity in a personal care home in the neighbouring community of Notre Dame de Lourdes.

The Foyer Notre Dame is an accredited 60-bed personal care home that provides continuous quality client care and service in both official languages. It’s (sic) health care team is composed of physicians, nurses, a social worker, a registered psychiatric nurse, an occupational therapist, a recreation worker, a dietitian and a large support staff. Other services such as foot care, hairdressing, companion and clothing sales are available. Residents may access the spiritual care and guidance of their choice. In addition to these various services, the Foyer also operates an Alzheimer Unit. (See Note 12)

It is tempting to wax poetic and become soft and fuzzy about family values but I caution against romanticizing the role of the family.  Some think the family is, or ought to be, the safety net of last resort but the reality is that it is unlikely to be. Jean’s century long journey to The Foyer highlights the necessity for governmental programming for those who require it. When caregiver burden and financial burden are just too great for families to handle independently, it is time to find the Foyer (not just metaphorically speaking.)

We all need a Foyer in our plans. I trust that if I am compos mentis, I will know when the time is right, for me and for my family, to take appropriate action. If I am not, then I trust my family to help me find The Foyer.

Still you are correct if you think there is a ‘feel good, soft, sweet centre’ to Jean’s story but it is not found in a proof that family is the best avenue for success.  To the contrary, Jean’s case is one of the exceptions and attempts to duplicate her experience, as an example of effective social policy for mental illness, are likely to fail. Membership in family and community is contingent upon relationships and characteristics that are rarely transferable and are almost never duplicated. In other words, we can marvel that it works in one instance but we can know that it will occur only rarely, if ever, in another. It is rather like counting on successive individual mutations every single year to improve your crop yield.

Finally …

Whew! That last section was rather serious, wasn’t it?

Initially, the objective of this post was to include Jean Madill as another remarkable woman from Altamont who lived to celebrate her 100th birthday. I am fortunate to have known her and to know something of her life and circumstance.

I also wanted to address some of the realities of life for those with mental illness and disability, partly through the eyes of someone (me) with minimal awareness and understanding of mental illness never mind the care, treatment and responsibilities for costs. I have exposed my gross ignorance more than once in the previous pages.

As I reflect on my encounters with Jessica and the King of Prince Edward Island, it is clear to me that the stigma of mental illness is incredibly hard to shed because we do not speak of the mental illness or the stigma directly.  Rather,  we camouflage both in euphemisms and stereotypes that mislead us.

I am not defending my own actions or denying culpability on my part in these exchanges but they were enough to make even me (a person who desperately wanted to fit in) feel ill at ease. Any encounters with patients who were allowed to be on the mental hospital grounds were awkward to say the least, partly because we had only the perception of the mentally ill as being “crazy” to inform our expectations and behaviours.  Needless to say, the “crazy” stereotype was (and is) a very poor basis for developing awareness about mental illness … because labelling them “crazy” allowed us to take away their dignity. It is with some degree of consternation that I realize that even the way I have recounted these two stories contributes to the stigma.

I have also used some humorous stories involving Jean Madill in this account. Some may argue that these accounts contribute to the ongoing stigma of mental illness and trivialize both the condition and the lessons to be learned.  My view is that these stories are evidence of ‘humanity’ – perhaps the most valuable contribution that Jean herself brings to this discussion – illustrating that those with mental illness and chronic health conditions have a right to both dignity and quality of life. I have done my best to blend humour with eccentricity in a manner that respects those rights.

One last, less serious, question

Finally, I have one last niggling question: If I live longer, will I know more people who reach 100 years of age i.e., will I know more than the four I have already identified? Hmmm… maybe the probabilities do increase [How is that for using a probability of probabilities hedge?] but I think the more intriguing question is, “Will other people live long enough?” For those who are older than I am right now, I wish you good health so we can party at your 100th birthday and you can party at mine in time! For those who are younger than I am now, I wish you good health so that we can party at my 100th birthday before we both celebrate yours! Of course, I gratefully accept wishes for good health from everyone so that I may fulfil my end of the bargain.

 

Santé! Happy 100th Birthday everyone!

Emojie birthday image

NOTES

  1.  Playground Jungle http://playgroundjungle.com/2011/09/gene-gene-made-a-machine.html
  2. The term ”mental breakdown” seems to be synonymous with “nervous breakdown.”
  3.  Mayo Clinic http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/depression/expert-answers/nervous-breakdown/faq-20057830
  4. Mayo Clinic http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/mental-illness/basics/definition/con-20033813
  5.  Boston College Center for Psychiatric Rehabilitation https://cpr.bu.edu/resources/reasonable-accommodations/what-is-psychiatric-disability-and-mental-illness
  6. Selkirk Mental Health Centre History, From “Manitoba Insane Asylum” to “Selkirk Mental Health Centre” http://smhc-archives.com/History%20of%20SMHC.pdf http://smhc-archives.com/History%20of%20SMHC.pdf August 2009.
  7. Some political parties and movements oppose the welfare state and derisively refer to governments that provide extensive state sponsored programs and services as the “nanny state.” These groups want to minimize the role of government in the everyday lives of citizens, leaving those who are on the margins to fend for themselves, and if they fail, so be it.
  8. Defined by Collins English Dictionary as “a measure of the ability of a material to withstand a longitudinal stress, expressed as the greatest stress that the material can stand without breaking.”
  9. Canadian Mental Health Association Ontario
  10. Klein and Yalnizyan 2016
  11. Statistics Canada
  12. Southern Health Regional Health Authority

 

SOURCES

Alzheimer’s Association http://www.alz.org/alzheimers_disease_1973.asp

American Senior Communities, Mental Illness vs Dementia in the Elderly, http://www.ascseniorcare.com/mental-illness-vs-dementia-elderly/

Daniel Jay Baum, Warehouses for Death, Burns and MacEachern Ltd. 1977.

The Beatles, When I’m 64

Bell Let’s Talk Day 2016, http://letstalk.bell.ca/en/

Canadian Mental Health Association, Ontario http://ontario.cmha.ca/network/minding-our-elders-mental-health-in-long-term-care/

CBC Radio, Interview of 93-year-old former psychiatric patient and nurse on lessons from LSD, Tuesday June 14, 2016

The Clinique: a monthly abstract of the clinics and of the proceedings of the Clinical Society of the Hahnemann Hospital of Chicago, 1923.

Canadian Rose Society  http://canadianrosesociety.org/CRSMembers/Resources/RosePhotos/ParklandRoses/tabid/71/Default.aspx

Collins English Dictionary

Dutch Growers Saskatoon http://plants.dutchgrowers.ca/11040002/Plant/1333/Hope_for_Humanity_Rose

Diane Franklin, Dementia and Mental Illness: Is Dementia a Psychiatric Disorder? Our Parents, March 26, 2015 https://www.ourparents.com/care-topics/2015/03/26/dementia-and-mental-illness-is-dementia-a-psychiatric-disorder/

Klein, Seth and Armine Yalnizyan, Better is Always Possible: A Federal Plan to Tackle

Poverty and Inequality, CCPA Alternative Federal Budget Technical Paper, February 2016. https://www.policyalternatives.ca/publications/reports/better-always-possible

Parliament of Canada, Interim Report of The Standing Senate Committee On Social Affairs, Science And Technology Report 1. The Honourable Michael J.L.Kirby, Chair. The Honourable Wilbert Joseph Keon, Deputy Chair. November 2004

Parliament of Canada Mental Health, Mental Illness and Addiction: Overview of Policies and Programs in Canada Report 1 http://www.parl.gc.ca/content/sen/committee/381/soci/rep/report1/repintnov04vol1part3-e.htm

Playground Jungle http://playgroundjungle.com/2011/09/gene-gene-made-a-machine.html

Selkirk Mental Health Centre History, From “Manitoba Insane Asylum” to “Selkirk Mental Health Centre” http://smhc-archives.com/History%20of%20SMHC.pdf http://smhc-archives.com/History%20of%20SMHC.pdf August 2009.

Southern Health Regional Health Authority, Manitoba http://www.southernhealth.ca/healthsite.php?id=147

Southern Health Regional Health Authority, Manitoba, Annual Report, 2014. http://www.southernhealth.ca/data/publications/35/2014-15%20Annual%20Report.pdf

Statistics Canada, Fifty years of families in Canada: 1961 to 2011

Nicole Zahradnik, Minding Our Elders: Mental Health in Long-Term Care
Network, Winter 2007, Ontario, Canadian Mental Health Association, http://ontario.cmha.ca/network/minding-our-elders-mental-health-in-long-term-care/

© Stan Marshall (The PD Gardener) 2016.

AN ‘ANNOYANCE’ OF NIGGLES, THREE REMARKABLE WOMEN, AND A DASH OF COLD, HARD REALITY

AN ‘ANNOYANCE’ OF NIGGLES, THREE REMARKABLE WOMEN, AND A DASH OF COLD, HARD REALITY

hat Thepdgardener IMG_0608

Author’s Foreword: Some readers will be relieved to learn that today’s blog does not involve any fiction. The Devil, having been vanquished one more time, has left the building.   Today I explore some ‘niggles’ that go back a very long way, reveal some of my memories of three remarkable women, leave me thirsty for more knowledge and finally, force me to face facts about the life expectancy of Persons with Parkinson’s (PwP.)

Niggles

Have you ever had a little ‘niggle’ in your brain – a thought or thoughts so persistent that you end up spending far too much time and attention to seemingly inconsequential details?  Well, I have. In fact, I have several niggles at the moment. I am not sure what the collective noun for a niggle is, or ought to be. Perhaps it is an ‘annoyance’ or a ‘persistence.’ (See Note 1)  Anne, the person who knows me best (too well I would argue) undoubtedly would affirm that I need no encouragement to pursue the most inconsequential of niggles.

Today, I reveal a few niggles that seem to form a straight line – a rare thing sometimes. I consider none of them to be totally inconsequential but they are hardly breaking news either. This ‘annoyance’ of niggles have been sitting in my mind in various forms for a long time and now, finally, it is time to examine them in the cold hard light of day, as they say.

Regular readers of this blog know that I frequently write about a small community called Altamont in southern Manitoba – a place that I often call home even though in many respects “there is no there, there” anymore as a former colleague is fond of saying. It is probably more accurate to say that it is really a “time and place” that I call “home.” In any case, I carry a few niggles from that time and place and the ones that carry the greatest weight reference one or all of three remarkable individuals. I guess there is no better way to begin than to introduce the first of these three people – a woman who influenced at least three generations of students in Altamont’s school – Miss Mary Armitage.

Mary Isabel Armitage

  • Born: March 12, 1902   New Haven District, Manitoba
  • Died: February 21, 2005, Manitou, Manitoba
  • Taught in Altamont: 1924 to 1962. Lived there most of her life
  • Awards: 1970 Manitoba Centennial Medal for her many years in the teaching profession and her activity in community affairs.

In my last blog on The “Stuff” of Curling I incorporated a highly fictionalized role for Miss Mary Armitage as the neutral arbiter in resolving a matter with the Devil. You will be relieved, I am sure, to know that this piece contains no fiction and no reference to the Devil beyond the fact that the Devil has left the building. However, since I wrote the curling series some particular memories involving Miss Armitage, the erstwhile long time teacher in the Altamont School and my teacher for three years, have re-surfaced.

Where to start? Well, Miss Armitage was my teacher for Grades 1 – 3 and she was the teacher for everyone who attended Grades 1 – 3 at Altamont School for 37 of her 41 years of teaching. There was no kindergarten (junior or senior) so Grade 1 was a very big deal. Come to think about it, there was a very long six-year waiting list to get into the program. Once I got there, I remember liking school well enough in those early grades but there were two or three situations that still niggle.

Mary Armitage

Mary Armitage  Photo: Unknown

Our desks were double desks, intended for two students. The gray painted wooden desktops opened to reveal an unfinished interior cavity into which we thrust our textbooks, foolscap paper, pencils and sometimes lunches and snacks. We were not allowed to write with fountain pens or ballpoint pens until much later. The interior cavity always smelled like… well … like an interior cavity – a mix of wholesome natural fibre goodness and musty, stale fibre badness with just a hint of carrion. Interior cavities seem destined to be the spaces where a process of transformation from goodness to badness happens. In any case, the desktops and seats held together by designer metal desk frameworks would be prized items today.

Gender stuff

I am not certain how many children rested their bums on those seats before I arrived but the evidence indicates that the number was much higher than I could count in Grade 1. While the desk tops and seats had been sanded and painted regularly the evidence of earlier children persisted in the vague outlines of their initials and other personalized scratching.

I was in Grade 2 when Bill and I were assigned to sit together in one of those double desks. By the way, being able to sit with Bill was a huge relief to me because the previous year, on my first day of school in Grade 1, I lined up outside the main entrance to the school with the other Grade 1 pupils and we were ushered into the classroom to sit in our “new” desks. It was a bit scary for a shy young lad and I remember not remembering anything I was supposed to remember and getting into some trouble. It was either just too exciting and I freaked out over the pressure of not knowing what the expectations were, or alternatively, I was just another dumb kid who couldn’t retain anything in his distracted mind. I still haven’t figured out which one is the most apt description of my mind on that day. Okay, maybe some of that state of mind continues today, as I seem to have rambled a bit.

The classroom was large enough (or the class sizes were small enough) that Grades 1 – 3 were all taught in the one room. On that first day of Grade 1, Miss Armitage was careful to segregate us by gender, two boys to a desk and two girls to a desk, as she made seat assignments. I know that many of you are gasping at this arrangement and I fully recognize that in the present day world the class would have been divided into gender equal desks with one boy and one girl per desk promoting a new comfort level and equality between genders. But this was not the case in my early schooling – hey, I didn’t even know the meaning of “gender!”   As it turned out that there were an odd number of boys and girls in the class. Oh no! A boy and a girl would have to share a double desk and (foretelling much of my life, if there was any chance that something would happen to embarrass me, it would happen,) I was one of the chosen. My desk mate was Shirley May.

I hasten to add at this point that Shirley May must have been totally horrified at the prospect – no, reality – of spending the year next to a shy, stinky fellow such as me. In any case I recall her as being a pretty little girl, delightful in every respect. I don’t recall being mean to her in any way but I might have suppressed those memories and if I was mean, I make my apologies now. Equally, I am certain that any embarrassment to me in any other interaction(s) with women over the years is purely coincidental and unrelated to the seat assignations. [And I am not going to pay high figures to a shrink to figure this one out, both literally and figuratively speaking!]

My engraving career

Now, back to Grade 2 where my desk mate was Bill. Not nearly as cute as Shirley May but more my type if you know what I mean. Bill was always Bill and never Billy or William or Willie. Bill was Bill … until he became “Skull” that is. Bill and I sat in that double desk and proceeded to contribute our own pungency to the interior cavity. It’s “nose” might have been described as aged oak with a dark undercurrent of fountain pen ink tinged with fuzzy salami sandwiches capped with blackened bananas. In any case, it was a cavity worthy of commemoration.

Bill and I (mostly me though, I am afraid) proceeded to use some implement – I am not sure what we used but we were as creative as the most hardened lifer in prison when it came to handcrafting shives and other necessities away from the prying eyes of the guard (Miss Armitage) – to carve our initials into the painted desk top. Gasp! Even though Miss Armitage did indeed have eyes in the back of her head, she found it hard to keep those eyes on 35 or so children at once. Or perhaps, she just prioritized. Nevertheless, we were found out of course. Not only was the artistry in plain view but we had signed our work. We were roundly chastised and punishment was meted out. It is funny but I don’t remember exactly what the punishment was. Nonetheless, a lesson learned and this effectively marked the end of my engraving and graffiti career – that and the fact that I never developed an attractive stylized tag line.

The Plasticine Age

But there are more niggles when it comes to Miss Armitage and my own shortcomings. There was an occasion in Grade 1 when Miss Armitage had to step out of the room for a brief moment. It happens, I guess. Is it even a question that the class would take advantage of this unforeseen moment to engage in some tomfoolery?  She was not out of the room more than 10 seconds when erasers and pencils were flying, punches were delivered to the shoulders of our desk mates (but not to my desk mate Shirley May.) I had a long rope of Plasticine rolled out at our desk.  I took the opportunity to twirl it like a lariat and it was then that I learned that Plasticine does not have the physical proprieties of good sisal. In fact, it is a very poor substitute. A chunk of Plastiscine broke loose and flew with great precision into the crockery vessel of the water fountain at the back of the room.

[Note: Plasticine is the trademark name for a type of modelling clay invented over 100 years ago by William Harbutt in England. Artists, engineers, architect, model builders, children and many others use it for various purposes. To my knowledge, lariat making is not one of them. Play dough was not yet in widespread use in schools and Plasticine was often the only option.]

Plasticine

Plasticine, ours was mostly gray. It all ended up gray anyway.

I am not sure who snitched but in a room of 30 or so pupils in Grades 1, 2 and 3 there is a least one snitch, and that one snitch snitched. Well … s/he half – snitched and told Miss Armitage that there was a piece of Plastiscine in the water fountain. Somehow Miss Armitage knew it came from the Grade 1 class and she marched us all back to water fountain and demanded to know who put it in there. It was the most pressure I have ever been under! It haunts me to this very day – maybe this is not just a niggle after all? Maybe I should be on the psychiatrist’s couch trying to interpret my action… well… inaction really. You see, I never owned up to the fact that I tossed my lasso into the water fountain. She repeated the question several times and each time I retreated farther away from the truth. Maybe I was incorrigible. Maybe I couldn’t accept responsibility. Maybe I was embarrassed. No matter, I never let on and no one openly named me. Miss Armitage, probably sensing that there was no useful outcome from this standoff, retreated. Those of you who know me (and for that matter those who don’t know me) will undoubtedly pass some judgment on this showdown at the water fountain. As for me, I have come to terms with the fact that while it is a niggle, it does reveal that I was not as honest as George Washington was about cutting down the cherry tree. But who among us is that honest?

[Note: Now I learn that the cherry tree story about George Washington is a myth invented by Mason Locke Weems, one of Washington’s first biographers. Hmmmm… I think that just means that George Washington and I are equally honest – he (if he were alive) would now deny cutting down the cherry tree just as I did not own up to the Plasticine incident.]

I would like to say that this ancient history from the Plasticine Age is the last niggle about Miss Armitage, but it is not. Somehow, I passed through the lower grades with little further difficulty. I must have kept my nose clean as they say and Miss Armitage must have seen fit to cast a blind eye toward my indiscretions. (I don’t recall that there were any, but let’s be realistic; there likely were a few.) Everything was uneventful until sometime in Grade 4, I believe. In 1958 the Sylvan School merged into the Altamont school and students from Sylvan began attending school in Altamont. The Sylvan schoolhouse was moved and positioned behind our two-story four-room school to create a new ”portable” although it wasn’t called a “portable” in those days. Miss Armitage’s Grades 1 – 3 classes were moved into Sylvan.

Knock a Door Ginger

Sylvan School IMG_5753

Sylvan School before it was moved to Altamont as a “portable.” Photo: Memories of Lorne, 1880 – 1980

I am not sure what got into us but a few of us guys (no girls were involved) decided it would be fun to run up to the side door of Sylvan, knock on the door and then run away, repeatedly. This was a game we often played in Altamont under the cover of darkness. We called it “Knock a Door Ginger.” Why we called it that I am not sure but in retrospect it was appropriate given my red hair. [I have heard it called ”Knicky Knicky Door Bell” in other places.] In any case, the key words here are “under cover of darkness.” We seldom got caught in town because we knew every little nook and cranny within which to hide and every little interstitial space to run through even in the pitch dark. But at school, we hadn’t figured out that the bright, sunny sky and wide-open spaces of the schoolyard did not provide much protection from detection. Indeed, we were detected and apprehended without much difficulty and marched unceremoniously (or maybe it was with great ceremony) up the large wooden staircase of the main school, our shoes making a conspicuously loud “thump, thump, thump,” to the Principal’s desk in his home classroom on the second floor.

I really don’t remember who the other culprits were but I could guess if I had to name them … but I won’t. I am certain that facing the Principal was daunting but I don’t recall much except that time seemed to pass quickly from the reading of the charges, to the pleas from the alleged perpetrators, to the verdict and subsequent sentencing. At the plea stage there was a brief opportunity to offer explanation or other pertinent information. As I recall there was no explanation or information of any pertinence and certainly none with any impertinence. It was a two-part sentence: three whacks of the strap across the palm of the hand administered individually (not so bad, I thought) and an apology to Miss Armitage, delivered individually (Whoo boy! Mortification!) The strap was of no consequence and no further mention of that event need be made here.

On the other hand, the apology to Miss Armitage was one of the more difficult moments of my life – right there with the earlier Plasticine incident. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to duck this one. I am quite sure Miss Armitage was not in favour of corporal punishment so I don’t think she smiled over the meting out of that part of the sentence by the Principal. She was not in attendance at its execution. However, I am quite certain she allowed herself a wry little smile as I exited later after my clumsy, yet sincere, apology about the Knock a Door Ginger incident, in the confines of the Sylvan schoolhouse.

Is that the last niggle involving Miss Armitage? Almost. I can hear you saying, “What?” Please be patient. A little more water has to flow under a few other bridges before we can close out the last niggle about Miss Armitage.

We need to meet a second remarkable individual, Mary Anne (Straube) Scoles – a person who survived and lived to tell of a good life. Aside from gambling she had few vices but she loved Las Vegas and made many trips there over the years. Her son reports that in the wee hours of the morning on a such a trip when she was in her nineties, she was heard to mutter, “I didn’t come to Vegas to sleep!”

MARY ANNE SCOLES (née  STRAUBE)

  • Born: December 25, 1896 at home in Treherne, Manitoba
  • Married: Mike Scoles
  • Died: July 23, 2007 at the Treherne Personal care Home
  • Mother Bridget Straube died from tuberculosis 10 days after Mary Anne’s birth.
  • Father: Joseph Straube

When I was quite young, we would often visit the Scoles’ homestead (1902) farm a few miles north of Altamont just before you made the turn to St. Lupicin. I notice on some maps that this road north from Altamont is named Scoles Road. We never referred to it as such but it makes sense that it would be. Mike Scoles and his wife, Mary Anne, lived there with their four sons (Joe, Jack, Pat and Ted.) I also have this vague recollection that the reason dad would go to the Scoles’ farm was to give someone a haircut and possibly a shave. Perhaps, there was an elder Scoles in residence as well or maybe it was that Mike was a wee bit older than Mary Anne.

I must have been under ten years old as Mike and Mary Anne Scoles retired off the farm in 1960. While I have only snippets of memory about the Scoles’ farm, some things stand out clearly such as the almost secret nature of their farmyard. You had to watch carefully as you searched for the left hand turn into their lane. The brush and trees seemed to be perpetually overgrown, forming a canopy through which you pushed your way to gain admittance to a clearing. It took another second before you noticed the house tucked discreetly into the brush on the right hand side, forcing you to relinquish the idea that this was an abandoned farmyard. Mrs. Scoles always seemed to be there and greeted us openly and kindly – and the oatmeal cookies always met with my approval.

In those days, my father and mother often took Sunday drives weaving their way across the back roads. My mother was seeking some respite from one overly energetic son and one newly arrived daughter. My father, true to the central character traits of the Marshall family, loved to look at the crops, wildflowers and other vegetation, and the natural land forms of the area. A stop at the Scoles’ farm was often on the route. Even after they retired to Treherne, we would sometimes stop at their little house on a Sunday afternoon.

It was apparent that dad and mom were fond of the Scoles’ family. I believe that dad and Joe Scoles were friends of a sort. Joe would arrive on the bus from Winnipeg and Dad often drove him home. I recall dad loved to have discussions with Joe that were more “in depth” than most discussions he had with others.

But the real story in the Scoles’ family is the story of Mary Anne Scoles herself. She weighed a mere 2.5 pounds when she was born on Christmas Day 1896 to Joseph and Bridget Straube. Bridget had tuberculosis and died 10 days later. Remarkably for the time, Mary Anne survived both her small birth weight and the possible complications of the tuberculosis. Perhaps, this survival was facilitated by her parents who were devote in mind and spirit. Bridget and Joseph Straube, after learning of the pregnancy and the risk to their child, travelled by train to the miracle shrine at the Basilica of Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré near Quebec City (established in 1658) to pray that their child would have a long and healthy life. The Straube’s prayers were answered.

Mary Anne Scoles passages WPG FP

Mary Anne Scoles  Photo: Winnipeg Free Press Passages

Mary Anne was educated in Treherne and Winnipeg but moved to the Scoles’ farm north of Altamont when she married Mike Scoles. I am not certain of the date of their marriage but it was likely around 1918.  They farmed the Scoles’ original homestead at SE 5-6-8 established in 1902 until 1960 when they retired to Treherne. Mike died in 1981.

So, what is niggling me about Mary Anne Scoles? Is it that she lived to be 110 years, 6 months and 28 days old? When she died she was the oldest Canadian living in Canada. This was quite an achievement – especially given her less than weighty entrance into the world! No, that is not what is niggling me although it is related.

I must make one last introduction, meet Jemima (Holliston) Wilson, the third remarkable woman in this story.   She was known to everyone outside of her family as “Aunt ‘Mime.” Within her family circles, she was addressed by her proper title.

Jemima (née Holliston) Wilson aka “Aunt ‘Mime”

  • Born: May 16, 1862 Merrickville, Ontario
  • Died: January 9, 1965 Manitou, Manitoba
  • Married: 1886 in Merrickville to Robert Wilson
  • Robert Wilson died: 1896
  • Father: George Holliston
  • Mother: Catherine (Katie Mussell]

Aunt ‘Mime was an old woman from the time that I first remember her. I know that when we are young we think everyone between 30 and 90 is in the same category of “old.”   But Aunt ‘Mime really was old. My first memories of her are from when I was about five years old and she was nearly 91 years young. In her nineties, she lived independently in a small house at the northwest corner of town almost beside my friends, Kelly and Terry. Often, we would find ourselves over at Aunt ‘Mime’s scrounging a biscuit, or better yet, a slice of fresh baked bread liberally spread with margarine (uncoloured white margarine as its producers and distributors were not permitted, by law, to colour the margarine to protect the dairy industry) and with any kind of luck, some jam. Funny how I didn’t like uncoloured margarine when we had it at home or when local bachelor and retired farmer Ed Bulmer served it up in his little house, but there was just something about Aunt ‘Mime’s bread and margarine that appealed. Maybe it was the ambiance of her kitchen and the smells emanating from her old wood cook stove.

To be clear though, any niggle I have about Aunt ‘Mime has nothing to do with my inherent nature as a child terror or brat. We would never play “Knock a Door Ginger” on Aunt ‘Mime. We just knew that not only was she old, she was ‘special old’ and that particular status of old was enhanced with each passing year. Living independently until one is almost 100 years old is a remarkable achievement indeed. I recall that she was always spry of mind as well as body.

Aunt ‘Mime passed away January 9, 1965 just short of her 103rd birthday. In the course of her lifetime she witnessed major societal changes e.g., the advancement in transportation from horses to stagecoach to horse and buggy to locomotives and trains to trucks and automobiles to airplanes to space travel. Technology in communications grew from pony express and stagecoach to telegraph to radio to television to the beginnings of a wireless Internet age.

Remarkable as the magnitude of these changes may seem, there were other social and political developments that are just as remarkable, not for speed of implementation or for the magnitude of change achieved during a short span of time, but for the tortoise-like speed with which they were introduced and accepted.   Here, I am referring specifically to the introduction of rights of democratic citizenship for women, and racial and ethnic groups. Political and social change involving Canadian women’s suffrage, economic equality and human rights over the 100-year period coinciding with Aunt ‘Mime’s life, and indeed for fifty years after her death, plodded along at a snail’s pace.

Recall that Aunt ‘Mime was born in 1862, five years prior to Canadian Confederation. One niggle I have is really a questioning niggle: What were things like for women in this pioneering time? The answer is not straightforward obviously but I have constructed a timeline set against the milestone markers of the lives of Jemima Wilson, Mary Anne Scoles and Mary Armitage to assist in telling and visualizing  part of the story. (See Appendix I for the detailed timeline.)

Jemima and Robert Wilson IMG_5738

Robert Wilson (1895) a year before his death. Jemima Wilson as a bride in 1886. Photos: Memories of Lorne 1880 – 1980

Jemima Holliston was 24 years old when she married Robert John Wilson (age 28) in 1886 in Merrickville, Ontario. In 1889 they ventured west to join some of the Wilson clan at Plumas, Manitoba before purchasing (See Note 3) a quarter section of land (NW 21-5-8) about one half mile north of what was then called Musselboro.   On November 1, 1891 Mussellboro would become Alta. Station before being renamed officially as Altamont on July 1, 1894.

Homesteading

Unfortunately, Jemima’s husband died in 1896 from causes of which I am not entirely clear. When working from secondary sources it is best not to ascribe accuracy to data or to jump to conclusions too quickly. I prefer to have two or three unrelated sources to corroborate the data before proceeding tentatively. Consequently, I have not been able to verify the cause of Robert Wilson’s death but I am certain that it was tragic as he was only 38 years old at the time. Nevertheless, Jemima at age 34 had to carry on and she applied to homestead the NE quarter of 21-5-8 in 1898. The question is: how was she able to do manage this?

At the time, there was very little legal protection for women under British common law and married women could not own property. Indeed, in 1885 the Manitoba government actually eliminated the need for the wife’s permission before a husband could sell or give away farmland. Even so, the Dominion Land Act (1872) had created a Homestead Act where for a fee of $10.00 a person could claim a quarter section (160 acres) of land provided that the homesteader would establish a permanent residence and reside on the land for at least six months of the year, breaking 40 acres over three years. A second adjacent quarter costing $2.00 or $2.50 per acre, could be reserved for a total of a half section or 320 acres.

Fortunately for the widowed Jemima (if one can be fortunate in such a situation) the Act allowed widows, divorced women and separated wives with children under 18 to homestead land although married women were prohibited from doing so. As I review the facts, she was one of the few women pioneers who had her name on title of a homestead quarter section near Altamont.  Martha Castle (of whom I know nothing) is also listed as homesteading NE 22-5-8 (1893) about a mile to the east of Jemima Wilson. They are the only two women owning property (both homesteaders) in that particular Range of the Township. They may have benefited from this little bit of ”good” fortune, but these women, with no husbands, must have found it challenging to say the least in a world designed in general to favour men and to discriminate against women. And homesteading was no easy challenge for anyone, man or woman.

At the time of her husband’s death in 1896 Jemima was 34 years old and raising five children who were twelve years of age and under, (her husband’s niece Sarah Evelina Rathwell b. 1884 in Merrickville; Howard Franklin b. 1888 in Merrickville; Mabel Winifred b. 1890 in Altamont; Mary Edith b. 1893 in Altamont; John Robert b. 1895 in Altamont.) I wager this must have presented a daunting future and undoubtedly speaks to the resourcefulness and tenacity of her personality and the strength of her spirit.

Her grandson Gordon credits the support of her kin and neighbours as being critical to survival for Jemima and her children. In addition, the entire area was being settled and immigrants from France, Brittany and Normandy arrived to farm near St. Lupicin, a few miles to the north. She made friends with many of these families and they exchanged goods as need be. Jemima and her children benefited from bread baked in the French tradition and in return she provided an indoor haven from the elements when the St. Lupicin families walked past her farm in all weather conditions on their way to St. Leon for church services.

Aunt ‘Mime farmed the original homestead until 1925 when her son, John (“Jack”) Robert, returned with his wife, Eva Lyle and family to work the farm. Aunt ‘Mime moved into a small house in Altamont soon after. The farm served as a base from where Jack worked at different jobs in mining and construction in Northern Ontario, and trucking and grain handling around Altamont. In 1964 at age 69 and just before Aunt ‘Mime passed away, Jack retired and his son Glen took over the farm. Jack and Eva raised seven sons and one daughter on the original homestead

I have only just scratched the surface of Jemima’s life. I have written this piece very much as a personal retrospective reliant upon my own memories and secondary source material. As such, I do not have (nor have I asked for) access to papers or documents or other original communications that provide insight on social, political or economic life from Jemima Wilson’s perspective. This blog piece was not conceived originally to be a research piece. But I am getting ahead of myself as usual.

Final niggles about three women

I have some final niggles, about Aunt ‘Mime, Mary Anne Scoles and Mary Armitage – ones that stem from my curiosity being piqued as to what the three of them would say (individually and collectively) if they were asked to participate in a discussion (the three of them) about their lives, their experiences and their views regarding  technological, social and political changes over their collective lifetimes. Mary Anne Scoles and Mary Armitage were more closely contemporaries and Aunt ‘Mime was the elder pioneer, so to speak. It almost makes me shiver to think of the richness of such discourse.

The first niggle is that it would be amazing to have the opportunity to interview Jemima Wilson, Mary Anne Scoles, and Mary Armitage – individually or ensemble. I have so many questions I would like to ask. Impossible I know. Aunt ‘Mime died in 1965; Mary Armitage in 2005; Mary Anne Scoles in 2007.

The second niggle is to be able to have access to original documentation from these three remarkable women such that we could understand their perspectives on surviving as women in those times, and their thoughts on the social, economic and political directions that were unfolding around them. Who knows? Perhaps in the future I will be fortunate enough to access such documents or accounts. Or perhaps someone else will have the good fortune to do so. I hope so.

The third and biggest niggle

Map Altamont red dots 2 IMG_0184

Mary Armitage lived in Altamont; Jemima Wilson farmed 1/2 mile north; Mary Anne Scoles farmed about 4 miles north. Red dots indicate the locations.

But the biggest niggle I have is that these three Manitoba centenarians resided for a large portion their lives on a 4-mile straight line of each other. And I knew each of them – not as a close family member would have, or even as a close friend would have, but well enough to have personal memories. I find this astounding. I asked earlier: How many of us can say we have ever known someone who lived to be 100 years old? Not that many, I wager. How many can say that they have very personal memories and ‘niggles’ about three such remarkable individuals? Not that many I wager, but I am one.

Three roses for three prairie women

As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days.
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler—ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life’s glories: Bread and roses! Bread and roses!  – 4th  verse Bread and Roses, lyrics by James Oppenheim, circa 1911.

I have no reason to believe that Jemima Wilson, Mary Anne Scoles or Mary Armitage would have supported trade unions as the political vehicle for achieving women’s democratic rights, economic security and equality. After all, Jemima was born in and grew up in Merrickville in the heart of conservative Ontario. Mary Anne Scoles and Mary Armitage were born in and grew up in the heart of conservative Manitoba. Still, I believe that they would agree that the goals of the women’s movement were worthy of the struggle and would have counted themselves as part of the wave of women who fought not only for bread but for roses in the 19th and 20th Centuries.

Just for fun, I have chosen three roses that I think are appropriate to accompany these three remarkable Manitoba women in this story.

1) Adelaide Hoodless

Adelaide Hoodless (February 27, 1857 – February 26, 1910) worked, after the death of her young son, to reform education for new mothers to include hygiene, cleanliness and frugality. Hoodless is credited with being the co-founder of the Women’s Institute, the National Council of Women, the Victorian Order of Nurses, and the YWCA in Canada. Her educational reforms led to the formation of faculties of Household Science (later called Home Economics and then Human Ecology or Family Studies.) The proof of the magnitude of her legacy is in the fact that these organizations still exist today.

hoodless1

Adelaide Hoodless (Dr. Henry Heard Marshall, 1972)  Photo: unknown

The rose, Adelaide Hoodless, is a very vigorous shrub introduced in 1973 by Dr. Henry Heard Marshall as a tribute to the founder of the Women’s Institute on the occasion of the 75th anniversary of the Institute.

2) Morden Centennial was introduced by Dr. Henry Heard Marshall in 1980 to commemorate the centennial anniversary of the Town of Morden, Manitoba. It seems appropriate to include it here as each of the three women in this story lived to be more than 100 years old and Morden is a near neighbour to Altamont in modern day terms. Morden Centennial is one of my personal favourites and we have it as a mainstay in our garden. It flowers repeatedly throughout the summer with amazing, almost florescent flowers.

Centennial IMG_0426

Morden Centennial (Dr. Henry Heard Marshall 1980) Photo: The PD Gardener 2013

3) The Manitoba countryside is dotted with patches of wild roses (Rosa woodsii, Rosa acicularis or Rosa arkansana) with their prickly branches catching your clothes as you scramble through the fence line on your way through a “shortcut” from one place to another. The three heroines in this story would be attracted to the mass of flowers on display and the simplicity in the structure of each blossom. The complexity of hybridized roses we know today was not only far into the future but would have been out of budget range and practicality for someone like Jemima Wilson and Mary Anne Scoles for certain and likely for Mary Armitage as well.

Wild roses though live on in unlikely spots around the prairies and the three women I have highlighted today exemplify their beauty and tenacity.

Wild rose cwf -300px

Wild Rose  Photo: Canadian Wildlife Federation

 Life Expectancy: The dash of cold, hard reality

As I said, I have had the privilege of having personal memories of three quite remarkable women who each lived to be more than 100 years old. Of course, this inevitably leads to the question: can I expect to live to be 100 years old?

It seems that the average age of the population is on a slow but steady increase. Each generation can expect to live longer than the previous one. Technological advances in medical diagnostic equipment; improved and more efficacious drug therapies; improved medical devices enabling us to have a better quality of life; a better understanding that ‘quality of life’ really means attention to the wholeness of body, mind and spirit;  mutually supportive relationships with family and friends; and social participation in community life along with respect for Nature, have all contributed to positive outcomes. Still, the challenge will be to continue the trend to increased longevity.

But, can I expect to live to be 100 years old? The short answer (also called the realistic answer and the pessimistic answer) is “no.” The equivocating answer is “not likely.” The cheer leading, supportive, optimistic and the ‘you are a fighter’ answer is “of course we can live even longer.” My answer is that we need all of these answers to support us, as the occasion demands.

In Canada only 0.8% of the population is over 90 years of age (0.4 % for males and 1.1% for women.) So, how many of us will ever get to say, “I am 100 years old?” Becoming a centenarian is really quite an exclusive club. In 2011, there were only 5,825 people in Canada who were 100 years of age old or older and for this year (2016) it is estimated that 7,900 people, more women than men, will be in that illustrious group. As I write this post, the oldest Canadian living in Canada is Ellen “Dolly” Gibb of North Bay, born Ellen Box in Winnipeg on April 26, 1905. She is 110 years 351 days.

So, I ask the question again, slightly differently this time: What is the probability that I will live to be 100 years old and would I bet on the outcome?  Silly me, when it comes to my own life, I am betting on the outcome every minute of every day. I am betting I will live. I know there is a way to calculate that probability but in the end that is a matter for actuaries and gamblers. I am sure that this is a gross oversimplification of what actuaries do but they make estimates of probable outcomes using available relevant data, extrapolating from past patterns. In order to do that, they have to make assumptions. Believe it or not, I have participated in some extremely interesting debates and arguments on these assumptions in real life collective bargaining situations. I guess it wouldn’t surprise you that actuaries are mostly quite conservative in their assumptions and their estimates. On life expectancy they know, quite correctly, that you will die, and they will assume that you will die sooner rather than later but later than others died previously, if you know what I mean. They are pessimistic in an optimistic kind of way – you might say they see the glass as being half full except for the fact that they know that for any given individual, the glass will be bone dry empty at some point.

Gamblers, the good ones at least, employ much the same fundamental process. They look at the available information and make some informed choice (educated guess) as to the outcome of an event e.g., Smarty Jones to win the Kentucky Derby in 2004 (he did) or the North Carolina Tar Heels (2.5 point betting favourites) to win the 2016 NCAA Championship – they didn’t as they were upset by the Villanova Wildcats. You can gamble on anything e.g., lottery tickets (the odds are very high against winning the big prize) or whether the next child born to the Royal family is a boy or a girl, or whether it will rain in Birmingham, Alabama on October 21, 2016. I haven’t actually checked this last one out but I am sure you can find a bookie somewhere who will take that bet, one way or the other. For the record, it did not rain in Birmingham on October 21, 2015 and that day was the 11th day of a long dry spell.

Okay then. So both actuaries and gamblers will agree that I will die. But if they are betting on when I will die (the actuary because she works for a life insurance company and the gambler because he has a gambling addiction and will bet on anything if someone will take the bet and give him odds,) they will want more information. Life expectancy is one such piece of information. And because I have Parkinson’s disease they will want to know if the life expectancy for someone who has Parkinson’s is different from someone who does not have Parkinson’s.

Life expectancy with Parkinson’s disease

Put most bluntly, if I have Parkinson’s disease, is my life expectancy shortened? Well, theoretically a Person with Parkinson’s (PwP) can live a good long life after diagnosis. As Parkinson Canada says

Depending upon your age of onset, how you manage the symptoms, and your general health, you can live an active life with Parkinson’s. In most cases, one’s life is not shortened. However, as you age and as the disease progresses, there will be increased risks. For example, impaired balance can lead to falls; swallowing problems, if not managed, can lead to pneumonia. Parkinson’s is known as a chronic (long term) condition that will require ongoing monitoring and management to maintain one’s quality of life.

It seems that the best that can be said is that whether you have Parkinson’s or not, there are always risks in life, aren’t there? In other words, there are many variables and while having Parkinson’s is just one such variable, it is a variable that brings more associated risks with it. Doesn’t that mean that your life expectancy is decreased, or put another way, the probability of dying increases? It seems to me that it does. I wish it didn’t, but it does. So, let’s not beat around the bush.

cards stacked against IMG_5773

How badly are the cards stacked against me? Photo: The PD Gardener

But don’t misunderstand; it is not defeatist to say that I am in a higher risk group. It would be defeatist though if I were to say that I am no longer going to strive to live as healthy and as long a life as I possibly can, just because I am in a higher risk group. I do not mean to say that anyone living with Parkinson’s should not try to achieve the best quality of life possible. It is at this point that we need the cheerleader to jump in (Zis, Boom, Bah – Two, four, six, eight; who do we REALLY hate? Parkinson’s, Parkinson’s, Go PwP!)

I am not going to get hung up on semantics or matters of definition here. I believe that because I have Parkinson’s, my life expectancy is lower. Empirical research seems to support my position.

The calculations showed that LE (Life Expectancy) and AAD (anticipated age at time of death) in PD are reduced for all onset ages but this reduction is greatest in individuals with a young onset. (See Note 3)

Similarly,

Our findings confirm that PD is associated with increased mortality in both men and women. Unlike the majority of other mortality studies, we found that women have a greater reduction in lifespan compared to men. We also found that patients with early onset PD (onset at the age of 50 or before) have reduced survival relative to PD patients with later ages of onset. A final important finding is that survival is equal in PD patients treated with levodopa early (within 2 years or less of PD onset) versus later. (See Note 4)

However, the good news is that if you have Parkinson’s and do not have dementia and are not in the young onset group, life expectancy and age at time of death are more likely to approach that of the normal population.

The survival, LE and AAD in patients with PD are much lower compared with the general population, apart from those patients who do not develop dementia, who appear to have near normal population mortalities. However, dementia and younger onset of PD appear to be important determinants of survival, LE and AAD. (See Note 5)

So, there is a bit of good with the bad … but not that much.  Is there anything to be done except be depressed? Of course there is!  We have to get on with the task of living.

We need to be careful not to assume that each of us will follow precisely the same pattern. Probabilities are probabilities because they are not certainties. A tautological argument sure but no one can accurately predict when any given individual will die under normal circumstances or even under circumstances where the individual has Parkinson’s. The wonderful thing about statistics is that there will always be a mean or an average (it keeps shifting as the population changes and there will always be people who are far away from the mean.) Yes, I know this means both to the negative and to the positive sides. Some people will live longer than expected and some people will not live as long as expected. These facts will never change. Our challenge is to do everything we possibly can to shift the statistical result to the positive for our own individual selves.

Think of Mary Anne Scoles who, in 1896 in a home birth, survived her low birth weight (2.5 pounds) and the fact that her mother had tuberculosis. How high would the odds have to be for you (assuming you could live long enough to collect) to bet that she would live to be 110 years, 6 months and 28 days old?  But she did. I can’t help but wonder how successful she was in her Las Vegas trips, and if she would have lived longer if she slept more in Las Vegas? I doubt it. Fun is a key criterion for longevity – at least I am betting that it is!

In some ways we must be selfish. Treat each day as a personal best and do whatever is necessary to reach the new personal best tomorrow.

When I die, no matter how or how soon, I fervently want my family and friends and those who knew me in any capacity to understand that my passing will not be a personal failure but merely the end of a long stretch of personal bests. On the statistical side, when I die I hope that my string of personal bests will have pushed (however slightly) the overall average or mean upward and that I have left some mark on the world to assist others to reach and surpass my goals, setting their own high watermarks. At the macro economic, social and political levels, the capacity of all systems, (economy, heath care, social security, social policy, political advocacy, etc.) must be strengthened and expanded to support an enhanced quality of life for Persons with Parkinson’s, their families and caregivers.

And, finally: No, I am not depressed.

APPENDIX I

Timeline of Women’s Rights in Canada referencing the Lives of Three Remarkable Women: Jemima (née Holliston) Wilson aka Aunt ‘Mime , Mary Anne (née Straube) Scoles, and Mary Armitage

1862 Jemima Holliston is born

1867 Jemima Holliston is 5

  • Canadian Confederation

1871 Jemima Holliston is 9

  • Manitoba’s Act Respecting Married Women allows a married woman to keep ownership of her property, but any wages she makes goes to her spouse.

1872 Jemima Holliston is 10

  • Dominion Land Act and Homestead Act is passed entitling a person to claim, for a $10.00 fee, a quarter section (160 acres) on even numbered sections provided that the homesteader reside on the land for at least six months of the year, establish a permanent residence and break 40 acres over three years. A second adjacent quarter costing $2.00 or $2.50 per acre, could be reserved for a total of a half section or 320 acres.

1884 Jemima Holliston is 22

  • The Married Women’s Property Act gives married women in Ontario the right to make legal agreements and buy property, the same as for men.
  • Women in Manitoba gain the right to vote in municipal elections but are not eligible to run for municipal office until 1917. This is one small step forward with a more than offsetting large step backward.

1886 Jemima Holliston is 26 and marries Robert John Wilson in Merrickville, Ontario

1890 – 1920 Jemima Wilson is 28 – 58

  • This is a period of intense activity by the Suffrage movement. Women such as Emily Murphy, Nellie McClung, Irene Parlby, Henrietta Muir Edwards and Louise Crummy McKinney (the “Famous Five”) as well as Agnes MacPhail, Erland Lee, Adelaide Hunter Hoodless among others were active advocates for women’s Suffrage and other rights.

1890 Jemima Wilson is 28

  • Women ratepayers in Manitoba can vote and hold office at the school board level.

1896 Jemima Wilson is 34. Mary Anne Straube is born in Treherne, Manitoba

  • Jemima Wilson’s husband, Robert John Wilson, dies.

1898 Jemima Wilson is 36. Mary Anne Straube is 2.

  •  Jemima Wilson applies for a homestead on NW 21-5-8 north of Altamont.

1900 Jemima Wilson is 38; Mary Anne Straube is 4.

  • Manitoba passes its own Married Women’s Property Act giving married women in Manitoba the same legal capacity as men. [See Note 6]

1902 Mary Armitage is born

  • The Scoles’ homestead was established at SE 5-6-8.

1908 Mary Armitage’s family moves to Altamont from New Haven. Mary (6) is the second oldest of 4 children. Five other children are born after moving to Altamont.

1914 – 1918 Jemima Wilson was 52 – 56; Mary Anne Straube was 18 – 22; Mary Armitage was 12 – 16

  • World War I

1917 Jemima Wilson is 55; Mary Anne Straube is 21; Mary Armitage is 15;

  • The Military Voters Act allowed nurses and women in the armed services to vote.
  • The Wartime Election Act extended the vote to women who had husbands, sons or fathers serving overseas.
  • Women in Manitoba are the first in Canada to gain the right to vote and run for office in provincial elections.

~ 1918 Mary Anne Straube marries Mike Scoles

1920 Jemima Wilson is 58; Mary Anne Scoles is 24; Mary Armitage is 18

  • Dominion Elections Act is amended permitting every eligible Canadian over 21, male or female, to vote in federal elections, excluding Aboriginal peoples, Inuit or anyone barred from a provincial voters’ list, including Asians and Hindus.

1924 Mary Armitage age 22 begins teaching in Altamont, Manitoba

1929 Jemima Wilson is 67; Mary Anne Scoles is 33; Mary Armitage is 27;

  • The Judicial Committee of the Privy Council in England overturns a decision of the Canadian Supreme Court’s “Persons” case and recognizes Canadian women as persons under the law.

1930 Jemima Wilson is 68; Mary Anne Scoles is 34; Mary Armitage is 28

  • Montreal’s Cairine Reay Wilson becomes the first woman appointed to the Senate.

1939 – 1945 Jemima Wilson is 77 – 83; Mary Anne Scoles is 43 – 49; Mary Armitage is 37 – 43

  • World War II

1940 Jemima Wilson is 78; Mary Anne Scoles is 44; Mary Armitage is 38.

  • Women in Quebec gain the right to vote through The Act Granting to Women the Right to Vote and to be Eligible as Candidates – the last existing province to make it legal for women to vote and run for office. However, women from a racial minority already banned from voting in other provinces are still disenfranchised.

1948 Jemima Wilson is 86; Mary Anne Scoles is 52; Mary Armitage is 46;

  • A parliamentary committee recommends that Aboriginal people receive the vote, and Inuit are enfranchised. First Nations refused the right to vote as it was conditional on their relinquishing both status under the Indian Act and tax exemption rights accorded by treaty.

1950 – 1960 Jemima Wilson is 88 – 98; Mary Anne Scoles is 54 – 64;   Mary Armitage is 48 – 58

  • Fair wages, equal pay and fair employment practices legislation begins to be implemented in various provinces

1960 Jemima Wilson is 98; Mary Anne Scoles is 64; Mary Armitage is 58.

 

  • Mary Anne Scoles and husband Mike retire off the farm to live in Treherne
  • Canada’s Aboriginal Peoples, including Aboriginal women, are finally granted a ‘no-strings-attached’ right to vote.
  • The Canadian Bill of Rights receives Royal Assent

1962 Mary Armitage age 60 retires from her teaching career in Altamont

1965 Jemima Wilson dies a few months short of her 103rd birthday

1969 Jemima Wilson died 4 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles is 73; Mary Armitage is 67

  • Québec became the final province to grant its Aboriginal residents the vote, Canada was no longer denying voting rights to anyone on the basis of racial or ethnic criteria.

1970 Jemima Wilson died 5 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles is 74

  • Mary Armitage age 68 awarded the Manitoba Centennial Medal for her many years in the teaching profession and her activity in community affairs.

 

 

 

1982 Jemima Wilson died 17 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles is 86; Mary Armitage is 80

  • The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms is enacted as part of the Constitution Act.

1984 Jemima Wilson died 19 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles is 88; Mary Armitage is 82.

  • 100th Anniversary of the founding of the Mussellboro Post Office, the predecessor of Altamont.

1986 Jemima Wilson died 21 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles is 90; Mary Armitage is 84

  • The Federal Employment Equity Act is passed.

1992 Jemima Wilson died 27 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles is 96; Mary Armitage is 90

  • Canadian Roberta Bondar flew in the Space Shuttle Discovery

1993

  • Conservative Kim Campbell becomes the first Canadian female prime minister, for about four months

2000 Jemima Wilson died 35 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles is 104; Mary Armitage is 98

  • Beverley McLachlin appointed Chief Justice of the Supreme Court

2004 Jemima Wilson died 39 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles is 108; Mary Armitage is 102

  • Rosalie Abella appointed as the first Jewish woman to sit on the Supreme Court.

2005 Jemima Wilson died 40 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles is 109; Mary Armitage dies at age 102 years, 344 days

  • Canada became the fourth country in the world to legalize same-sex marriage nationwide with the enactment of the Civil Marriage Act

2007 Mary Anne (Straube) Scoles dies at age 110 years, 245 days – the oldest documented Canadian living in Canada at that time.

2010 Jemima Wilson died 50 years earlier; Mary Anne Scoles died 3 years earlier; Mary Armitage died 5 years earlier

  • Women in Canada still earn only 75% of what men earn in full and part time employment.

2016 April 2016

  • Jemima Wilson died 51 years ago. She would be 151 years old this year
  • Mary Anne Scoles died 9 years ago. She would be 119 years old this year.
  • Mary Armitage died 11 years ago. She would be 114 years old this year
  • 100-year anniversary of Manitoba granting women the right to vote in provincial elections
  • Employment equity, pay equity and fundamental human rights for women remain as major issues in Canadian and world affairs.

NOTES

  1. The word “niggle” has several different connotations. My preferred meaning is  “a small minor concern usually over a long period of time, or a slight feeling of misgiving.” However, it can also mean
  • Spend too much time on inconsequential details (Dictionary.com)
  • Spend too much effort on minor details (Miriam Webster)
  • Give too much attention to details usually over a long period of time (Cambridge)
  • Find fault continually or to be preoccupied with details (Collins English)
  • Cause slight but persistent annoyance (Oxford)
  • Screw someone or weasel your way into something (slang – Urban Dictionary

2. In the context of this blog, I would rule out this last definition. I do not have sufficient corroborating evidence to confirm that Robert and Jemima Wilson purchased the NW quarter of 21-5-8 in 1889. One map of Township 5 Range 8 shows James A. Fraser as the owner of NE 21-5-8 (1880.) It may be the case that the sale of this land to Robert and Jemima Wilson was just not noted on this map as there are some oddities in the manner in which names were recorded e.g., they only note the name of the first person to purchase the land from the Crown or Hudson Bay Company, or CPR, etc. Henry Mussell is listed as the owner of SE 21-5-8 (homestead 1879) and SW 21-5-8 (purchased in 1884.)

3. Lianna S Ishihara, Anne Cheesbrough, Carol Brayne, and Anette Schrag, “ Estimated life expectancy of Parkinson’s patients compared with the UK population,” J Neurol Neurosurg Psychiatry. 2007 Dec; 78(12): 1304–1309. Published online 2007 Mar 3 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2095626/

4. John C. Morgan, Lillian J. Currie, Madaline B. Harrison, James P. Bennett Jr., Joel M. Trugman, and G. Frederick Wooten “Mortality in Levodopa-Treated Parkinson’s Disease,” Parkinson’s Disease, Volume 2014 (2014), Article ID 426976, 8 pages http://dx.doi.org/10.1155/2014/426976

5. Hobson P1, Meara J, Ishihara-Paul L. J Neurol Neurosurg Psychiatry. 2010 Oct;81(10):1093-8. doi: 10.1136/jnnp.2009.198689. Epub 2010 Jun 22. “The estimated life expectancy in a community cohort of Parkinson’s disease patients with and without dementia, compared with the UK population.” http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/20571039

6. The Married Women’s Property Act [1900] gives married women in Manitoba the same legal capacity as men. Previously, a woman living in Manitoba lost most of her legal rights respecting property when she married. All her property, for example, became legally vested in her husband. The Married Women’s Property Act allows a wife to own her own property separately from her husband and to control her own wages and profits. She is also jointly responsible for the support of their children. (Nellie McClung Foundation)

SOURCES:

Adelaide Hunter Hoodless Homestead http://www.adelaidehoodless.ca/

Agriculture Canada, Winter-Hardy Roses from Agriculture Canada, publication 1891/E

Canada: A Country by Consent http://www.canadahistoryproject.ca/index.html

Catalyst http://www.catalyst.org/knowledge/womens-earnings-and-income

Morris Deveson, The History of Agriculture in Manitoba (1812-2007) October 2007 http://www.manitobaaghalloffame.com/history2.php

The Dominion Land Act, http://manitobia.ca/content/en/themes/ias/6

Folk Archive  http://www.folkarchive.de/breadrose.html

Friesen, “Expansion of Settlement in Manitoba, 1870 – 1900” Manitoba Historical Society, Series 3, 1963 – 1964 season. http://www.mhs.mb.ca/docs/transactions/3/settlementexpansion.shtml

Histori.ca Voices, http://www.histori.ca/voices/page.do?pageID=316

Hobson P1, Meara J, Ishihara-Paul L. J Neurol Neurosurg Psychiatry. 2010 Oct;81(10):1093-8. doi: 10.1136/jnnp.2009.198689. Epub 2010 Jun 22. “The estimated life expectancy in a community cohort of Parkinson’s disease patients with and without dementia, compared with the UK population.” http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/20571039

Lianna S Ishihara, Anne Cheesbrough, Carol Brayne, and Anette Schrag, “ Estimated life expectancy of Parkinson’s patients compared with the UK population,” J Neurol Neurosurg Psychiatry. 2007 Dec; 78(12): 1304–1309. Published online 2007 Mar 30. http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2095626/

Manitoba Digital Resources on Manitoba History “Immigration and Settlement 1879 – 1919” and “Women in the West.” http://manitobia.ca/content/en/themes/ias/6

John C. Morgan, Lillian J. Currie, Madaline B. Harrison, James P. Bennett Jr., Joel M. Trugman, and G. Frederick Wooten “Mortality in Levodopa-Treated Parkinson’s Disease,” Parkinson’s Disease Volume 2014 (2014), Article ID 426976, 8 pages http://dx.doi.org/10.1155/2014/426976

The Nellie McClung Foundation, “Canadian History of Women’s Rights” http://www.ournellie.com/womens-suffrage/canadian-history-of-womens-rights/

Parkinson Canada http://www.parkinson.ca/site/c.kgLNIWODKpF/b.5000693/k.812F/Progression_of_Parkinsons.htm

Kirsten Smith, Women in history: A timeline, Postmedia News March 3, 2011 http://www.canada.com/technology/Women+history+timeline/4367539/story.html

George Washington’s Mount Vernon, Digital Encyclopaedia http://www.mountvernon.org/digital-encyclopedia/article/cherry-tree-myth/

Wikipedia, List of Canadian Supercentenarians  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Canadian_supercentenarians#Living_Canadian_supercentenarians

Winnipeg Free Press http://passages.winnipegfreepress.com/passage-details/id-122676/name-Mary_Scoles/

© Stan Marshall (The PD Gardener) 2016

 

 

 

 

 

IN SEARCH OF THE “STUFF” OF CURLING Part III: Down to Last Rocks; The Devil made them do it

Author’s note: This story employs a mix of fiction, fantasy and fact with references to real persons. It is not difficult to recognize the differences. I hope you enjoy it ~ The PD Gardener  hat Thepdgardener IMG_0608

IN SEARCH OF THE “STUFF” OF CURLING

Part III: Down to Last Rocks; The Devil made them do it

Last time: The Devil burst through the doors to the Altamont Rink and issued a most serious challenge to the Altamont Curling Club who had no choice but to accept the challenge. The many machinations of negotiating the details and fine print are now over. The selection process is complete. The curlers representing the Altamont Curling Club and the Idle Rocks are the Devil’s Curling Club are now in place and the game of “Dunbars” has commenced. The first two stones from each team have been thrown and the Devil is in a slight lead.

The last rocks are about to be thrown in the thrilling conclusion to one of the greatest curling confrontations ever!

Can the Altamont Curling Club keep the Devil from capturing the Soul of the draw master of the Altamont Bonspiel?

Will the Altamont Curling Club know to keep the “stuff of Curling” safe from contamination by the Devil, and how will we know what “stuff” is, even if they can keep it safe?

Can the Devil avoid eternal embarrassment by not losing to this team of hicks curling out of a tin shack?

Does Bert Marshall sell out to the Devil and does it make any difference anyway?

What is a double Gordon?

Can Neuro de Generative throw a “Dunbar” worthy of the name?

With answers to these questions and more, let’s get back to

IN SEARCH OF THE “STUFF” OF CURLING

Part III: Down to Last Rocks; The Devil made them do it

Let’s pick up the action where we left off in Part II with the DEVL 666 Radio play-by-play as might have been provided by Cactus Jack Wells and Bob Picken.

The broadcast leads with a verse of “Devil or Angel,” The Clovers 1956 original pop hit playing in the background. Note: Bobby Vee covered this tune in 1960 taking it to the top of the charts once again and it was fresh on all minds, even curlers’ minds, in 1961.

Network Announcer: DEVL 666 Radio now takes you to Cactus Jack Wells and Bob Picken at the Altamont Rink for a real treat – Idle Rocks are the Devil’s Curling Club vs Altamont Curling Club in a winner take all, no holds barred, Devil may care, hotter than Hades, curling shoot off….

Cactus Jack: Well, it turned out nice again, didn’t it?

Bob Picken: It sure did Jack and it is such a privilege to be invited to the historic Altamont Rink to witness this unusual curling challenge. As you know, space is limited and people are having a devil of a time finding tickets even though it was put together very quickly.

Cactus Jack: Right you are, Bob. I am often high in the Winnipeg Arena and Blue Bomber Stadium… hmmm… perhaps I should phrase that differently, but we are really up in the rafters here at the Altamont Rink!

Bob Picken: Yes we are, and we have ice level seats!

Cactus Jack: Those people who have found a way to squeeze in here are witnessing one Hell of a battle. Hope I don’t get fired for saying that, Bob.

Bob Picken: I don’t think anyone is going to be fired today Jack. The Devil Himself is here with his team and they make everyone else look very innocent.

Cactus Jack: The score is Devil 3 Altamont 4 with last rocks from each side still to come. We want to remind listeners that under the rules of this event the lowest aggregate score is the winner.

Bob Picken: That’s right Jack. Think of it in the same way you think about your golf score.

Cactus Jack: It’s a lot easier to throw my Goddamn sand wedge into the pond than it is to throw a curling stone…. Hope I don’t get fired for that, Bob.

(Bob Picken remains silent)

Cactus Jack continues: The unpredictable Nero de Generate [real name is Neuro de Generative – remember Cactus Jack often mispronounces names] is to throw for the Altamont Curling Club and the Devil has the hammer so I guess that He who is all sin shall cast the last stone, to misquote the Bible. Hope I don’t get fired for that, Bob.

Bob Picken: I don’t think you can get fired for telling the truth, Jack.

Cactus Jack: Look, I am just going to call Neuro, “Neuro” or “de G,” to save me from further mispronunciation and confusion. Is that OK with you, Bob? The book on de G is not good, is it?

Bob Picken: Yes, it is, and no, it isn’t, to answer both your questions. But sometimes people should just take a pill and get over it. Neuro has been anxious about this appearance today but he looks as calm as a cucumber out there, doesn’t he? Cucumbers do freeze very easily though so he might not dare to move if he has found a warm spot. I don’t think that he will freeze in any case, as he is a veteran and knows his capabilities better than anyone.

Cactus Jack: It is a surprise that Neuro was even selected for the Altamont team but that is how it unfolded and we now await his shot.

Bob Picken: Just a reminder Jack, Neuro must throw a “Dunbar” defined as throwing the rock as fast and as hard as he can.

Cactus Jack: Has anyone ever clocked de G’s takeout weight?

Bob Picken: Well Jack, you know that the norm is to use hog line to hog line or tee line to tee line times in seconds. The word is that de Generative’s times have been clocked using an hourglass (chuckle) on a good day…and a calendar on a bad day. (Several low chuckles)

Cactus Jack (laughs:) Then the question is: Can Neuro “turn back the sands of time?” to misquote another great line from somewhere.

Bob Picken: Let’s not get all caught up here, Jack, because throwing a “Dunbar” is not like winning the Nobel Prize for Literature… and misquoting an ‘idiom’ is… well … idiotic (more chuckles.)

[It is not clear what happened here but there is brief 12 – 15 seconds of dead air – a play-by-play broadcaster’s nightmare – and then Cactus Jack breaks the silence.]

Cactus Jack: I hope I don’t get fired for that, Bob.

 [There is no response from Bob Picken]

Cactus Jack continues: You can hear the murmurs from the crowd as the gentle giant Lynwood Graham has gone to the home end of the sheet to hold the broom for Neuro de G. after that huddle with the Altamont curlers at the far end. You know, it is very hard to see or hear what is going on in those huddles. Perhaps the Blue Bombers could learn a few things on that score.

Bob Picken (breathless): Sorry Jack, I missed some of that as I was tending to some… uh… personal business. It is awfully close quarters here and somehow your elbow hit me on the nose.

[2-second pause]

Bob Picken (determined to continue a battle of idioms): You never miss a trick, do you Jack? Maybe the Devil was at play?

Cactus Jack: Well, this certainly is a surprise Bob. Do you see where Lynwood Graham has placed that broom? It is about a foot, a mere 12 inches, from the right wall looking out from the house. And it literally is the wall of the building folks.

Bob Picken: I don’t think that I have ever seen such a dramatic placement of the broom – at least not since the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz, or perhaps Cinderella.

[Remember, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer produced The Wizard of Oz in 1939. Disney produced the animated version of Cinderella in 1950 but did not make Mary Poppins until 1964 and Bedknobs and Broomsticks until 1971.]

Cactus Jack: And Altamont would certainly be a Cinderella team if they can pull this off. The excitement is building and the building is dead quiet. Neuro de G. is in the hack and he begins his back swing very deliberately, his corn broom out in his left hand providing him some semblance of balance.

Bob Picken: Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat Jack! They are calling for the out turn, which under normal circumstances would curl the rock right into the wall! They expect this rock to back up against the turn!

Cactus Jack: Holy Hannah! They must know something we don’t, Bob.

Bob Picken: That was a pretty amazing back swing for de Generative – about 8 inches off the ice surface. [Probably less than a 1/10 Watson, not named after the legendary Ken Watson who perfected the long slide, but after Ken’s brother Grant who had a very high back swing.]

Cactus Jack (his voice sounding as if he was jumping in his seat – a jumping Jack): Yes! And his rock came crashing to the ice! The shot stayed on course only by his amazing ability to prop up his left side with his corn broom during his slide! He must have practiced that maneuver!

[It is true that de Generative came out of the hack in a crazily precarious position but he did so with a devilishly, determined grin as he mustered up every ounce of strength to overcome Bradykinesia and rigidity. There was no question that all of Neuro’s neuropathways were focussed on powering that stone down the ice, dead on target. It wobbled, trembled and shook, not from speed but from an uncertain centre of gravity transferred to it by its propellant.]

Cactus Jack again picks up the play by play: Holy Hell, that shot is a long way out there on that untested, frosty ice. I hope I don’t get fired for that Bob. I don’t see anything good from this shot. Bert Marshall is the sole sweeper, tickling the ice with his old corn broom. No slap, slap slap of raw power there.

Bob Picken (in a deliberate understatement): Bert is known for playing the quiet game.

Cactus Jack: Lynwood Graham is coming out from the house to lend a hand sweeping. The other Altamont sweeper, Charlie Taylor, is on the sidelines barking out instructions on sweeping technique. That stone is still very close to the wall, a long way from the centre line and from that first stone it must strike, … and still with the wrong turn.

Bob Picken (incredulously): You know Jack, I think that rock is starting to bend. … Against the turn! … Yes it is, and Bert Marshall is really starting to put his back into the broom. His tickle has become a massage and he is kneading the ice with renewed fervour. Lynwood Graham’s forearms are bulging and literally popping!  His broom seems close to snapping! That rock is speeding up and moving across the ice as if going downhill!    

[In the background, de Generative’s voice can be heard yelling as he follows the rock down the ice, focussed and following but not falling]

Neuro de Generative: HURRY HARD HAAAARRRRD! SWEEP YOU CRAZY BASTARDS! HAAAAARRRRRRDDDDDERRR!

Cactus Jack: I hope he doesn’t get fired for that, Bob.

Bob Picken: Maybe he knows their ancestry better than we do, Jack. (pause … then raising his voice) That rock, as improbable as it seems is now on a line and has the right weight to hit that front rock and start a domino sequence that may well clear the house!

Cactus Jack: Let’s listen….

[Sounds are heard: Crack!crack/crack, crack, … bonk, bonk, bonk … tap.]

[silence… and… “ecnelis” which is silence played backwards specifically for the Devil … then pandemonium breaks out!]

Cactus Jack (now yelling to be heard above the din): All Hell has just broken loose! I know, I know… but I don’t think I will get fired for that.

[Sounds are often deceptive and may outright lie if the sound effects staff are good at their jobs. Be it known though, that there was no need to augment or embellish the sounds of Neuro’s stone reaching its target.  Smoothly and more quickly than most human eyes could comprehend, Neuro de Generative’s stone seemed to have cleared the house with the possible exception of one rock at the back of the rings. It appears to be out but the Devil’s third Darth Vader disagrees and in his usual breathy, ominous, sonorous voice calls for a measurement.]

Cactus Jack: Who would have thought that Neuro de G’s rock would have such an impact, so to speak? The Devil’s team has called for a measure. If Neuro’s rock is in, then Darth Vader will have a two shot cushion and Vader can afford to leave one stone in the rings to win and two for a tie sending the game into an extra end. Under that scenario Altamont can win only if Darth Vader leaves at least three stones in the rings. If de Generative’s rock is out, then Darth Vader must clear the house to win.  One stone left and its a tie.

Bob Picken: It is still an enviable position for the Devil, Jack, as they have control of their own destiny…. Come to think of it though, no one has ever seen Darth Vader throw a curling stone. What do you think he will do?

Cactus Jack: We’ll have to wait and see, as we’ll be back with the result of the measurement and Darth Vader’s throw after these messages.

Network Announcer: This special broadcast of Devil Challenge Curling on DEVL 666 is brought to you by Devil’s Food cake, equally perfect for birthdays and midnight snacks; and by the Dirt Devil “Broom Broom” Vac, great for cleaning up cake crumbs. Both items are now on sale at all DevilMart locations. Now back to Cactus Jack Wells.

Cactus Jack (not knowing he is back on air): I hope there is seven – minute frosting on that Devil’s Food cake, Bob.

Bob Picken (also not knowing they are on air): I prefer dark chocolate ganache myself.

Cactus Jack (still oblivious): But neither of them is as good as a cold Blue.

Cactus Jack: We’re back! Holy cow Bob! The measurement showed that the rock was indeed counting so another point is added to the Altamont score. Darth Vader needs to clear seven rocks with his last stone to win outright. If he leaves two rocks, it will be a tie.

Bob Picken: Yes, that rock counted against the Altamont team as it was a biter after all.

Cactus Jack: A real nail biter, you say? The crowd didn’t like that much but they are going crazy here supporting the Altamont squad! 

Bob Picken: Yes, it is a bit brighter for the Devil’s team. It just shows you how important it is to measure those rocks when it is not clear if they are counting. In this case, there seemed to be white space between the hitting surface of the rock and the edge of the ring. However, trying to ascertain the exact position is difficult because the rock is beveled and round, and the ring is round.  

Cactus Jack: Don’t be bedeviled by the bevel, eh Bob?

Bob Picken: You know Jack; so much depends on the accuracy of those who paint the rings. If the ring painter is having a bad day or is a little “under the weather” from too much cake or too much Blue, if you know what I mean, then the rings themselves may be a little off centre or not perfectly round.

Cactus Jack: I don’t think that would ever happen here in Altamont, Bob.

Bob Picken: chuckles

Cactus Jack: The Altamont team and supporters have now realized that they are so very close to upsetting the most feared team in Curling. Only a very few know just what is at stake but they know the Devil doesn’t fuck around. I hope I don’t get fired for that Bob, but it does describe the seriousness of this situation.

Bob Picken: You might get fired for that Jack, but you can hope that the brass in Toronto are sleeping.

[Remember, (this begs the question of whether you can remember something that you can’t remember but we will leave that for now) neither Cactus Jack nor Bob Picken know that they will not remember anything because the Devil wipes all cerebral hard drives clean after the event… except for Dick Mussell’s that is… and Dick really doesn’t care about the language, having heard it all before. Anyway, Dick wouldn’t fire anyone even if he could.]

Cactus Jack: (…static…) So, what the Hell is going on here? Darth Vader was to throw last stone for the Devil’s rink but he now seems to be holding the broom…er…light sabre… (static)… for the Dev… (breaking up static) … not much… (static)… ice… (….bbbbbbbbzzzzzzzzz… silence.)

[Voices fade and strangely modulating static is the only sound]

Network Announcer (breaking in): We apologize as we are having problems with the transmission from the Altamont Rink. Our trouble shooters tell us that relay transmitters near Somerset and Homewood, Manitoba are temporarily out of commission. We will return to the broadcast as soon as possible. In the meantime, we take you to Stewart McPherson and the Political Pundit Panel (P3) discussing why the Cooperative Commonwealth Federation (CCF) will never form the government in Manitoba.

Stewart McPherson: Hell will freeze over if the CCF ever….

[Note: the CCF would become the New Democratic Party (NDP) 6 months later and form the government in Manitoba for 32 of the next 55 years. There is no word on whether Stewart McPherson is in a warm or a cold place.]

At this point the broadcast breaks off. For those who care, Stewart McPherson did not get fired.

We learn later that a mysterious gravitational wave of unprecedented proportion and unknown origin caused the radio signal “to skip” into the upper atmosphere where it bounced off an asteroid and was picked up by a transmitter in Tasmania on its return to earth. Apparently, the broadcast caused much concern that Tasmanian Devils were at risk of being stoned by “Dunbars.”

Does the ‘evil’ in Devil mean anything?

It has taken over 40 years of research and study but I have finally been able to piece together from a variety of sources the following account that, I believe, presents the facts fairly.

You may recall that Darth Vader was to deliver the last rock for Idle Rocks are the Devil’s Curling Club. So, why was the Devil heading toward the hack and Darth Vader was standing in the house with the rocks? Something was afoot…. or ahoof.

Bart IMG_4822

Bartholomew knows more about the Devil than he cares to admit.  Photo: The PD Gardener  2015

The Devil pulled a fast one, as they say. Deep in the Good vs Evil Rule Book is a little known provision, “The Devil you say? Rule” that permits the Devil to change His mind and insert Himself into the line up at any time in a Devil’s challenge game. This is precisely what he did. The Altamont team protested at length (Lynwood Graham’s ears turned red, Murray Stockford uttered a strong Gaaarrrrsssshhhh! Charlie Taylor almost swallowed his lit cigarette, ash and all) but the Devil’s argument that there is no point being a Devil if you can’t do things that are devilishly sinister and outright bad, won the day. How would you know the Devil was evil if He had to follow the rules all the time?

“That makes no sense,” argued the Devil. “And rules are for sissies,”He added for good measure.

Besides, the Devil threatened not to fulfill His end of the bargain if they didn’t agree. This threat is really a variant of the old school yard threat: “If I don’t get my way, I will take my bat and ball and go home.” Put that way, everyone understood and the Devil was allowed to throw the last stone – a result no different than the result from the schoolyard threat where ownership of the tools of the game are key to the continuation of the game. Everyone had too much invested in the game at this point to let it end at this point, if you get my point.

I doubt if there was anyone in the Altamont Rink at that moment who didn’t think this move ended any chance for the Altamont team to win. The Devil could muster furious speed and stupidly outrageous power to his throw – “sick” as my daughter would say. The chances that any rock would remain in the rings after the Devil threw were “slim and none, and Slim left town” as I always say to irritate my children.

The Devil looked down at the hack, a hole in the ice with a short piece of wood frozen into it at the back.  Instinctively He tried to settle into the right side hack with His left foot (His strong side) but it was not designed for His cloven hoof. He rooted around the hack until enough ice had been chipped away too accommodate His hoof and then grasped the stone’s handle with His left hand. For thousands of years left-handed movements have been attributed to the Devil and I am not saying that His comfort level with left handed throwing of a “Dunbar” is proof of anything.  I am merely describing the scene.

The Devil stared down the ice at Darth Vader who was using his light sabre as a broom indicating the ice necessary to make this shot. It was laughable. At the speed the Devil was planning, the rock would be unlikely to move more than 0.000001 mm between the hack and impact. Nevertheless Vader waved his light sabre (zzzmmuuubzuhzzzzzzzuhzzzzzuhzzzz) over all the rocks in the house to emphasize the obvious: he wanted all the rocks removed. Vader then carefully placed the light sabre just off the centre of the target rock. It would be a slight in turn for the left-handed Devil.

The Devil took the rock back slowly as if His back swing would be a short one, but it gained momentum as it approached vertical over the Devil’s head in what appeared to be an exaggerated Pee Wee Pickering delivery. Just as the rock reached the optimum point at the apex such that its weight, combined with the Devil’s stupendous Satanic strength, pulled it back down through the same arc in reverse, the force and speed caused the air in the rink to rush ahead towards the spectator end with a loud “BOOM” (perhaps, the sound barrier had been broken?) rattling the windows and breaking a few panes in the viewing area.  The spectators ducked and gasped, “WHAT THE ….? “

The Devil still managed to hold the rock handle lightly with what looked like two bony fingers. Smoke trailed off as an intense heat spread through the stone exposing and melting impurities and threatening to turn the 44 lbs of granite into lava. The Devil’s cloven right hoof scraped out across the ice in an awkward yet strangely powerful slide causing spectators’ teeth to curl, and more than one set of false teeth hit the floor beneath the bleachers. The Devil’s fingers were still lightly touching the rock handle and His eyes were lasers fixed on Darth Vader’s light sabre. His aim was deadly accurate as His fingers left the handle just before the hog line. (He wouldn’t want to break any rules now, would He?) The rock sailed down the ice with a wobble and a tilt every few feet, the ice not just melting under it but catching fire even though the rock never touched its surface. Its velocity was fearsome and it was still accelerating as it crossed the far hog line towards its target. In spite of the forces of physics being applied to it, the rock stayed on its precision course and struck the intended rock with a blinding flash, an ear splitting release of energy as fragments of rock flew like shrapnel through the walls, roof and windows. The Devil’s eyes shone red illuminating the rink with a queer, pinkish glow as icy crystals in the frosty night air melted into watery strawberry Kool-Aid.

The viewing area benches were vacant… but the bathrooms (primitive as they were) were full. Both teams remained on the ice although they had retreated a respectful distance away from the anticipated impact. Darth Vader breathed several deep electronic breaths before diving way down for those basal tones (not as good as James Earl Jones but acceptable) to intone, “Take that, Willie MacCrimmon.”

Smoke and stone dust slowly drifted away. All eyes turned to the house to assess the damage, to witness first hand the carnage, to determine the number of stones (if any) that remained in play. The vice-skips of both teams gathered at the button, their curling shoes sloshing through melted puddles marking the trail of the Devil’s rock. One stone remained in the rings – a biter barely touching the twelve-foot ring at eleven o’clock. No one had to count on his or her fingers. The Devil had won by that count!

The Altamont squad sat in stunned silence.

There was no cheering, no shouts of congratulations, and no pats on the back by the Devil’s team, but they stood together in cocky silence and in awe, themselves, of the sheer magnitude of the phenomenon they had just experienced. Neither Mother Nature, nor any other Supreme Being worthy of the name, could have delivered such sound and fury.

It is too bad for the Devil that He did not read up on “sound and fury.” If He had He would have known that

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing – Macbeth Act 5, Scene 5.

The erudite Altamont curlers and fans still held out hope that the “signifying nothing” part meant that the Devil was s— out of luck. [I think the quotation is accurate although the interpretation may be not be as intended.]

In the meantime, the Devil took a moment to reflect on the accomplishment. He was so proud of Himself. The Devil had been plagued (normally He liked plagues) by a very long losing streak and He was thrilled to get that monkey off His back. The Devil’s defeat to Willie MacCrimmon was avenged and His defeat at the hands of Johnny the Fiddler documented in Charlie Daniels’ The Devil went down to Georgia would not hurt quite so much now.

The list of defeats the Devil has suffered is just too long to chronicle; many have been clouded by the passage of time; some have been invented and misrepresented by those with a vested interest to promote themselves as vanquishers of evil; many have been embellished beyond belief; and some are pure fiction, plain and simple. But the Devil’s victory in Altamont – a match of skill, ability, intelligence, and strength in a game played extensively by the good God-fearing citizens of this fair-minded community where few denizens of evil dared to tread – was as close as the Devil had ever come to defeating a contingent approved by the Heavenly Spirit Himself/Herself (or Heavenly Father if you must.) No small victory in the Devil’s eyes.

In that moment, the moment where no one had jumped for joy and come down upon a rock still in question, a move that could be called a “LaBonte” after Bob LaBonte of the United States who burned a rock while jumping for joy in an apparent victory over Orest Meleschuk of Canada before the total count in the end had been agreed by both teams. It was the final game of the 1972 Air Canada Silver Broom (World Championships) in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany and the LaBonte miscue left the game tied after the 10th end. Canada would go on to win the Championship in an extra end. Labonte, it is said, placed a curse on the Canadian team and Canada would not win another world championship until 1980, eight years later. I relay this happening to provide descriptive context only, as neither team would have been aware of this event during their 1961 tussle because the Altamont team was human and the LaBonte event was just outside of the Devil’s 10-year prescience factor.

The Devil wins?

But, where was I? Oh yes, in that moment, a quiet somewhat squeaky voice piped up on the boardwalk separating the curling ice from the skating ice. It was none other than Gordon Holliston, that long time resident of Altamont, a member of one of the pioneering families of the district, a member of the first Altamont team to win the O’Grady Challenge Trophy, and the first person to address the Devil when He burst into the Rink earlier that evening. Gordon, afflicted by osteoarthritis in his hip, had walked quietly with his characteristic limp, to a spot just beside the curling rings. He looked straight at the Devil and said,

“By jjjjove, I don’t… I don’t think… I don’t think you have… c.. c.. c.. ccounted… counted all the stones… No Siree.”

Upon seeing Gordon Holliston beside the rings, that old feeling of unease and creepiness the Devil always felt when He was in the Altamont Rink (except in the restrooms)  returned. His blood was beginning to run cold again. The good citizens of this community were just too wholesome and not vain enough to be enticed into corruption.

Devil enraged IMG_0003

The Devil’s blood pressure was spiking! Photo: unknown

Like all brats, the Devil held His breath and strained until His face turned red (not blue but redder than red) and His blood pressure began to rise to a reading that would have blown the cuff of the arm of any mere mortal.  Steam slowly seeped up from the scales on the Devil’s neck.

 

 

Darth Vader’s light sabre cut threateningly through the air as he breathed in his most irritatingly breathy voice, “What do you mean, old man?” (vvvrrroooommbzuhzzzzzzzuhzzzzzuhzzzz)

“M… M… Mr. Holliston … to… to… to… to you,” Gordon replied and pointed out two quite small but noticeable chunks of granite still remaining in the house. These chunks were in addition to the biter previously counted. The Devil’s shot had wreaked havoc as it collided with its intended target and careened off other rocks in the ring. ‘Smithereens’ may be the operative word here. The question was: Are those chunks counting stones?

Gordon Lowry, a contemporary of Gordon Holliston’s, pulled out a well thumbed copy of the Rules of Curling for General Play and went immediately to Rule 4 (2) [later to be Rule 4 (4)] which states

If a stone is broken in play, a replacement stone shall be placed where the largest fragment comes to rest. The inside edge of the replacement stone shall be placed in the same position as the inside edge of the largest fragment with the assistance of a measuring stick.

That seemed to answer the question but was it the whole answer?

If chunks count, how many chunks count?

As is often the case, one answer just leads to another question: Were the chunks from the same stone or from two different stones? The implication is obvious. Different stones meant two additional rocks in the rings and the Devil loses. If it were only one stone the game would be tied and an extra end (or ends) would be played.

Darth Vader and Lynwood Graham surveyed the chunks and it became apparent that it would be time consuming and finicky work to reconstruct the stones to a state where they could determine the origin of both chunks. As curling is often left to the fair play of the competitors (even if one team is the Devil’s), the teams huddled and agreed to appoint one person each to resolve the matter. They also agreed to appoint an independent fair-minded arbiter as a third person. By the way, this approach is consistent with the general rules of curling.

Although he seemed to be a bit of a know it all, the Altamont team nominated Bert Marshall as they perceived (rightly or wrongly) that he did know more than the rest of them on this matter.

The Devil wanted to be nominated but His team rejected Him as being a hot head and a wild card in such situations. The Devil didn’t object too strenuously as the Altamont team had already nominated Bert Marshall and the Devil was sure that Bert was on His side so it would not be necessary for Himself to be there as well. With that, the Devil’s team nominated Magnus Djävulsson as he had both Icelandic and Swedish ancestry that made it seem that he was closer to the granite of Ailsa Craig than the other players were.

Now, all that was left was to agree upon the third, independent party. But time was matching on and “time stops for no man” to misquote another proverb [Time and tide wait for no man.] It was rapidly approaching morning and first light would burn away the “stuff” that was happening and a resolution would be held in abeyance. Both teams abhorred abeyance and jointly agreed to invoke curling’s virtually unheard of Unusual Measures Rule No. 0.666. In this case, they appealed to the Devil to implement Central Suspended Time (see Part II Appendix A.)   Believe it or not, that is what happened that … longer than usual… night in Altamont.

Who is not afraid of the big, bad Devil?

Both teams looked over the individuals who were present at the rink and there was no agreement on a third party who met the “independent” criterion and was deemed honest enough to be trusted. It is not clear how her name came up but someone mentioned “Miss Armitage” and heads all around nodded agreement. No one, not even the Devil could disagree. Miss Mary Armitage was beyond reproach. Thirty-seven of her 41 years of teaching were in Altamont and she had taught two or maybe even three generations of some families.  A few “little devils” might have even passed through her classes. She lived to be just shy of 103 years old but was a very youthful and spry 59 at this time.

Altamont School

Altamont School enlarged in 1924. Photo: G. H. Robertson. Source: Archives of Manitoba, School Inspectors Photographs

Bessie McDonald was dispatched to awaken Miss Armitage from a deep sleep and summon her to the Altamont Rink. Interestingly, I have no image of Miss Armitage attending many functions at the Rink previously, or since, but no matter, she knew immediately and instinctively that her responsibility was to ensure fairness in determining the final outcome of this curling competition. And make no mistake, Miss Armitage had no fear of the Devil! A card table was pulled out into the waiting room nearest the kitchen. Miss Armitage pulled up a chair and joined Magnus Djävulsson and Bert Marshall to begin what turned out to be a tedious process.

To make a long story somewhat shorter (I am certain you are relieved to hear this) the question that needed to be answered was quite clear: Did the two fragments of curling stone left in the rings come from the same rock or from two different rocks?

Bert Marshall took out his handkerchief, blew his nose, and then folded it back into his pocket and started to explain the geological origins of Ailsa Craig granite and why some types are better than others, how the granite was harvested, how it was honed and made into curling stones and… (yawn, yawn)… it wasn’t long before Miss Armitage suggested that they better get doing what people in Altamont are very good at doing … and that is putting together jigsaw puzzles. As there were no smart phones to take photos, she instructed the carpenter Jim Sharp (the Devil bristled at the mention of his occupation) to use his carpenter’s pencil and drafting paper to make a sketch of the rings, the stones, and shards of stones left in the rings after the Devil’s shot.

Neuro de Generative and Severus Snape were dispatched to gather up every splinter and shard of granite they could find on the ice, in the spectators’ area and even outside where some shards lay, still steaming, in the snow after they were blown clean through the wooden walls and tin roof. Severus reluctantly agreed to go outside to look in every nook and cranny, under every rock, and to leave no stone unturned in his effort to find any fragment(s) of stone. Snape must be commended as the Slitherin part of his Soul was not enamoured with sliding through snow and ice. He found that it induced rigidity and Bradykinesia or slowness.

Neuro shuffled off to navigate precariously the ice surfaces of the single sheet of curling ice and the skating rink. Clearly, neurodegenerative diseases such as Parkinson’s, and the limitations that those conditions placed on individuals, were not well understood in the early 1960s. It was comical, heartbreaking, and heart warming all at once to watch Neuro on the ice but he did it. Neuro invoked “mind over matter” concentration and did not fall once, but undoubtedly his application to the Flying Wallenda’s troupe would be rejected out of hand.

Remarkably, Severus and Neuro found every last shard.

Every crack and crevice IMG_0652

Snape searched every crack and crevice Photo: unknown

The verdict

As the pieces came in, Miss Armitage, Magnus and Bert worked systematically to piece the stones back together. Bert is convincing in his argument that the stones were made from two different types of granite, one was Keanie granite and the other was Common Green granite. Both stones had been reconditioned (badly) at some point in their existence. This was not unusual as it was expensive to transport heavy curling stones to the prairies from Scotland in the early 20th Century. There was little money to purchase new stones so reconditioning, while not recommended, was a less expensive option to keep the stones in play given normal club playing conditions. But, as we know this match was far from normal.

The Keanie granite and the Common Green granite each had major flaws weakening the stone at the outset but to make matters worse, the stones had been sent for reconditioning to a knock down wholesaler, a new untried and now bankrupt Toronto firm, Devil in Disguise Rock Reconditioning (D2 R2 Ltd) of which, not surprisingly, “Broom Broom” GeoFreeZone was the principal shareholder. It all added up to the two stones not having a ghost of a chance to remain intact upon impact from the Devil’s stone.

More importantly though, the two different types of granite meant that shards of each rock were easily identified and the reconstruction went quickly. It actually wasn’t necessary to piece the stones together as it was already determined that each chunk was from a different type of granite ergo there were two stones. But Darth Vader, like most losers, insisted well past the point where he should have conceded. As expected, the reconstructions told the story. The two shards in the ring were from different rocks and two points were added to the Devil’s score making the Altamont team the winner with the lowest aggregate score.

What if there is a winner and no one celebrates?

I apologize if this news seems a bit anticlimactic but the fact is that it is quite consistent with the way the winning team and their fans felt at that moment… enervated… spent… sapped… weary… exhausted… drained… fatigued… well, you get the picture.  The Altamont Rink was stone dead quiet. The Altamont team did not move as they let it sink in. They had defeated the Devil!

But the Devil was furious! [There are no words to describe the Devil’s state of mind at this point.] His losing streak continued and He would have to suffer this blow forever in order to make good on His side of the bet.

The sssssspoilssssss of the Devil’s wager

Remember the Devil’s challenge specifically stated that to the victor would go the spoils. The Devil promised some hitherto unknown specifics in His side of the wager (Lynwood Graham negotiated the fine print sensing the Devil was outrageously overconfident of the outcome) including:

1) Curling would forever have a Gravitational Force Field drawing and holding communities together for common purpose and for the betterment of all within the community;

2) The “Stuff of Curling” would, in perpetuity, be located within the walls of the Altamont Rink and may be accessed only in the presence of a member of the Altamont Curling Club, should it be necessary;

3) Good Gravitational Force Fields will always

a) Be greater than Evil Gravitational Force Fields;

b) Include soup;

c) Have a place for trading curling pins

d) Include appropriate libations, dispensed in discrete moderation, in appropriate venues, contributing to the convivial atmosphere of Curling

e) Ensure the Beneficial Innovation always outweighs Disruptive innovation

4) Mathematical, scientific and theoretical proofs of the “Stuff of Curling” shall be elevated to the status of Natural Law.

It is not clear that the Devil had the authority to carry through with #4 but He was so cocksure that He would win, He promised it anyway. I personally think that He has that power but that He doesn’t have the obligation to divulge the specifics of that proof. So, there is more thinking to be done on the mathematical equation for “The Stuff of Curling”and it is left to us mere mortals to complete that work.

In any case, the Altamont team was exhausted and sat quietly with their fans on the benches and bleachers of the viewing area and let the magnitude of what happened slowly massage their muscles and brains into a supersaturated state of satisfaction. Debris and detritus left from the explosive end to the match slowly returned to normal on its own accord. Central Suspended Time returned to Central Standard Time. The good citizens and children of Altamont began to stir as a new day dawned.

As happens with all such encounters with the Devil, everyone would leave the Rink with their cerebral hard drives wiped clean of all knowledge of the events of the night – everyone that is except for Dick Mussell who had escaped a complete hard drive wiping in a previous encounter, and having an exceedingly plastic brain was able to harness neuroplasticity to develop new neuropathways allowing him to avoid the Devil’s neurological tricks. Dick rode Queenie back to his shanty, wondering who would ever believe this story. He continued to curl but with a new respect for the game.

Dick never told anyone about the Devil’s Challenge for many years until one night on the anniversary of the Challenge, the Altamont Hotel was empty except for him, and three guys named Scotty, Buster and Phil. They believed Dick. And they told me. And I believe them. Indeed, I stake my personal reputation on the fact that they are unassailable as characters

AFTERMATH, AFTERWORD, AFTERTHOUGHTS AND ANALYSIS (4A)

As always, after a hard fought competition between two combatants steadfast in their determination to vanquish the other, there is a need to analyze what transpired and tidy up a few loose ends. Have you ever noticed that after any sporting event whether it is hockey, baseball, curling, football, soccer (football,) cricket, track and field, swimming or any other Olympic sport, the broadcasters always schedule time for highlights and analysis?

With that in mind, let’s join Cactus Jack Wells and Bob Picken who will be joined by Winnie (farmer, sportsman and old time fiddler, Winston ”Winnie” Simpson of Deerwood, Manitoba) and Windy (farmer and sportsman, Lloyd “Windy” Orchard of Miami, Manitoba) for a foray into 4A. Now, you need to know that Winnie was a jovial kind of guy, a decent athlete, and he would become a moving force in old time fiddle music in Manitoba. Windy, equally talented and respected as an athlete and umpire/referee, came by his nickname honestly as he loved to talk, and he particularly loved to talk to Winnie. I don’t know who put them both on the same panel but it had to be someone who did not want any dead air.  In the interests of brevity, what follows is a somewhat abridge version of what the post mortem on the Devil’s defeat might have sounded like with Cactus Jack, Bob, Winnie and Windy.

Cactus Jack: Welcome to the Foray into 4A Panel with Bob, Winnie, Windy and your host, yours truly, Cactus Jack.

[Rustling sounds in the background – no, not cattle rustling!]

Cactus Jack: Well, it turned out nice again didn’t it?

Bob Picken: It turned out nice for the Altamont squad anyway, Jack. The citizens of Altamont are certainly ecstatic. Ooops, I didn’t mean to say “static.” Hope we don’t lose any listeners because of radio transmission problems.

Cactus Jack: I don’t think you will get fired for that, Bob.

Cactus Jack (continuing): let’s get the views of our local experts, Winnie and Windy. Winnie, what are your thoughts?

[It was a mistake to ask Winnie for his thoughts as he proceeded to outline his plans for an old time fiddlers’ festival, a new weekly music program on CFAM Altona and his views on the Chicago Blackhawks’ chances to win the Stanley Cup before Cactus Jack could get a word in edgewise.]

[There are some scuffling sounds.]

Cactus Jack: Wow Winnie! You sure can talk fast and you have a strong grip on that microphone, don’t you?  I don’t usually have to say this but let me be a little clearer, what would you say is the one thing that appeared to tip the balance in this match?

Winnie: Well, I arrived a little late because I had to load some pigs to be shipped to Winnipeg in the morning. I had to find some of my young hockey players to help me out. Slippery little devils they are – the pigs that is, not the hockey players.

[A few chuckles from Bob and Windy]

Winnie: The turning point – you know, that would make a good ballet movie – was when the Devil thought that Bert Marshall had agreed to sell his Soul. The Devil seemed to be overconfident after that conversation.

Bob Picken:  I agree with you Winnie, there should be a venue for old time fiddlers to fiddle their old times away in Manitoba. Glad to see you are working on that – the Devil is a wicked fiddler, you know.

Cactus Jack: Well, we won’t fiddle with the facts.  Windy what’s your point of view on the turning point?

Windy: I never excelled in ballet, Jack – unless you count the time I did a grand jeter across a large of pile of bullshit spread by my friend Winnie here! [Outright laughter from several individuals.]

Windy continuing: Seriously though folks, the turning point was when Neuro de Generative threw his Dunbar with the out turn and it fell away from the turn into the house. That shot, was one of the most remarkable shots I have ever seen. I think there is a story to be told around that one – and I hope that I get to hear it because I have already thought of a dozen ways to make it a better story.

Winnie: You know, I heard that Neuro is taking ballet lessons – he is able to avoid tremor and is better coordinated and flexible because of it. This is a real breakthrough in the treatment of neurological diseases such as Parkinson’s. [How Winnie knew this is anyone’s guess, but he never ceased to amaze as to the vastness of his knowledge and opinions.]

Windy (jumping in): I heard the Soviets are teaching ballet to their elite hockey players.

From left, Russian forwards Pavel Datsyuk, Sergei Gonchar and Evgeni Malkin, seen here at the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, are expected to attend the team's Aug. 23-24 camp in Sochi, Russia, site of the 2014 Winter Games. Three little maids from school (Mikado)? or Four swans minus one (Swan Lake)? Photo: cbc.ca

 

Cactus Jack (somewhat naïvely it turns out): The Ruskies will never be dancing around our professional players and you can take that to the bank.

Bob Picken: Winnie might be on to something here. I thought that Neuro performed a marvellous allegro at the end of his delivery – it was assemble, changement, entrechat, sauté, sissone, soubresaut, if I am not mistaken.

Cactus Jack: Let’s not get carried away here. The glissade is what it’s all about in curling. Unless of course, I can get some of that Devil’s food cake with glaçage fouetté.

[Oh oh, Jack, Bob, Winnie and Windy have gone massively off script into some world I would never have dreamed they ever visited. I would ask them to do an about face but About Face is a ballet documentary of a woman who has forgotten who she is, originally commissioned by the Sydney Opera House. I am also afraid that continuing on might spark a discussion of tours en l’air and they would just keep facing the same direction irrespective of how many they performed. I doubt if they could do more than Vaslav Nijjinsky who was known to perform triple tours en l’air. I think it is best to put a halt to this pas de quatre and return to regular programing. I wonder if they got fired for this? Or maybe they were just demoted to the corps de ballet.]

Before they adopted an attitude not well understood by curling aficionados, Winnie and Windy did identify the two key elements of any post mortem of the clash of the Dunbars, Idle Rocks are the Devil’s Curling Club vs Altamont Curling Club. Did Bert Marshall sell out? And why was Neuro de Generative’s stone so effective? Let’s address each of these in turn.

What was Bert thinking?

Probably the biggest question I have and this is a question I was not able to ask our father before he passed, is whether he sold his Soul to the Devil for an elusive 8 – Ender?

It is clear that there was a conversation between the Devil and father and an 8 – Ender was part of that discussion. 8 – Enders are that difficult to achieve. If you recall, my father was in conversation with the Devil at the conclusion of the second end. I secretly hoped that it was just dad giving a long-winded answer to some question the Devil had asked. Dad was notorious for giving the complete encyclopedic version rather than Readers’ Digest version on any topic of interest. His Saskatchewan grandchildren, when directed to ask him for assistance with homework would say impatiently, “We don’t want the grandpa answer, we just want the answer. [Some say I have inherited this trait myself, but I don’t see it.]

With the benefit of hindsight and the fact that any written documentation on the Devil’s Challenge and other happenings that night have been unsealed and released to the public, we are able to piece some things together. Law stipulates that all such documents are sealed for 50 years at which time they are made available to the public. The Devil has never really worried about the release of the documents as He wipes the cerebral hard drive of all participants (except other worldly ones) so they never remember that the event even took place, much less look for incriminating information against the Devil. But recall that the Devil was not successful in fully wiping the memory of Dick Mussel in a previous heated encounter, such that Dick’s brain developed alternate neuropathways as a defense mechanism, accommodating and enhancing this new modus operandi. For example, Dick began to think the same thoughts as the Devil but trained his neuropathways not to act as the Devil acted, nor was he subject to the Devil’s will to command such action. Still, Dick remembered this vaguely and only when the Fahrenheit and Celsius scales converged at minus 40 degrees which is an interesting phenomenon in and of itself – very cold, but interesting.

 

Snow 2213 Webster IMG_5673

Is this where Fahrenheit and Celsius converge? Photo: The PD Gardener 2016

So, what was the conversation between dad and the Devil after the second end? It is a bit complicated but I will try to simplify it. The rocks at the Altamont Curing Club were a matched set and I believe were owned by the Club. There were a few other sets of stones around and they were owned by some of the early settlers e.g., Fraser, Holliston, Madill, Lowry, who came predominantly from the Ottawa Valley in Ontario. These stones were not always as well matched or as well made but they served when extra stones were required at bonspiels.

It appears that the Devil’s Challenge curlers had to agree on the stones used for the set arrangement in the house but each curler could choose his own shooting rock. Bert noticed that two of the stones in the set array in the house had flaws – actually several quite serious flaws as it turns out. Someone, we are not sure who, had chosen two rocks – one made of Ailsa Craig common green granite and the other was made by the Keanie Company of so-called Keanie Granite. The strike bands of both rocks had several nick’s, potholes, and some deep, large, flat spots and big chips, some in the middle of the flat spots. These rocks had only a stem handle and not the full cap cover that you see today so they were much less sturdy and were prone to split. How these rocks were selected is not clear. Perhaps someone (or more than one someone) on either side hid them deliberately; perhaps they were entered into play surreptitiously after the match started; perhaps they were simply oversights or the result of carelessness. No matter, they were there after the second end and Bert spotted them.

Bert always had an interest in plants and vegetation but he also was very interested in geology – rocks and land forms. Don’t forget he was also the former proprietor of a pool hall with a keen sense of the angles necessary to ricochet and bank balls into the appropriate pockets, or to play billiards, that game of angles and deft shot making mastered by the old timers such as Gordon Lowry and Gordon Madill in Altamont. [In billiards, these two Gordons plus Gordon Holliston constituted a “triple Gordon!”]

The Devil had last shot in the third and last, barring a tie, end. He had been observing keenly the success or lack of success of all previous shots re: first rock struck and the resulting outcomes. He was seeking a new path as no one was perfect in the first two ends. Of course, Bert couldn’t help himself and he was analyzing it six ways from Sunday as well, voicing his opinion out loud from time to time.

So, the Devil situated himself quite close to Bert and whispered, “if you give me an idea I use, I will make it worth your while.”

Bert took out his handkerchief and blew his nose because … well because that is what he always does. Bert just looked a bit off to the side and whispered, “I always wanted to score an 8 – Ender.”

The Devil looked incredulous – and snorted a warm little snort ending with, “That seems like a chance I can’t afford to pass up because I can reject your idea at no cost if I disagree.”

Bert laughed a similar low laugh but without the Devil’s snort and said, quietly but firmly, “the angle on that there rock in the front 12 foot is best if you” (and here Bert screwed up his mouth a little bit and sort of forced the words through his lips) ” just tick it with your very best Dunbar weight – but you have to throw it like I have never seen you throw it before!” At these last words, Bert’s nostrils expanded outward like little bulbs, his lips pursed tensely and his cheeks were all puffed out as he pushed the words out emphasizing the extreme weight the Devil would have to throw. [How my father knew how hard the Devil had ever thrown before is a mystery to me.]

The Devil was pensive for a moment. His tail swished slowly back and forth and it seemed like he was in another world … or maybe in the nether world. I am certain that He was reviewing my father’s penchant for being detailed in his analysis; his knowledge of angles and deflections from his days as a proprietor of a pool hall; his strong desire to be known for an accomplishment in sports where he had not excelled historically; and his apparent knowledge of scientific formula re: effect of speed and force on impact with stationary objects.

The Devil breathed a smoky response, “The shot you propose makes a lot of sense and is worth the risk. You have a deal. You shall score an 8 – Ender, regardless of whether my shot is successful.” The Devil was also feeling a certain degree of confidence because Bert had just reminded Him of the enormous magnitude of speed and force with which He actually could propel a rock – and He had not yet thrown at his maximum. This potential would surely clear the House He reasoned and He had no reason to let the Altamont team think anything other than Bert had sold them out, sold his Soul to the Devil and defeated them. The Devil was content for the moment because the expenses (location fees, de-commissioning and de-consecration fees, administrative costs, storage fees, applicable Soul transfer taxes, and re-stocking charges) of collecting Souls from those who had sold them was often more than the price the Soul would fetch at market. The market for Manitoba Souls was soft at that moment, so the Devil did not make the deal conditional on Bert selling his Soul.

Bert blew his nose again, folded his handkerchief and put it in his pocket and barely audible through his little chuckle laugh told the Devil, “Dash it all, I just knew you would be up for just this type a thing.”

Interestingly, Bert knew that the market in Souls had been depressed for some time and if I asked him now, he would say something like this, “the dash darned capitalists” (as he was fond of saying) “like that fool guy who was a Canadian and became a Brit and now wants to be a Canadian again, are up to their gosh darned necks in flooding the danged market with cheap Souls, just to keep the Devil from driving the price of Souls through the roof, and to let the Devil know that He isn’t the only game in town when it comes to buying Souls.” [At this point Bert would blow his nose into his handkerchief.] He would then add, “And the gov’nmint is up to its neck in covering this type a thing up, you know.” [As an aside, I am fairly sure of what Bert would say about Donald Trump and cheap Souls.]

To make a long story short, it seems that the Devil and father did indeed make a deal in which father would score an 8-Ender within his lifetime if father could convince the Devil to take the shot he recommended – if the Devil had not thought of it first.   Just like that – there was no Soul on the line and Bert would score his prized 8 – Ender.

Not so fast you say? What was the Devil getting in the deal? The Devil got the recommended best shot from my father who had been studying all the angles and physics of the situation. But what Bert didn’t tell the Devil and what the Devil didn’t know and was too overconfident to waste time exploring, was that two flawed stones were now in the set array in the house. Bert was certain they would self-destruct upon impact from the Devil’s stone. This made it a very low risk play from Bert’s perspective.  Shards of stone would undoubtedly remain in the rings causing the Devil to count at least two more than He wanted.

Our father was not a risk taker although he had taken some calculated risks in his lifetime. He had also faced up to some frightening experiences. In WW II he was Stoker First Class in the HMCS Uganda which saw action in the South Pacific. A farm boy from the prairies working out of sight of the sun and away from the fresh air of the outside world in the bowels of a steamy engine room (temperatures could reach 130ºF or 54.44ºC ) of a massive ship with 6-inch guns, loaded with munitions and torpedoes, must have been a surreal experience indeed. In some ways he must have felt as if he was close to the Devil’s quarters in those engine rooms. Maybe that is why he never “sweated it” when in close contact with the Devil. [Our father always wore a sweater even before he became an “old man.”]

HMCS Uganda stokers For eng rm IMG_5662

Stokers in HMCS Uganda forward engine room. No flames but Hell in other ways. Photo: B. Marshall circa 1945

Is it coincidence that the HMCS Uganda (renamed HMCS Quebec) was on her way to Osaka, Japan on the very night (January 28, 1961) of the Devil’s Challenge? The Uganda would arrive in Osaka on February 6, 1961 to be scrapped. Ironic, isn’t it that it was only a little over 15 years earlier that the Uganda was shelling Okinawa? Perhaps, that is why Bert was able to recognize an opportunity to play the Devil’s own game and entice Him into taking a shot that would target the weaknesses and flaws in the stones, ending with the Devil defeating Himself.

In the decades to come our father made a gutsy decision to return to community college in his mid-forties to retrain as a stationery engineer. He found employment in the power plants of the pulp mill in The Pas, Manitoba and at CFS Dana radar base in Saskatchewan. He was always respectful of the sheer power harnessed within those boilers and I have to believe this made him a prime candidate to understand the fiery Hell where the Devil made His home.

Fiery entrance to Hell IMG_0646

Fiery entrance to Hell  Photo: unknown

The deal with the Devil was a low risk play and I guess Bert figured if he was only going to get one chance at achieving such a low probability event as an 8 – Ender, this was likely it. So he grasped it.

Of course, I have no definitive proof that my father ever made such a deal with the Devil but the raconteur in me says that this makes for a better story than simply saying, “my father once scored an 8-ender in curling.” That seems a bit anticlimactic to me.

The inside story on Neuro de Generative’s last rock

Lloyd “Windy” Orchard correctly identified a second mysterious area for analysis. The rock thrown by Neuro de Generative defied all logic. It is not too hard to figure out though. Natural ice always has its quirks and there always was a little rise (a “hill” or “hump”) about 10 feet in front of the house and to the right on the home end. I seem to recall it always being there. Perhaps, it was a drainage issue from the roof or a small underground stream that ran when the water table got a little higher. Who knows? We just played around it so to speak. Sometimes, if the rocks in the house were situated just right you could use it to your advantage by having your stone slide right off that hump into the rings under cover. I was in Grade 5, I believe, and I was on a rink skipped by Doug Warsaba. We were playing for third place in the school bonspiel and rather than this being cleverness on our part, our opponent caught this slope on a takeout shot and slid by our stone giving us the victory and my first ever curling prize – a funky photo album with a rock and roll theme cover. Funny what you remember over the years, eh?

In fact, the take away (not the take out) from this event is that the “stuff of curling” is as much about losing as winning. For every winner there is a loser and vice-versa. It is not for one to gloat, as it may well be just good or bad fortune as to why you sit in one place or another, rather than skill, knowledge and ability.

But, know this, in the case of the last rock thrown by Neuro de Generative, every last member of the Altamont Curling Club knew about this “hump” and they knew Neuro would throw that stone, with the wrong turn, “banking” so to speak on it sliding down that sloping “hump” at the optimum angle and speed to effect the maximum damage on the rocks in the rings.   No Altamont player threw it earlier because they did not want to reveal the strategy to the Devil who would instruct Magnus and Johnson to follow suit. In addition, Altamont was certain that the Devil would find a way to throw last rock and they knew that he would not play such a conservative shot if de Generative played immediately ahead. The Devil was just itching to unleash His supercharged, nuclear warhead, curling “Dunbar” – a shot that would give rise to the words “shock and awe” years ahead of their time.

So it was that a wrong turn rock sliding off the “hump” made Neuro de Generative and all members of the Altamont Curling Club team unlikely heros that night, preserving Curling’s integrity.

It is here that you discover that curling is equal parts craft, art, science, sport, and other “stuff” ranging from the ephemeral beauty of a well played shot or game to the quality of soup in the bonspiel kitchen.

Last words (best words?) from some of our characters

The Gravitational Force of Curling is the greatest Force on earth. May the Force be with you – Darth Vader (gracious in defeat)

What will you do when you don’t have Me to kick around any longer? – The Devil (not so gracious in defeat)

“I am not a crook” – Bert Marshall (a bit defensive in victory)

It was…It was…  nnnever, never in … in … in ddddoubt – Gordon Holliston (half of the double Gordon)

What, me worry? – Charlie Taylor (half of the two Charlies)

I still think it is all about the soup! – The PD Gardener (with apologies to my mother)

My memory isn’t what it used to be though… – Dick Mussell (but still remembering what others can’t)

Dick would never lie to us about something this important … and we would never lie to you. – Three guys named Scotty, Buster and Phil (taken at face value)

SWEEP YOU CRAZY BASTARDS! – Neuro de Generative (best sweeping yell ever)

I hope someone writes a fiddle tune about the Devil. – Winston “Winnie” Simpson. (The Devil went down to Georgia was written by Charlie Daniels in 1979.)

Well, it turned out nice again, didn’t it? – Cactus Jack Wells (a familiar signature line)

You can say that again, Jack. – Bob Picken (always a team player on the broadcast)

Well, it turned out nice again, didn’t it? – Cactus Jack Wells (I don’t think he will get fired for this)

Afterword

I had a great deal of fun writing this three part series. From its earliest moments as a foggy idea, it has both entertained me (if no one else) and challenged me to meld fact, fiction and fantasy in a way that, I hope, provides insight into life at a very particular time, in a very particular place, in the context of a very particular activity. I am usually not so particular about things.

Have I defined “The stuff of Curling?”  Sort of, and sort of not. That is not the point. The point is that anyone who has thrown more than a tonne of rocks knows that there is such a concept; it is tangible and palpable in any curling setting. You can’t fully comprehend what it entails unless you have put in your time on the ice or in the viewing areas. Try it. You’ll see.

Normally, I would never compare curling and Parkinson’s disease in this manner but you can also never know Parkinson’s unless you are a Person with Parkinson’s (PwP) or you have put in your time in a direct way with PwP e.g., spouse, lover, family member, partner, caregiver, health professional (neurologist, research scientist, physiotherapist, speech pathologist, pharmacist, psychologist, psychiatrist, dietician, etc.) home care services, health policy analysts and advocates, personal and group exercise trainers, fundraisers, and volunteers – and many more.

I have four wishes (is that too many?):

  1.  That each of you has an opportunity to curl in your lifetime.
  2.  That no one (but especially you and anyone you know) becomes a PwP.
  3.  That you (as many as it takes)  contribute to finding a cure for Parkinson’s.
  4. That you contribute (however you are able) to enhancing the quality of life for PwP, their families and their caregivers.

SOURCES

Archives of Manitoba, School Inspectors Photographs, GR8461, A0233, C131-1, page 37.

Bonspiel! The History of Curling in Canada

http://www.collectionscanada.gc.ca/curling/

http://www.cbc.ca/archives/entry/a-curling-community

http://www.CBC.ca/sports

The Clovers, Devil or Angel, 1956

Curl Canada, Rules of Curling for General Play, 2014 – 2018.

Charlie Daniels, The Devil went down to Georgia, 1979.

W. O. Mitchell, The Black Bonspiel of Willie MacCrimmon, McClelland and Stewart, 1993

William Shakespeare, Macbeth.

http://www.worldcurling.org/history-of-curling

Brier 2016 IMG_5622

Tim Horton’s Brier, Ottawa Canada Photo: The PD Gardener 2016

© Stan Marshall (The PD Gardener)

IN SEARCH OF THE “STUFF” OF CURLING Part II: The Devil’s Challenge Trophy (“The Old Goat”)

Author’s note: this story has a mix of fiction, fantasy and fact with references to real persons. It is not difficult to recognize the differences. I hope you enjoy it.

hat Thepdgardener IMG_0608

The PD Gardener

In this three-part series we take an excursion back to the mid-20th century small town of Altamont, Manitoba; we search for that illusive “stuff” of curling; we renew acquaintances with Altamont residents from past posts and meet new ones who quickly become fast friends; we meet a new Parkinson’s hero; we learn something about the human capacity to overcome adversity, and the price some may pay to avoid it. Learn the difference between “the Old Buffalo” and “the Old Goat.”

We have a rare insider’s perspective into an epic confrontation at the Altamont Curling Club as told to me by three guys named Scotty, Buster and Phil, who heard it from another guy named Dick. Prepare to read the play-by-play account of this fierce battle on the curling ice, a curling skills match that shapes destiny.  How much is an 8 – Ender (a perfect end) really worth?   And find out what a “Dunbar” and a “double Gordon” are anyway.

In Part I: “Is it all about the soup?” we explored the many and varied aspects of curling in an attempt to develop a theory about curling and to isolate the “stuff” of curling. No easy task. We reviewed Altamont’s successes in both women’s and men’s curling as well as the historical leadership provided by Manitoba generally on matters related to curling. On January 28, 1961 the Altamont curling Club had just won its first O’Grady Challenge Trophy (“The Old Buffalo”) and were celebrating at the Altamont Rink when the Devil made His presence known just before midnight.

Let’s continue” with

IN SEARCH OF THE “STUFF” OF CURLING

Part II: The Devil’s Challenge Trophy (“The Old Goat”)

Okay, some of you are saying, “Come on, PD Gardener! Not another story about the Devil and curling!  Surely, you can do better than that!

Yeah, yeah.  I know that not everyone is W. O. Mitchell and I should be the last one to pretend to be.  Nevertheless, I am pursuing this story line because both the muse and the other voice in my head are adamant that this narrative must be told. In the Altamont Hotel, three guys named Scotty, Buster and Phil told me the story of this strange encounter, and they heard it from Dick Mussell… and Dick was there!  I don’t believe that any of these honourable gentlemen have spoken about the details of this sporting challenge to anyone else. It turns out that I may be the sole Soul on earth who has an accurate account, as all four of these men are now deceased (and I trust, not residing with the Devil.)

I am not quite sure who introduced the Devil to curling but I don’t think that it has been a good thing.  Over the years uncorroborated sightings of the Devil at curling events and venues around the world have been logged at the “Speak of the Devil Hotline” operated out of a diner in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen. Reports include sightings at bonspiels in what are believed to be His vacation homes in Devil’s Lake, North Dakota and Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina. He is rumoured to hold season tickets to the New Jersey Devils in the NHL and the Manchester United Football Club commonly known as the Red Devils but His boxes rarely show any signs of use. He doesn’t show much interest in the Duke Blue Devils or the Arizona State University Sun Devils either and sends a stand in if some presence is required. He seems to have parted ways with major league baseball’s Tampa Bay team who have unceremoniously dropped the Devil from “Devil Rays” to become simply, “Rays.” There are Tasmanian Devils of course but they are largely unrelated to matters of curling on ice.

In Part I of this series I noted that the clearest, documented report of the Devil’s association with curling comes from the small town of Shelby, Alberta, Canada in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. W.O. Mitchell’s The Black Bonspiel of Willie MacCrimmon captures what has been described as “one Hell of a match” and an “epic confrontation” between the Devil and Willie MacCrimmon in the 1930s. The match featured a Faustian deal between Willie and the Devil – the Devil would help Willie win The Brier (the Canadian Men’s Curling Championship) if Willie agrees to play third forever on the Devil’s rink in Hell. Willie makes a counter proposal – a challenge match for all the marbles. For the record, the Devil’s rink was suitably Devilish with Guy Fawkes shooting lead stones, Judas Iscariot at second and Macbeth as vice-skip.

Since that defeat, the Devil had been keeping a close watch on the curling scene around the country and Altamont, Manitoba caught His eye.  A week long Altamont Bonspiel was held every year in the third week in January. For such a small curling club the bonspiel was well known in southern Manitoba as a ‘spiel where you would have a good time, win or lose, and where some excellent rinks entered to hone their games away from prying eyes. The “A” draw always produced some close matches with stellar shot making on ice that could often be quite tricky. The “B” draw was equally competitive bringing out the best among the second best, so to speak. The “C” and “D” draws, while each was competitive in its own right, featured recreational curlers with a lower quality of skill no matter how you measure it. Still, to win one of these events was a thrill, capping off a great week of curling on the ice and camaraderie off the ice where you made every shot – you even made some you never tried on the ice. I am not saying that curlers tell tall tales but most curlers also fish, if you catch my drift.

Is there really a Devil?

I am not a religious person but I recall many years ago when I was playing hockey in Selkirk, Manitoba, I was invited to attend a meeting of a church council considering the ordination of one of our team’s close community supporters into the Baptist ministry. The candidate presented his desire to be called to the ministry along with his views on various matters of religious and church doctrine. A panel of ministers from other Baptist churches in the area and elders of his own church then grilled him on his knowledge of relevant scriptures and his stated positions on each doctrine.   It was very much like a defending an academic thesis.

One of the questions was “Do you believe there is a Devil?” My friend answered in words to this effect,

Yes, the Devil is real and is at work among us in ways that lead us astray. We must never be so confident as to deny the power of the Devil. For if we underestimate and ignore the Devil we will be defeated. Our challenge is to thwart the Devil’s work and to adhere to and implement the word of God through Jesus.

I recognize that neither the question nor the answer is particularly original or radical in religious and philosophic circles but allow me to expand on these ideas. My friend answered that if you believe in God you must also believe in the Devil. But it doesn’t end there; just as your belief in God is part of your identity, your belief in the Devil must also be part of that same identity. As I said, I am not a religious person and I leave it to you decide whether these ideas are consistent with your own religious beliefs, but for me, the entire concept took on new meaning after I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. I am not going to expound on those ideas here because there are other matters that I wish to explore but I do seem driven to write about Parkinson’s, self-identification and the ability to have quality of life while living with Parkinson’s. Look for a personal view in a future blog post about Parkinson’s and identity.

Where the devil was the Devil?

Truth be known, the Devil had been lurking around the Altamont Rink during the week long bonspiel and the following week in January 1961. It seems there were some “almost sightings” in odd (but not so odd for the Devil) places e.g., at the far back of the Rink there was an unlit “lean to” that passed as a men’s toilet; a place where only men whose streams were still strong and boys with bravado dared to piss. Frozen yellow icefalls reinforced the rotting studs of the thin plywood walls – solid enough in winter but rather spongy in summer – the only protection from the minus 35 degree Fahrenheit temperature and the wind that howled through the passageway from the old lumberyard and Bob Lang’s house (formerly Scott’s) past the end of the Rink, across the creek and out into the Fraser farmland, and every inch of that path was cold as Hell (feeling like minus 45F or lower with the wind.)

“Cold as Hell” – funny phrase that, as I always thought Hell was HOT!  Artificial ice is common place these days and if you don’t care about the energy costs I guess you can curl in Hell, Las Vegas…. anywhere really. However, we know that the Altamont Rink is a natural ice surface with its own peculiarities and curling is restricted to about 3 months maximum. Just time to get your game in shape and then its back to shuffleboard or travel to larger curling clubs in search of higher calibre competition.

It seems the Devil (or someone else?) did frighten some of the local women working the canteen at the bonspiel. You see, there were no real bathrooms for men at the rink at that time and in addition to the back “lean to,” they sought relief by going through the pump shed where the water well was located.  and then through another door into an unlit shed behind the kitchen.  My recollection is that there was no bucket or container to hold human waste and the floor or ground took the effluent. I highly doubt that any woman who unwittingly passed through that area just uttered, “That cheeky devil….”; It was more likely “What the Hell!!!”

There was a small women’s “restroom” between the kitchen and the pump house. I was forbidden to enter this room, ever, so I do not know much about it and I am uncertain if there was an actual place for women to go to the bathroom. In the only glimpse of the inside of the women’s restroom I recall, I saw a wall mirror mounted such that women, teenage girls, and girls too young to wear lipstick and make up, applied their lipstick and makeup.

I was too young at the time to be aware of, or concerned about, sanitation. My recollection is that the men’s so-called toilet areas were totally inadequate and in the one case was far too close to the well. The water from this well was used primarily to flood the ice surface but it was also used to refill a large bucket sitting near the pump with impossibly cold water that quenched our thirst as we skated or played hockey. I recall my lips almost freezing to the edges of the metal ladle, which, if we consider the latent heat held by the water, was perhaps, even below the freezing point. Each runny-nosed kid placed a slobbery mouth on the ladle and drank his or her fill. Some older kids attempted to avert germicidal or viral disaster by drinking with their left hand or from the front of the ladle instead of the sides. In retrospect, I believe such precautions were illusory as protection from the virus of the week. Colds and flu spread like wild fire through our community from time to time.

It is not that the good citizens of this community did not want proper sanitation or were willfully negligent in not providing it. It was very much the case that historical precedent, poverty and inertia, carried these practices forward. I know that some folks from my hometown will be offended mightily by my words here but this is how I remember it in the ‘50s and early ‘60s. It is no reflection on the people who lived there – my family lived there for goodness sake! It is however a reflection on the economy and the ability of that economy to support a population no matter how small. The population was meager and their incomes were meager to match. It was not until later in the 1960s that a grant, I believe, made new restrooms at the rink possible. The facilities did not have flush toilets or running water but it was a Red Letter Day in the community nonetheless; small steps forward.

I realize now that the Devil must have liked to hang out in restrooms, stinky ones, because I think I saw Him myself, behind the Post Office and further behind a shed where my father kept coal for the heater in the Post Office, and a few other building maintenance items. The shed and the Post Office building formed a small closed, secluded, dead end where local men went to relieve themselves if they were too far from home or the hotel. I do not believe that anything nefarious happened in that space as might have happened “in the big city,” but it was very stinky back there.

I recall that the Post Office was robbed one night and the thieves took the safe outside and around into that little stinky spot in their attempt to crack it open. They proceeded to whack it with a sledgehammer until it spilled all of its cash onto the ground – right in the prime restroom traffic and dumping area.  I remember my father laughing his sardonic little laugh, and saying he hoped they enjoyed their dirty money. The Devil probably assisted the robbers that dark night because I am certain that He was there every time I came within a nose breath of that place.

Stan Post Office shed IMG_5642

The Devil lived in the shadows behind that shed… or is that Him by the barrel?  Photo: unknown c. 1954

The Devil is not inherently stupid although He does have His moments where His actions may appear ill advised to say the most, or down right crazy-assed silly to say the least.  Nevertheless, He did not want to repeat the humiliation of losing the deal he attempted to strike with Willie MacCrimmon in the 1930s. He had been biding His time but now the Devil was getting anxious to extract revenge. What began as a slow burn escalated over the intervening 30 years to His being steamed, inflamed, heated, and hot under the collar almost to the boiling point. He wanted to strike while the iron was hot. That is why He made His presence known at the Altamont Rink just before midnight on January 28, 1961. Little did the Altamont curlers know that the Devil was seeking ‘oh so sweet’ revenge, avenging the craftiness of Willie MacCrimmon.  He had already picked out a spot on His trophy shelf, close to the roaring, fiery furnaces of Hell in case He was able to wrest some hardware away from the Altamont do-gooders and have it melted and smelted.

One the Devil’s biggest flaws is that He is terribly vain. The Devil doesn’t see it that way though because vanity for the Devil is a desired trait. It is all a matter of perspective, isn’t it? It took all the will power the Devil could muster to keep low after that fiasco with Willie MacCrimmon. And now He could stand it no longer. Vanity won the day as soon as He learned that Altamont, that little, pipsqueak, curling club in the middle of nowhere, had won “The Old Buffalo.” He was not prepared to suffer any insolence from a band of farmers with manure on their boots and almost broke shopkeepers, curling out of a tin shed they called a “rink” with one sheet of curling ice where you had to duck hockey pucks from the adjoining skating surface every Tuesday and Thursday night and sometimes on Saturday afternoons [This may be a run-on sentence but it is reflective of the run-on thoughts that the Devil was having.] In any case, it was vanity and narrow – mindedness that brought the Devil to Altamont and those same traits allowed him to rejoice and revel in the sheer power he had to disrupt what He deemed to be a gathering of curling impostors.  In doing so, He broke a cardinal rule of the Devil – to make you think He does not exist.

“La plus belle des ruses du diable est de vous persuader qu’il n’existe pas.” [The devil’s finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.] – Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen.

The Devil tries to be so invisible that you become complacent, begin to believe that you are safe, and believe that He does not exist after all. He may lay dormant for years and then enter through an almost imperceptible rift in your very Being, perhaps a character flaw such as … take your pick … conceit, vanity or pride of which a ‘kind and caring God’ would not approve as each has elements of egotism and maybe even narcissism that may form one of the “seven deadly sins.”

Yet, pride can masquerade as a positive character trait at times, sitting as it does on the cusp of individual achievement. The desire to be successful and being proud of our successes seem to go hand in hand. It does seem though that it is not a great leap from “pride” to “egotism” or “narcissism.” But where is the tipping point from one to another? I don’t think that it is actually necessary to answer this question with any precision. The important point is to acknowledge that there is a tipping point. The Devil watches for those who have no equilibrium on such matters e.g., pride has already slipped into vanity or worse.

OK, OK, I can hear you all shouting, “What the Hell is going on with the Devil when He crashes through the door into the Altamont Rink?”

Well, first of all, He has to crash through the porch door and then the door into the waiting room – two doors, not one. Give an author a little poetic license and the next thing you know he gets the facts wrong….

Back to January 28, 1961 a few minutes before midnight ….

If you recall, the Altamont curlers were about to celebrate their victory over the Wawanesa Curling Club for their very first ever O’Grady Challenge Trophy aka “The Old Buffalo” when the Devil burst with great sound and steam, if not fury, into the Rink.

The Devil looked around the waiting room of the so-called Altamont “Curling Club” and glanced out at the one sheet of natural curling ice and wondered what it was about this place that made His blood run cold. Yes, you read correctly – the Devil’s blood was running cold! He was truly uncomfortable here – except of course in the rink’s stinky restrooms and places that passed for restrooms. The Devil correctly reasoned that not one of the fine upstanding mostly God fearing citizens was going to accompany Himself (the Devil!) to the bathroom. The air in the waiting room should have been redolent to the Devil – a mixture of hockey players’ jersey and jock strap sweat, old skate mustiness, discarded, soiled underwear and snow pants, and manure scraped from bottoms of farm boots. Still, the Devil’s blood did not respond to these fragrances. You see, the lingering aroma of Soul satiating soup – hot bonspiel soup, ironically, made the Devil’s blood continue its downward temperature plunge. His cooling blood was rapidly turning the heat down on the effectiveness of His hissssssing arrival. No self-respecting Devil wants weak sound and fury so He thought it best to issue His challenge and get the Hell out of there before He got a chill – he didn’t mind a fever, but He hated getting a cold.

So, He spat the challenge out in His best Devilish sssssspit. No, the spittoon in the Altamont Hotel would be of no help here.  Gordon Holliston had been the first to speak when the Devil arrived and the Devil preferred not to look Gordon in the eye. Instead He directed His spit at the two Charlies – Charlie McDonald and Charlie Taylor. Both were members of the winning O’Grady Challenge Trophy (“The Old Buffalo”) team and the Devil perceived, rightly or wrongly, that one of them was the manager and the other was the assistant manager.

The Devil’s challenge went something like this:

Chassssss. and Chassssss. [The Devil had to keep as much ssssssteam going as He possibly could because He feared getting cold feet as His blood cooled.]  I, the Devil, hereby challenge the Altamont Curling Club to a curling sssssssskills competition of Dunbarssssss, for “The Old Goat” Trophy and Sssssspoilsssssss, the detailssssss of which are to be negotiated by the two teamssssss, with the match winner to be determined by ssssssunrise, January 29, 1961.

 SSSSSShould I be victorious (The Devil dug down deep and managed to bring up a heartburn heated burp that punctuated the next words,) I will own the SSSSSSoul of the ‘drawmasssssster’ of each and every Altamont Curling Club bonsssssspiel in perpetuity. SSSSSShould the Altamont Curling Club be ssssssuccessssssful, they sssssshall be the duly appointed official home of the “sssssstuff of Curling” in perpetuity. [Note the Curling – at least the Devil has been paying attention.]

[In a smaller voice,] Failure to accept thissssss offer will ressssssult in automatic forfeiture and your credit cardssssss will be debited $666.66 per month plus interest at 666 per cent per annum in perpetuity.

The two Charlies didn’t really need to put their heads together on this one but they did anyway so as not to let the Devil know that they knew they had to accept the challenge. Having played and watched a lot of billiards in their combined days, the two Charlies knew they were snookered. They needed to make a high risk, tricky shot, or even a risky, trick shot to extract the Altamont Curling Club from this matter. And, yes, they heard the small voice part as well (they were just those kind of guys) but no one in Altamont at that time had hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia, which is an irrational fear of the number 666 but they did have a rational fear of usury, money launderers and fly by night crop sprayers.   There was no way they could accept such a penalty even if that would have been a real option because ceding the Soul of the drawmaster of every Altamont bonspiel to the Devil would be a disaster of monstrous proportions. The Devil would win every time! And to top it all off, the “stuff of Curling” was a prize that deserved to be wrested from the grubby hooves of the Devil. It is not clear how He came to be in possession of it anyway – through some scurrilous, Satanic scheme no doubt.

Behind 8 ball IMG_5266

Not just snookered but behind the 8 ball  Photo: The PD Gardener 2015

In true synchronicity the two Charlies turned to the Devil and, blowing cigarette smoke through their nostrils, said, ”You’re on, Beelzebub!” A chorus of cheers erupted from curlers and onlookers alike along with the “glug glug” of liquids and the “clunk clunk” of paper cups in mid-toast. Let the game begin!

The Devil turned in disgust. Not only had Altamont accepted His challenge but the two Charlies, of all people, had called Him by His least favourite name, Beelzebub, and they pronounced it correctly, Be ¦ el ¦ ze ¦ bub and not Bee ¦ zel ¦ bub. This was a frightening prospect to the Devil.

The timeline was short. There was much to be done. The Devil had disappeared but was replaced by His apparent vice-skip, Darth Vader, to negotiate the details. The Altamont team put Lynwood Graham forward for the same purpose. It was a little difficult to understand Darth Vader – there hadn’t been this much heavy breathing in the Altamont Rink since M and R sneaked in late one evening and … well … never mind. In a very obvious move to distract Lynwood, Vader kept waving his light sabre around, almost decapitating anyone within reach. Finally Lynwood put his corn broom into Vader’s mask, irritating Vader’s hay fever to the point where he just sat down with his puffer. Negotiations re-commenced in earnest and were quickly concluded.

Ordinarily I would relegate the following agreement to an Appendix but it is germane to the story line so it is best to leave it in this text proper.

But first, I am certain that you noticed the word “Dunbars” in the Devil’s Challenge “… a curling sssssskills competition of Dunbarssssss,…” What in Hell is a “Dunbar?” That is a good question but luckily I can tell you precisely because I witnessed its introduction into curling lingo many years ago. Let me explain before we get back to the dreary details of the negotiation of the Challenge. It seems that the Devil did not want to end up on the short end of the score as he had with Willie MacCrimmon. Skills challenges and “skins” games are commonplace in curling today but in 1961 there were far fewer such events, and many were just informal wagers between individual curlers. The Devil reasoned that a skills challenge of “Dunbars” would be just the ticket because He can unleash enormous, stupidly wicked power on command. You’ll see.

Today, it commonplace to hear, HURRRRY! HURRRRY HAAAARD! as a curling rock hurtles down the ice with curlers keeping pace to brush as commanded. The curling slider (a shoe specifically designed to slide) has made it possible for a curler to slip and slide gracefully from one end of the ice to the other in a flash. Even better, the slider has made it possible to stay with a rock thrown at great speed and, as the rock approaches the house, to avoid “burning” the thrown rock or any other rocks close to its path. Such a slider, or reasonable facsimile, is a critical technological innovation and a necessary precursor for the creation of the “Dunbar.” I would call it a Beneficial Innovation if you recall the formula for the “Stuff” of Curling presented earlier.

The ”Dunbar”

Many readers will know that “Dunbar” is a town in East Lothian, Scotland. Without belabouring the point, it is unlikely that this town has anything to do with a curling shot called a “Dunbar.” Rather, the “Dunbar” [always capitalized] was originally coined by a young lad named Ronnie and, I believe, is a colloquialism specific to the Altamont area. I am not sure that it has ever been used outside of that locale and indeed it might now be considered archaic and no longer in use. Ronnie was a couple of years older than me and his strong, lithe body was well coordinated and well suited to the mechanics of throwing the curling rock. In fact, he had a long smooth back swing reminiscent of Saskatchewan’s legendary, Bob “Pee Wee” Pickering, who would bring the rock back in a smooth arc up to almost vertical over his head as he transferred his weight to his sliding left foot and pushed off with his right foot into a graceful delivery of the stone. Pickering was able to throw any type of draw weight or take out weight from this same delivery.   Ronnie was less successful in perfecting draw weight but he certainly could throw a “high hard one” or what he called a “Dunbar”.   In fact, the “Dunbar” was Ronnie’s “go to” shot as he was able to get a great push off from his hack foot and he could slid forever – clear down to the other end of the rink – aided by his slippery city shoes, of course, as very few in Altamont could afford proper curling shoes and sliders.

BobPickering1-748x1024

Bob “Pee Wee” Pickering Photo: Curlsask.ca

Whenever the house was getting crowded with the opponent’s rocks, Ronnie would say “I’ll just throw a Dunbar” which was code for “I’m going to throw the rock so hard and fast that all Hell will break loose” when the rock hits the array of opponent’s rocks. [This may be what the ‘Sociables’ at The Brier mean when they say, “Just huck it.”] When the dust settled, Ronnie hoped that his rock(s) remained and all opposition rocks were blasted clean out of the rings. When Ronnie threw the “Dunbar” all curlers scattered hoping not to be collateral damage as 44 lb. of speeding granite collided with several stationary 44 lb. lumps of granite. The word “finesse” does not come to mind when describing the strategy behind this shot.

The interesting thing about shot making in curling is that the laws of physics apply. I didn’t know this stuff then and I barely understand it now. Curling stones come in matched sets usually and are virtually equal in weight (44 lbs.), height (4.5 inches), circumference (36 inches) and running surface (0.5 inches by 5 inches) to each other. During games, the stones are traveling on close to the same ice surface conditions with some variations depending on the exact spot on the ice. The sides of the sheet will be different than the middle of the ice especially late in the game, as the middle will have had much more use from curlers, rocks and brooms. This just means that the rocks are traveling in an elastic environment.

So consider this:

If Ronnie’s stone hits another stone square on, (an interesting thing to say about round curling stones but “round on” just doesn’t sound right) it will transfer most of its kinetic energy to the hit rock making it move forwards at a similar but somewhat slower speed. Note: when the two stones hit, there is usually a loud noise that means that some energy is lost.  Still, in this case, it is wise to stay out of the path of the stone struck by the “Dunbar.”

However, if the “Dunbar” strikes the stone at an angle pushing it into another stone or stones, the struck stone(s) move forward with less momentum and in a slightly different direction. The more stones involved means that the further along the chain of stones you are, the slower the stones will move.

So what, you say? Well, all of this physics stuff tells us that the promised cataclysmic impact of a “Dunbar” might not materialize. If the struck rock hits one rock and it is the only rock moved out of the rings, then the mission (to cause maximum damage by moving as many opposition stones out of the house as possible) of the “Dunbar” has failed. If the stone hits more than one stone on initial impact and there are many subsequent indirect hits, then the damage to the placement of opposition stones in the rings may be maximized but the danger to participants will have been minimized because the transfer of energy and therefore momentum will be less with each subsequent indirect hit.

But you are not really off the hook if you are looking to save yourself from the experience of a 44 lb. stone striking your feet and legs on a slippery surface causing a fall and a concussion when your head hits the ice surface. The speed of the struck rock may be less and you may have some time to jump out of the way, but if you have no idea about angles then you will be in trouble. It is best to brush up on angles before hand just as you would if you were going to play snooker with a pool shark with money on the rail.

I know that there are many “Dunbar” connections in curling but to my knowledge none were instrumental in the development of the “Dunbar” curling shot.

Robert (Bob) Dunbar and his rink dominated the MCA bonspiel in the 1890s winning the overall and individual trophies more times than I care to document here. In 1901, Dunbar moved to St. Paul, Minnesota, but continued to curl in the MCA bonspiel winning trophies up until 1920. Bob Dunbar’s achievements were recognized with an Honorary Life Membership in the MCA in 1920, and he was inducted into the Manitoba Curling Hall of Fame in 1996. Given his stature within the game, it is surprising that he did not develop the shot that bore his name.

Kathleen Dunbar is from Stony Plains, Alberta and curls with the Leslie Rogers rink of the Saville Sports Centre in Edmonton. They play on the World Tour and are trying to win a berth in the Olympic Games. Cale Dunbar curls in the Westman Super League of Curling, Western Manitoba’s Premier Competitive Curling League. There is no evidence that they or several others named Dunbar can lay claim to the “Dunbar” shot, but if they have proof of provenance, I will gladly concede that point.

Okay, now we know that this “skills” challenge involves curling rocks that will be hurtling down the ice at tremendous speeds – with unknown results waiting at the end. With that in mind let’s get back to the administrator’s dream or nightmare of the “Devil is in the details” agreement between the two teams.

Devil 666 Challenge Agreement between Altamont Curling Club and Idle Rocks are the Devil’s Curling Club

The agreement in a nutshell:

Objective:

To eliminate as many stones as possible from a pre-set array or distribution of 8 rocks in the house, by throwing a “Dunbar.”

Definition of “Dunbar:” A curling rock or stone thrown by the curler as fast and as hard as that curler can throw it.

Scoring:

Each stone left, wholly or partially, in the house will count as one (1) point. Points are counted after each shot.

The team with the lowest combined score (total number stones left in the house) after 3 ends of play is declared the winner.

A perfect game is zero (0) points

An “end” is defined as one shot per team.

If the score is tied after three (3) ends, extra ends will continue with players shooting in reverse order from the first three (3) ends, and alternating the reverse order every (3) three ends thereafter until a winner is determined after a complete end.

Selection of players:

[There was much discussion over the selection of players as each side wanted to put forward their best but each side was understandably reluctant to face the other team’s best. In other words, each team wanted to complicate things a little in order to gain an advantage. Finally, they agreed on a process of player selection that was a strange cross between hockey player draft and jury selection.]

Each team will nominate eight (8) players;

Each team will have three (3) opportunities to challenge one (1) of the opposing team’s nominations making said player ineligible for play, not to exceed a maximum of three (3) players per team;

After each challenge, the team whose player has been challenged shall select one (1) player to be eligible for play.

Order of Selection/Challenge:

The winner of a ‘draw to the button’ contest has the option to select first or to challenge first. Subsequent picks and challenges alternate between teams until three (3) players per team are declared eligible.

Each team shall provide one (1) player to participate in the ‘draw to the button’ contest; said player may be any member of their curling club i.e., they need not be from the list of players nominated for play.

Rules of play:

Each team must indicate the order in which players will shoot prior to the start of play in the first end.

The “house” shall be pre-set with an array of 8 rocks.

Each curler will deliver one shot to eliminate (takeout) as many rocks as possible from the house.

After each shot, the house will be re-set with the identical placement for the next player.

Teams will alternate shots.

The short hand version is that three players from each team, each deliver one rock directed to a specific array of rocks, with the objective to hit as many rocks as they can out of house. After three shots, the team with the lowest aggregate number of rocks remaining in the house is the winner.

[Hey look, this has to be true because I couldn’t just make this ‘stuff’ up, eh?]

Before getting into the actual play during the challenge, I think it might useful to know something more about the teams and each of the curlers nominated. Personally, I am not  placing a wager on the outcome as anything can happen when the Devil is involved but I know that many curling fans do gamble. I am not just talking about buying 50/50 tickets. If gambling is one of your proclivities perhaps treat these next sections as your racing form

Altamont Curling Club Team and Player Nominations

Manager: Charlie McDonald  One of the “two Charlies,” Charlie McDonald was one of those people who always seemed to be around to help others when they needed it. Charlie married Bessie Holliston in 1936 and they lived closer than a curling stone’s throw from the Altamont Rink. Indeed, Bessie’s family donated the land on which the Rink was built. If Charlie was ever needed at the Rink, he could be there in a flash. I recall that Charlie worked for many years at the St. Leon Co-op Garage in Altamont. He also went south into the United States in mid-summer with Vern Ticknor’s threshing crew to “custom combine,” following the harvest north into Canada in September. His role as Manager of the Altamont team stemmed from his ability to keep things organized and to ensure the performers (curlers) had what they needed.

Assistant Manager: Charlie Taylor  The other half of the “two Charlies” farmed mostly in the Deerwood district but was never far from the Altamont sports scene. I don’t recall that Charlie was a great curler but he did play in four matches of the O’Grady Challenge Trophy including the very first challenge in 1961 and had a record of 2 wins and 2 losses overall. His contemporaries often joked that his initials were Cwt which pretty much summed up his physical stature. [Cwt is 100 pounds in U.S. measurement or 45.36 kg (a short hundredweight or cental.) In the British Imperial System Cwt was equal to 110 pounds or 50.80 kg or a quintal.]  He was never shy to voice his views on almost any subject matter. Charlie probably saw his position as being more “Coach” than “Assistant Manager” but not everyone saw it quite that way.

Murray “Moe” Stockford was, and still is, a farmer, musician, athlete, father, devoted husband to his wife June, and conscientious citizen in the community. A quiet, patient man of considerable prowess, skill and abilities making him a valued leader in whichever role he assumed. He came by these traits honestly in that his parents, Frank and Olive Stockford, were talented individuals in their own right and very giving of those talents to the community. You will also remember Olive from her curling success noted in Part I of this series.

[If memory serves me correctly though, Murray had considerably more patience and less of a temper than his father. I do recall Frank and I searching for about half and hour to find a wrench that Frank had pitched wildly into the deep bush when the baler broke down and we were having difficulty making the repair. We did find it and all was right with the world.]

Murray Stockford is one of those men who never swore, or if he did, I never heard him. The worst words he could utter, even in the most trying of circumstances, was “Garrrssshh!” or the less emphatic “Gooosshh!)

Murray’s curling credentials are excellent and at this time he is just on the cusp of more curling success in the O’Grady Challenge Trophy curling. He would eventually participate in 9 of the 11 O’Grady games Altamont played. [The Devil with his prescience factor would know this fact.]

Lynwood Graham was a strong man, quick to the boil but equally quick to the simmer. He was a farmer, devoted family man and committed to serving his community. His grandparents, George and Della, were among the first to homestead in the Altamont area circa 1878 so his identification with the community had long and deep roots. From the Graham’s farmyard at the crest of a low sloping hill you could gaze across fields of grain and the bucolic pastures of the McGillivray and McCaffrey farms to the Stockford farm. The Grahams and Stockfords farmed collaboratively, joining forces particularly at haying and harvesting times.

Lynwood was an excellent curler, skipping his rinks to many victories. He was integral to Altamont’s success in the O’Grady challenges. I remember Lynwood as having a reddish complexion but that may be because I mostly saw him during haying season with the June and July heat and sun beating down on our heads, necks and shoulders.

As I said, Lynwood was a powerful man and could pitch heavy hay bales all day as if they were bales of fluff. (This was before the big round hay bales of today.) We built haystacks in the fields for retrieval later in the fall or over the winter. Building stacks required an architectural mind to match size and hardness of bales to be placed strategically to avoid corner sag or outright collapse of an entire side of the stack and, of course, to minimize spoilage. Lynwood was expert at stack building and I recall that the bales sailed from his powerful arms across the top of the stack landing so close to their appointed spots in the architecture that they only needed to be shuffled into place. Speaking of power, Lynwood once sneezed an extraordinarily powerful sneeze as he was rounding a corner with a load of grain. That sneeze and the attention that it required, coming as it did from his rather prominent nose, blew him clean into the ditch.

Robert (Bob) Dunbar was, in fact, a “ringer”as he was not a member of the Altamont Curling Club at all and was not even alive at the time of this challenge. [Hey! No one ever said the Altamont team were not “resourceful.”]  You met Dunbar briefly earlier in our discussion of the “Dunbar.” His name was submitted in the hope that the Devil would not notice and waste a challenge as Dunbar was a pioneer in the sport of curling.  Born in Nova Scotia he was an all-round athlete who excelled in track and field, ice-skating, and roller-skating. He took up curling with a passion after moving to Winnipeg in the late 1870s. Curling out of the Thistle Curling Club, Dunbar and his rink dominated the MCA bonspiel for man years.

Bob Dunbar, a man ahead of his time, understood the advantages to changing the ergonomics of the curler’s delivery, paving the way for the slide delivery of today. Moreover, his competitiveness led him to be strategically astute using the “take out” game to his advantage. Interestingly, in future years the rules of curling would be changed to ensure more rocks would stay in play curtailing the advantage that the take out game provided. Nevertheless, to my knowledge, this ‘game changer’ never perfected the shot that would bear his name, “a Dunbar,” but he would most certainly have been suited to it.

Neuro de Generative. In most people’s minds Neuro is a relative newcomer to curling but he has in fact been around for a very long time, since 1817 in fact when Dr. James Parkinson identified his characteristics and gave him some prominence. Still, he stayed mostly in the background, waiting for an opportunity to get into a game that wasn’t called “shuffleboard” although he might shuffle when he does get into the game.

At first Neuro is barely noticeable, just hanging around the fringes; his presence identified only by those who have an extremely well developed awareness of their own bodies and minds; sometimes his face shows no emotion as if masked. Many are fooled into thinking that Neuro has no sense of humour as a result. Fleetingly at first but ever so gradually his true nature appears in the boutique versions of neurodegenerative conditions such as Parkinson’s disease, Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease,) Alzheimer’s, Huntington’s, etc.

Because the average age of curlers in the early years of the sport was somewhere over 50 years old, neurological conditions such as Parkinson’s (or “Shaking Palsy” as it was often called) affected curlers disproportionately – or should I say affected former curlers disproportionately because many gave up playing the sport when their condition worsened. It just became too onerous to wrestle with tremor, involuntary muscle movements, cramping muscles, lack of balance, etc. More recently though, curling, boxing, dance, cycling, and a whole host of other activities are all recommended as they give people living with neurological conditions a reason to move, to exercise. Exercise seems to delay the progression of such diseases. This is good news. But the average age of curlers has been decreasing and unfortunately more younger people are  also contracting neurological diseases which are finding a home in the brains and bodies of what is called the “young onset” group. This is not good news.

Neuro was not a fantastic curler with his shaky, unbalanced delivery and slow, uncoordinated sweeping style, but he rarely missed the broom and never gave up even though the neurons in his brain were dying and robbing him of greater and greater measures of dopamine. By the time he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s over 70 percent of his dopamine producing neurons had already died. There is no cure and his condition will inevitably get worse, although exercise, physiotherapy, diet, good mental health, medical advice from neurologists, pharmaceutical therapies, medical devices, social supports, caregiver support, and the love of family and friends will give him many additional years of enhanced quality of life.

At first, it seems difficult to understand why Neuro de Generative’s name was forwarded in the Altamont nominations. In fact, the Devil Himself loved Neuro because he was subtle, stubborn, tenacious, insidious, debilitating, and yes maybe even a little Soul sucking in his approach. These were all traits valued by the Devil and were music to His ears. The Devil was beside Himself with glee when He saw Neuro’s name on the Altamont list of eligible nominees. Any observer, independent or not, would think that the Altamont team had taken leave of their senses … no… had gone stark raving mad … no, had a death wish!

Neuro de Generative was a complex individual; his personality was multidimensional, and many of his seeming failings were also strengths. He never denied those weaknesses but accepted them as integral to his identity. Most importantly, while it took great concentration and awareness of mind and body, he never allowed the weaknesses to overpower the strengths. It seems odd to say that, doesn’t it? But it is such an accurate depiction of what must happen with any degenerative disease. Neuro was an inspiration that way.

Walter John Wilson was one of seven sons and a daughter born to Jack and Eva (née Lyle) Wilson who were married in 1918. Walter was born in 1921 and like his father was educated in Altamont. He joined the 1st Manitoba Mounted Rifles (MMR) and in 1940 he enlisted with the Royal Winnipeg Rifles “Little Black Devils” under the command of Colonel Jack Bingham from nearby Deerwood, an even smaller community than Altamont if you can believe it. The “Little Black Devils” became one of the most famous monikers in the Commonwealth Armed Forces, earned at the Battle of Fish Creek (Saskatchewan) in 1885 where, a prisoner awed by the sharp shooting militia was heard to say, “the red coats we know, but who are those little black devils?” The name stuck and General Middleton himself referred to the MMR by that sobriquet in official documentation. Soon the nickname was officially recognized, and the devil and motto Hosti Acie Nominati (Named by the Enemy,) has been a source of pride and bragging rights ever since.

[The irony here is just too great for me to pass up a comment. The Battle of Fish Creek is widely believed to have been a major victory for the Métis against General Middleton’s forces forestalling, temporarily at least, Middleton’s advance on Batoche.]

I have no idea whether Walter Wilson was a good curler or not but the Altamont team were familiar with his family and welcomed him to the task. They respected his time with the “Little Black Devils.” The Devil, on the other hand, did not know what to make of Walter’s nomination. Was the Altamont team trying to “buffalo” him, as they were the holders of the O’Grady Trophy?  In any case, the Devil was not uncomfortable with Walter’s nomination.

Bert Marshall, former proprietor of the Altamont Restaurant, Postmaster, Rawleigh Products Salesman, husband to wife Kay, father to one son and two daughters, gardener and amateur horticulturalist, conscientious community citizen, and general all around philosopher, scientist, and busybody. He arrived in Altamont in 1950 with his wife Kay and red haired son to operate the local restaurant, poolroom and barbershop. Being neither good cooks nor willing to stay open six days a week until 9 or 10 at night they sold the restaurant about five years later, bought the building that housed the Post Office, and Bert became the Postmaster succeeding Steve Bishop. Bert continued to barber and began to sell Rawleigh Products and Wawanesa Insurance polices while operating the local bus depot, confectionery and comic book store (and you thought I learned to read at school!)

Altamont Post Office Colleen photo 2014

Former Altamont, Manitoba Post Office  Photo: C. Baumann 2014

It is reported from reliable sources that Bert was not a great curler at the time but he would eventually play on three Altamont teams in the O’Grady Challenge Trophy competition. Their record during that time was not great with one win (against Charleswood) and two losses (against Gilbert Plains and Roland.)

Dick Mussell was not quite the hermit, recluse or even the mountain man that people made him out to be but he was an interesting character who kept to himself most of the time. Living in a tiny ‘shanty’ just west of Altamont he was about 70 years ahead of the “Tiny House” craze that has been sweeping Canada and the U.S. recently. It seems you can’t watch any Home and Garden TV these days without watching an environmentalist, youthful idealist, or newly minted single parent with 2 children and a Labrador dog, search for the perfect “Tiny House” of 280 square feet on a budget of $22,000. Well, Dick lived the tiny house life in the first half of the 20th Century and he did not live as a complete hermit or recluse. A hermit usually has some religious reasons for choosing solitude while a recluse seeks to avoid social interaction and prefers a solitary existence. There is no evidence to suggest that Dick’s lifestyle was chosen to meet religious strictures. While Dick might appear to meet some of the criteria for being a recluse, his social side was never very far from the surface. He did enjoy his weekly ride into town on his horse, Queenie, on

Altamont curlers IMG_5472

Altamont Curlers  Far right is Dick Mussell  Photo: unknown

Saturdays to have Bessie McDonald at the grocery store fill his standing order of groceries, while he joined others to quaff a few beers in the Altamont Hotel.  By the way, this infamous hotel stands today, pretty much as it did in Dick’s day and it is not hard to see why Dick might feel at home there.

But there was one other activity that was sure to draw Dick out of his shanty and away from hunting and trapping, and that was a chance to curl. The photo above shows Dick with other curlers from Altamont. Dick always was protective of his personal space. Note how he is slightly separated from the others. Also, note their brooms – no slap,slap,slap from their straws.  Dick never expressed any fear of the Devil so when consulted about his possible inclusion in the challenge, Dick allowed his name into nomination as one of the eight names on the Altamont list.

 The Devil and Dick?

I have a very significant aside to tell you at this point. There is some evidence that, in his early life, Dick had confronted the Devil. As we know, the Devil cleanses our “cerebral hard drives” after any contact.   By all rights, then, Dick should have no recollection of that encounter. Still, there is a belief that Dick and the Devil had a “devil of a fight” and “all Hell broke loose” leaving the Devil enervated as He battled to overcome Dick’s inherent benevolence and humanity. The Devil’s psyche and energies were spent and drained to such a degree that He was not able to fully expunge Dick’s brain of all recollection. Dick managed to mount Queenie and rode off into the woods. Dick, for his part, could only recall the encounter as if through a frozen ice fog, and these recollections happen only when the temperature reaches -40F or -40C i.e., “when Hell freezes over.” This convergence of the Celsius and Fahrenheit scales is not common but Dick lived in rural Manitoba and it happens more often than you might think. Please note that I cannot make any definitive statement about this theory at this juncture as more research needs to done, and you can’t muck around in Devil “stuff” without financial backing. I just don’t want to sell my Soul to the Devil for this project and, believe me, the Devil would make such a deal in a heartbeat. Enough of that for now and I will update you when I have new information.

The Idle Rocks are the Devil’s Curling Club team and player nominations with brief biography

Manager: The Devil  The Devil is a bad man.  He wants a bad man in charge.  So, the Devil is in charge. Got it?

Assistant Manager: The Devil The Devil is way more bad than just one bad man so He can be assistant bad man in charge too!

Recall that the Devil’s team against Willie MacCrimmon had Guy Fawkes playing lead, Judas Iscariot throwing second stones, and Macbeth at vice – skip. The Devil was not inclined to use any of those losers this time around. He needed a fresh team, a team motivated to win. The Devil checked the availability of several possible choices but many were not available due to previous commitments e.g., Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev was busy working with Fidel Castro in Cuba. In any case, the Devil had a niggling feeling that neither Khrushchev nor Castro would provide unqualified support when it counted. Also, He was sure that Nikita had thrown away one of his curling shoes in that display of temper, October 1960, at the United Nations.

In the end, Idle Rocks are the Devil’s Curling Club put forward the following names for players:

The Devil. There is really nothing to be said about this nomination. He is the baddest, bad narcissist and He likes the look of being in charge.

Darth Vader. The Devil believed He could always count on the Dark Side of the Force to be with Him. Who cares if he can curl? The Devil reasoned that Vader’s voice was just crazy, freaky nasty and he had a cooooool light sabre.

Magnus Djävulsson. No one knows much about Magnus although it is rumoured that his family originally emigrated from Iceland to Canada (Winmount, Ontario) in 1870 and bounced to Manitoba in 1875 to settle near Narcisse, Manitoba midway between Gimli and Lundar and close to Arborg which claims the world’s largest curling rock at 4.2 m (13.78 feet) in diameter, 2.1 m (6 ft 10.68 in) tall, and weighing in at 1.5 tonnes. The rock celebrates the historical success of high school curling teams from the area going back to the 1940s.

Magnus’ ancestors were Icelandic on his mother’s side and Swedish on his father’s side. Magnus’ surname, loosely translated, seems to mean son of the Devil. He curled out of several different clubs over the years with varying degrees of success throwing lead or second stones. None of the teams ever came close to winning the Consols, emblematic of the men’s provincial championship.

Although he was a rugged and handsome man, he never married, perhaps because he was terribly vain and couldn’t pass a mirror or window without stopping to check out his reflection. He carried a black rat tail comb in his right back pocket at all times and had perfected its removal and subsequent sweep through his Brylcreemed hair to such a degree that it was often parodied by his friends and fellow curlers. Magnus, lost in his own world, did not seem to care.  An only child, the family lineage in Canada ended with his death in 1970.

Interesting isn’t it that in Greek mythology Narcissus was the son of the river god Cephissus and the nymph Liriope? He was so beautiful that when he saw his refection in a pool of water, he fell in love with it not realizing that it was just an image. Unable to leave it, he lost the will to live and died. Today, narcissism means a fixation with oneself and one’s appearance. The very fact that Magnus Djävulsson’s family settled in Narcisse signalled that Magnus was damaged goods and the Devil just could not resist adding this depth of vanity and egotism to His list of nominated outcasts.

On the other hand, the daffodil is the common name for the narcissus plant. From the family, Amaryllidaceae, these beautiful flowers pop through the snow shortly after snowdrops and crocus in the spring. They are among my favourites precisely because they are the death knell for winter and indeed, the most common meaning for daffodils is “rebirth”. Some may think that they get a little caught up in their own beauty as they dominate the spring landscape but I feel they are a perfect foil for any early spring snowy Devilishness.

Daffies IMG_1581

Narcissus, common name Daffodil   Photo: The PD Gardener 2014

Johann Faust is the same inquisitive Faust who summoned the Devil in a forest near Wittenberg. The Devil appears as a greyfriar called Mephistopheles and Faust cuts a deal to give Mephistopheles his Soul in exchange for 24 years of service. Faust has a ball for about 16 years and then tries to back out of the deal. The Devil cuts off this notion by producing Helen of Troy with whom Faust takes up a relationship. As the 24 years expire Satan announces Faust’s death and at midnight Faust dies a gruesome death. His eyes are found in his room while his body is found in the courtyard. If the Devil got Faust’s Soul, then Faust will play with Him in this curling challenge.

Robert Johnson, an American blues singer, songwriter and guitarist is said to have followed in Faust’s footsteps by selling his Soul to the Devil in return for success and recognition in the music industry. He never lived to see this recognition but his music, recorded largely in the mid – 1930s, has been a major influence on several generations of musicians after his death, attributed to poisoning at the age of 27. Perhaps, the Devil already has his Soul.

Severus Snape, devotee of the “Dark Arts” in Harry Potter. Even though it seems that Snape redeems himself and forms a strong bond with Dumbledore and carries out Dumbledore’s own request to be killed, Snape’s motives are largely unclear. Did Dumbledor sell his Soul to the Devil? Did Snape? Was Snape a double agent? What does the Devil know that we don’t? No matter, the Devil wrote Snape’s name on His list.

Rumplestiltskin seems a strange choice but he was a natural from the Devil’s point of view. “Rum-pie,” as the Devil called him, has the technology to turn straw into gold and the Devil’s challenge to the Altamont curlers was taking place during the hay day (so to speak) of the corn or straw broom in curling. The Devil was always looking for an edge in the strangest of places.

Bernie “Broom Broom” GeoFreeZone (pronounced Gee – off – ree – on with a silent “Z.”) Bernie’s main claim to fame is that he is an acknowledged leader in curling technological innovation. He began his career in the mid – 1830s by working on a project to “pebble” the ice surface diminishing friction by reducing the area of direct contact between the stone’s running surface and the ice surface. Pebbling the ice is a very important aspect of the game today as it allows sweepers to make a difference in the rock’s speed and amount of curl.

“Broom Broom” also has been influential in some rules and regulations changes. He was a consultant to a group assessing the impact of the “Guard Free Zone” on the “hitting game” where equally skilled teams could just exchange hit and peel (roll out) strategies keeping scores low and last rock only meant something in the first end.

Currently, ”Broom Broom” has been working on new type of curling broom called the “Devil’s Paint Brush” which has a feathery material of bright colours that allows for greater control over the behaviour of the rock by the sweepers. It does not contain waterproofed fabric, “stiffening” inserts or directional fabric. “Broom Broom” and his principal financial backer, Devil to Pay Inc., are claiming that their broom has been unfairly caught up in a ban of new brooms under the directional fabric broom ban of 2016.  GeoFreeZone is also a principal in the popular hairpiece firm, Devil Toupee Inc., a subsidiary of Devil to Pay Inc. Devil Toupee, not so coincidentally, provides hair to make many brands of curling brooms. “Broom Broom” is both vertically integrated and horizontally diversified in his personal portfolio.

But can GeoFreeZone curl? Who knows for sure? He hangs around the same places (curling clubs) as the elite curlers, but then so do a lot of other folks. If the Devil has to call on him, will he be able to deliver, so to speak? It remains to be seen whether “Broom Broom” can master the “Dunbar”, a shot he had absolutely no input into creating. He just never frequented those small bonspiels where the curling club did not have a private bar to run his personal tab. Actually, most of those clubs had no bar at all and drinks were dispensed from brown paper bags or silver flasks won in some other bonspiel. Nevertheless, the Devil trusted Bernie because Bernie idolized his adopted namesake Bernie Madoff. Bernie never liked “Broom Broom” as a nickname but his full legal name was Gladwynn Wynn Geoffrey GeoFreeZone (with a silent Z) and he didn’t much like that either, so he opted for the more informal moniker “Bernie” in order to cultivate comfortable conversation with his clients. Bernie was successful in keeping “Broom Broom,” his image for marketing curling equipment quite separate from “Bernie,” his image as financier for innovation among elite curlers, operating from 17th floor offices on Bay St.

Challenges and selections: The teams are formed

In true curling fashion they had a draw to the button contest between the two mangers with the winner having the choice to challenge first or second. So, it was Charlie McDonald against the Devil. The Devil won and surprise, surprise, elected to challenge first which meant the Altamont team would select first in the first selection round.

The round by round results are below:

Devil Challenge 1: Bob Dunbar.

The Altamont ruse worked in that it left other good Altamont players to be selected.  Bob Dunbar was rejected by the Devil because Dunbar was just too much of a pioneer, quick to learn and understand change and quick to adapt his strategy accordingly. The risk was too great for the Devil to take.

Altamont Challenge 1: Severus Snape

Well another surprise, surprise! The Altamont team announced they were challenging Severus Snape. It seems that their collective fear of snakes was greater than their collective fear of the Devil. So Snape was kicked to the boards.

Altamont Select 1: Lynwood Graham.

The Devil was furious as He began to realize what had happened. But the rules specified no appeals, just the way the Devil wanted it when He was dealing for Souls. The Devil had wanted to reject Lynwood mostly because the challenge involved throwing a “Dunbar” and Lynwood might just be too strong for the Devil’s liking.

Devil Select 1: Darth Vader

Holy Light Sabre! Everyone was betting that the Devil would protect Himself. Perhaps, He was overconfident that the opposing team would never dare to challenge Him and protected Darth Vader instead.

Devil Challenge 2: Murray “ Moe” Stockford

The Devil just could not afford to have the Graham – Stockford connection working against Him, so He challenged and eliminated Murray “Moe” Stockford. The fact is that when the Devil reviewed Murray’s biography, he was rejected immediately as not having a Soul that was consonant with the Devil’s raison d’être.

Altamont challenge 2: The Devil!

Hey, the Altamont Team did it! The Devil is out!

Altamont Select 2: Walter Wilson

You might surmise that the Devil would not mind the inclusion of someone from the RWR “Little Black Devils” and you are right. The Devil allowed a little smile when Walter’s name was called. Nevertheless, the Altamont team was also content with the selection

Devil Select 2: Magnus Djävulsson.

The Devil’s tail was switching all over the place as it betrayed his vexation with the process. But He needed a real curler on His team so he picked Magnus Djävulsson.  Magnus was very surprised when he was notified but he was a competitor and would do his best when his time to shoot arrived.

Devil Challenge 3: Dick Mussell

As indicated earlier, the Devil and Dick had unfinished business but the Devil was not willing to finish it in this Challenge and opted to keep Dick on the sidelines.

Altamont Challenge 3: Bernie “Broom Broom” GeoFreeZone (pronounced Gee – off – ree – on with a silent “Z.”)

The Altamont team could not in all conscience allow themselves to be contaminated by the slime left in “Broom Broom’s” wake even if they were competing against him.

Altamont Select 3: Neuro de Generative

This announcement was to everyone’s total shock, surprise and stupefaction! The Devil grew worried that the Altamont team was pulling a fast one on Him. These rubes, these hayseeds, these bumpkins, these hillbillies had better watch themselves.

Devil Select 3: Robert Johnson

The Devil took great pleasure in announcing that Robert Johnson would be on the His rink as He fully expected that Johnson would write and sing a ballad about this historic confrontation, chronicling the victory of a team He was beginning to call “The Satanic” in a sink or swim attempt at re-branding.

Recap of the final team members

Idle Rocks are the Devil’s Curling Club: Darth Vader, Magnus Djävulsson, Robert Johnson. Sweepers: Rumplestiltskin and Johann Faust.

Altamont Curling Club: Lynwood Graham, Walter Wilson, Neuro de Generative. Sweepers: Bert Marshall and Charlie Taylor.

The stones would be delivered from the far end of the sheet so that spectators would have the best view of the house from the bleachers set up behind the glass.

Challenge sells out (or maybe someone sells out?)

As happens in small towns, there is not much that stays a secret for very long and word leaked out about the Devil’s challenge. The good citizens began to converge on the small rink, jamming the waiting room, standing on the skating ice and the walkway between the skating rink and the curling ice. A few children escaped their beds and clambered up onto the rafters above the skating rink. Once they were within the boundaries of the Rink they could not leave until the challenge was over. None of the spectators would remember anything.

The Altamont team was beginning to be concerned for the health and safety of the ordinary, non-curling population, especially the children, but they also welcomed all the support they could get. Besides, Bessie McDonald already had three teenagers, Cliff, Diane, and Margaret selling tickets to those who had already entered or who wanted to enter. Perhaps, they would make enough for a new coffee urn and a soup pot for the Rink’s kitchen.

Bessie and her brother, Gordon Holliston, were settled into their customary seats in the second row of the waiting room bleachers. Jim Sharp, a carpenter/handyman and frequent visitor to Altamont, was passing by and brought a strong odour of beer, cigar smoke and garlic to the affair. Gordon Lowry along with Howard and Dora Andrews also had coveted bleacher seats.

The curling ice was almost ready for play. Young George Friesen shepherded the sheepskin up the sheet and back. At each end he exuberantly swept gray detritus from its woolly surface, proof that the ice surface was now clean. Charlie Taylor grabbed the pebble can and proceeded to lay the pebble down, cigarette hanging from his lower lip as he moved backward down the ice, carefully distributing the fine spray of water droplets from a dented and beat up cylinder of water with an equally dented and beat up sprinkle head. Charlie’s ability to keep that cigarette stuck to his lower lip always amazed me. That, and the ability to keep about an inch of ash on the end of the cigarette and always make it to an ashtray or suitable spot to place one nicotine stained finger on the cigarette to tap the ash off.

Ashtrays, usually tobacco cans, were placed strategically at each end of the curling ice and along its sides. These ash cans are important curling infrastructure as cigarette and cigar ash is not conducive to a smooth and continuous motion of a curling rock. In fact, it can sometimes have disastrous results. Bob Weeks in Curling Etcetera records an instance in the 1936 Brier where Manitoba curling great Ken Watson gave his lead, Charlie Kerr, a cigar to smoke before the game. Charlie smoked it during the game and by this I mean that it very seldom left his mouth even while sweeping. [This would have just made me want to gag.] The Watson rink was counting five when the sixth stone was stopped in its tracks by an ash, falling from Kerr’s cigar, as he was sweeping. When the end was over, Watson counted seven but it could have been eight if not for the cigar ash.

In any case, Charlie Taylor was either oblivious to the possible consequences of a cigarette ash falling to the ice surface or was supremely confident that the cigarette ash had enough structural integrity to remain on the end of his cigarette until he reached the end of the sheet and the pebble was finished. It did not fall until Charlie tapped it into an ash can. Charlie was always confident if nothing else.

It’s game on

The Devil won the right to challenge or select first so the Altamont team would have the right to decide to shoot first or last. A small wave of disbelief rattled the Rink’s tin roof as Charlie McDonald announced that the Altamont team had elected to shoot first. What the …?  Well, it had been a night for surprises and it continued to be.

I am not privy to the logic behind the respective strategies for the selection of players or the order of play. I can only speculate that Altamont was counting on Lynwood Graham to blaze the way with a fantastic, blistering, blast creating so much anger and consternation among the Devil’s accomplices that they would become disoriented and screw up, to use the mild technical term. The Devil, in turn, wanted Darth Vader and whatever force Vader had on the Dark Side, to be with Him on the last shot.

Curling set array 3 IMG_0181

Set array of rocks. Bottom is back of the house

In the meantime, Howard Andrews and Magnus Djävulsson threw eight stones from the far hack into the house at the home end of the ice producing the array of rocks that each curler would face in turn (see diagram.)

[ … Time passes … ]

Years of research have taught me that it is not unusual for significant amounts of time, money, or other things to go missing in challenges or events involving the Devil.  Whether it is the 18 minutes missing from the Watergate tapes, missing millions of dollars thought to have been paid to US lobbyists by Sri Lanka, or missing and misplaced principal residences for Canadian Senators, the pattern is there.

So it was with this challenge. The competition began and the first four stones were delivered – two for Altamont (by Lynwood Graham and Walter Wilson) and Two for the Devil (by Magnus Djävulsson and Robert Johnson)– with no details surviving aside from the score.

I apologize but there is nothing that I can do to retrieve additional details – short of selling my Soul to the Devil, that is.

Stan Mascots 2 IMG_0561

The PD Gardener at work researching the Devil   Photo: G. Bialkoski 2016

So, what’s happening?

We pick it up after the 2nd end with the score at Devil 3 and Altamont 4. In other words, the Devil’s team has left three stones in the rings and Altamont has left 4 stones in the house. The Devil is in the lead by one stone as low aggregate score wins. Only last rock for each team remains. Neuro de Generative will throw last rock for Altamont and Darth Vader will throw for the Devil – an interesting match up in and of itself.

Wait!!! What is Bert Marshall doing?

I hesitate to raise this matter but I feel that I must, in the interest of full disclosure, tell you that my father is the Bert Marshall referenced in this story. Regrettably and with some trepidation, I also disclose that I have uncovered some evidence that Bert Marshall was seen huddling with the Devil at the conclusion of the 2nd end. Only two or three individuals know of this clandestine meeting and I guess I could use my curling corn broom to sweep it under the rug but it is likely better to come clean about the “huddle” to maintain my personal integrity.

I am still picking through a mountain of misinformation and working with a medium (not a Tim Horton’s medium) to channel Dick Mussell who may have some foggy memory that may clarify the matter. At this point I have the following snippets of conversation as told by someone from the Devil’s side who claims to have observed the meeting and heard the informal conversation which took place under the bleachers. [Geez, you would think they could have found a better place.]

“…. the Devil situated himself quite close to Bert and whispered, “If you give me an idea I use, I will make it worth your while….”

Bert took out his handkerchief and blew his nose because … well because that is what he always does. Bert looked off to the side and whispered, “I always wanted to score an 8- Ender….”

What the heck was that all about and why would Bert huddle with the Devil without taking a third party to witness and corroborate any discussion or agreement? It also begs a second question with a potentially more explosive answer. Did Bert Marshall (my father) sell his Soul to the Devil (or worse yet, sell out the Altamont team) for an 8 – Ender? Does the man pictured below seem like he knows curling perfection is in his future?

Raleigh man 1963 IMG_3952

Bert Marshall, 2 years after the Devil’s Challenge  Photo: Unknown

I am still trying to reconstruct these events and reach a definitive conclusion but at this time I am not in a position to address my findings without some independent peer evaluation and corroboration of my research. [No! – that doesn’t mean we are looking for an insane Parkie storyteller!] I will update you as soon as new information is available.

de Generative delivers Altamont’s last stone

Altamont Curling Club supporters shuddered when they realized that their last “Dunbar” rock (the Devil’s team had the hammer or last rock) would be thrown by none other than Neuro de Generative, a curler who

  • Had a bad case of the “shakes” at the best of times;
  • Had more times when he was “off” than when he was “on” but when he was “on” he was really “on!”
  • Was unpredictable as to when he would be “on” or “off.”
  • Often went onto the ice surface and “froze” even when the weather was quite mild;
  • Needed a pat on the behind from a teammate’s broom in order to get moving again;
  • Had to seek the bathroom quickly and often when he was “off;”
  • Sometimes was sapped of all strength and found it impossible to throw the curling rock such that it crossed the hog line never mind reached the house for a take out;
  • Sometimes was so uncoordinated when sweeping that they called for him to be not just “off” but “right off!”
  • Moved very slowly at times making it impossible for him to keep pace with a rock thrown with any speed;
  • Was often so rigid that he could not sit comfortably in the hack to deliver the rock;
  • Sometimes fell into the path of rocks, “burning” them while trying to tiptoe slide through rocks in the house while sweeping;
  • Could not smell ”burned” rocks – or the coffee that he overcooked on the old pot belly stove;
  • And the list goes on … and on – but often “off.”

To put this into perspective, the year is 1961 and nobody really understood Neuro’s condition as a treatable medical one.  Levodopa, the gold standard for treatment of Parkinson’s disease, was not developed until the late 1960s and the brand name drug, Sinemet (levodopa/carbidopa,) was not in widespread use until the 1970s.

In 1961, this was just the way Neuro was and, to be honest, most of the other curlers had the same things happen to them more than once – sometimes as part of the aging process but more often from a love of the more liquid part of the game.

So, what happened when Neuro threw his rock?  The following account is pieced together from Dick Mussell’s recollection as told to those three guys, Scotty, Buster and Phil, who told it to me quite some time ago. Sorry, there were no handy video cameras or telecasts of the games back then. This is the best we have. I can only say that, for my part, I am recounting the facts of the events exactly as they were described to me in the mid-1970s. In order to make it more understandable to the generations who have grown up with live play-by-play of sports (thank you Curt Gowdy and ABC’s Wide World of Sports – “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat,”) let’s listen to how the legendary Cactus Jack Wells, and elite curler and broadcaster/colour commentator, Bob Picken, might have called the play-by-play.

DEVL 666 Radio play-by-play of the final stones

The broadcast leads with a verse of “Devil or Angel,” The Clovers 1956 original pop hit playing in the background. [Note: Bobby Vee covered this tune in 1960 taking it to the top of the charts once again and it was fresh on all minds, even curlers’ minds, in 1961.

Network Announcer: DEVL 666 Radio now takes you to Cactus Jack Wells and Bob Picken at the Altamont Rink for a real treat – The Devil vs Altamont in a winner take all, no holds barred, Devil may care, hotter than Hades, curling shoot off….

Cactus Jack: Well, it turned out nice again, didn’t it?

Bob Picken: It sure did Jack and it is such a privilege to be invited to the historic Altamont Rink to witness this unusual curling challenge. As you know, space is limited and people are having a devil of a time finding tickets even though it was put together very quickly.

Cactus Jack: Right you are, Bob. I am often high in the Winnipeg Arena and Bomber Stadium – hmmm, perhaps I should phrase that differently – but we are really up in the rafters here at the Altamont Rink!

Bob Picken: Yes we are, and we have ice level seats!

To be continued:

Next time:  The last rocks are thrown in the thrilling conclusion to one of the greatest curling confrontations ever!  Can the Altamont Curling Club keep the Devil from capturing the Soul of the draw master of the Altamont Bonspiel?  Will the Altamont Curling Club keep the “stuff of Curling” safe from contamination by the Devil, and how will we know what “stuff” is, even if they do?

There seems to be a lot of pressure on the Altamont curlers, don’t you think?  So,let’s put some pressure on the Devil:  Can the Devil avoid eternal embarrassment by not losing to this team of hicks curling out of a tin shack?

Whose side is Bert Marshall on and does it make any difference anyway? And, what is a double Gordon?

The answers to these questions and more in the third and last installment of

IN SEARCH OF THE “STUFF” OF CURLING  

Part III: Down to last rocks; The Devil made them do it

APPENDICES FOR PART II

Appendix A: The Devil and His tricks

This appendix is a caution to disabuse you of any notion that you enter into an encounter with the Devil on an equal footing. The Devil knows that the human foot with five somewhat flexible toes, an arch and hinging ankle, while it has some flaws, is superior to the Devil’s cloven hoof. Therefore He reasons it is only fair that He have some “advantages” (He does not object to calling these “tricks” as His perspective is totally different on these matters) to offset the footing differences. You can decide if they are offsetting factors or if the cloven hoof is inferior at all to human feet when it comes to curling.

Devil Trick #1. When the Devil does show himself in person, He wipes your cerebral hard drive clean which means that neither the Altamont curlers nor anyone else present will remember anything of that particular meeting and any subsequent curling competition where the Devil is present.

Devil Trick #2. The Devil had been following the challenges for “The Old Buffalo”, the O’Grady Challenge Trophy. In fact, He set His DVR “Devil Vision Recorder” (roughly equivalent to today’s Personal Video Recorder or PVR) to alert him and to record the matches. He had predetermined that Altamont, a southern Manitoba curling crazy community with a population of approximately 120 Souls; members in good standing of the Manitoba Curling Association (MCA) since 1929; [which mattered to the Devil greatly because He wanted the Curling gurus to provide their stamp of legitimacy on His inevitable victory] would be prime candidates for the Devil’s bait as a number of very good curlers in Altamont had ambitions to be even better.

Devil Trick #3. The Devil has the remarkable ability to suck the totality of information on any subject including both the science and art of curling from any knowledge source (a human brain usually) that enters “The Devil’s Triangle”, more commonly known as “The Bermuda Triangle.” Given the propensity for Canadians (even curlers) to go south for a few weeks each year to escape the coldest days of winter, it has not been difficult for the Devil to find such a brain passing through His triangle as Florida, Bermuda and Puerto Rico form the triangle’s apexes.   It is true that the Devil does need to find a new brain every few years to update His app to the latest in curling strategy and advances in equipment. The most recent version is D.v. 20.15. Remember, the Devil’s abilities to acquire knowledge this way long pre-date the “mind melds“ of Star Trek or the magic of Harry Potter. I won’t spend any more time on this brief explanation other than to say that the Devil’s skill and knowledge is restricted only by the intelligence of the last human brain to pass though the Triangle.

In present day terms, the travel itineraries of 2016 Brier Champion Kevin Koe of Alberta, Brad Gushue of Newfoundland and Labrador, Brad Jacobs of Northern Ontario, Mike McEwen of Manitoba, Glenn Howard of Ontario or Pat Simmons of Team Canada would be of interest to the Devil as they are curling strategic geniuses as well as technical and tactical magicians of the highest order – perfect for updating His curling app. All of these gentlemen skipped their respective teams in the 2016 Brier.

In 1961, travel was more limited than today and it not likely that as many top-flight curlers would travel through the Devil’s Triangle. There certainly were many great men’s curlers in that time: Ernie Richardson and his brothers from Saskatchewan, Garnet Campbell from Saskatchewan, Hec Gervais (the big potato farmer) from Alberta, Ab Gowanlock from Glenboro Manitoba, Matt Baldwin from Alberta, Billy Walsh from Manitoba and Ken Watson from Manitoba to name but a few.

And, of course, women curlers in Canada are equally skilled and knowledgeable such that 2016 Scotties Champion Chelsea Carey of Alberta, Jennifer Jones of Manitoba, Kerri Einarson of Manitoba, Jenn Hanna of Ontario, Krista McCarville of Northern Ontario, and Rachel Homan of Ontario and any of their respective team members could provide important updates. The history of women’s curling is rich with talent and who knows if any of these names passed through the Devil’s Triangle: Colleen Jones from Nova Scotia, Vera Pezer, Sandra Peterson and Sandra Schmirler from Saskatchewan, Marilyn Bodogh of Ontario, Lindsay Sparkes and Lindsay Moore from British Columbia, to name but a few.

Collectively their knowledge and experience is, to be blunt, massively massive.

Devil Trick #4. The Devil has what is known as a “prescience factor” of ten (10) i.e., He can foretell future events (up to ten years out) albeit somewhat vaguely but with sufficient sharpness to be able to hedge His bets.

Devil Trick #5: The Devil can intervene in a timeline, from time to time, so to speak. He can pass a temporary, temporal measure where time zones can be “held in abeyance” for short periods. In this case, Manitoba is on Central Standard Time (CST) and that can be converted to Central Suspended Time (CST) with no one really noticing in the short term.

[Note: for those who believe in God, Alberta may be on Celestial Standard Time (CST) as suggested in The Black Bonspiel of Willie MacCrimmon. God alone must initiate any intervention into Celesial Time while the Devil can initiate Suspended Time. It is commonly known that Saskatchewan does not change to “Savings” time so it stands alone as a province where time cannot be suspended. Newfoundland and Labrador is suspended by an extra half-hour no matter what happens. It is not clear whether God has anything to do with “timing” in Newfoundland and Labrador and Saskatchewan.]

Sources:

Bonspiel! The History of Curling in Canada http://www.collectionscanada.gc.ca/curling/

Curl Manitoba O’Grady Trophy History http://www.curlmanitoba.org/ogrady-history#.VrDXRCkof9M

http://curlsask.ca/

http://honouredmembers.sportmanitoba.ca/inductee.php?id=262&criteria_sort=name

Bob Weeks, Curling Etcetera, J. Wiley and Sons, 2008.

W. O. Mitchell, The Black Bonspiel of Willie MacCrimmon, McClelland and Stewart, 1993

http://www.worldcurling.org/history-of-curling

©Stan Marshall (The PD Gardener)