Yes, we have a banana!

Small, community parades keep costs in check by encouraging the participation of businesses located in the area. Sometimes the entries are not a great fit for the event but these entries do add colour and extend the parade length.

The banana walking the route was there thanks to the local No Frills grocery store. No Frills is the name of the discount grocery store chain owned by the Loblaw Companies.

An Imperial Stormtrooper stuts his stuff

 One never knows who or what one will see walking in the Hyde Park Christmas Parade. One surprise this year was an Imperial Stormtrooper.

One could be forgiven for thinking the white armoured galactic soldier, wearing a jaunty white top hat and carrying an extra large candy cane, might break into dance at any moment. 

This stormtrooper carried a definite Fred Astaire air. Clearly this soldier was trying his best to get onto Santa's good side.

Hmmm. I wonder what the stormtrooper asked Santa to bring him. And did the soldier claim to have been a good little "white hat"?

All welcome in Hyde Park Christmas Parade

 

London, Ontario, has two annual Christmas parades. The main one, the big one, the held in the core and it is held at night. The other is held in the suburbs and ends in what was once the village of Hyde Park. The Hyde Park Christmas Parade, as it is called, still has the feel of a small, community event. There are not just floats and marching bands, and of course Santa himself, but there are a lot of parents with small children walking in the parade. The kids seem to love it and I'm sure it gives them wonderful memories to treasure for a lifetime.

Hyde Park Santa Parade Returns

There was no Hyde Park Santa Claus Parade last year but this year it is back and the crowds were bigger than usual and the participants more numerous. A group that was at the head of the parade and helped to get everyone into the parade-watching mode was this marching bank from Western, the local university.

A snowy PD day

 

Friday was a PD day, a personal development day, for my granddaughter's teacher. With no school and little to do, even a light snowfall beckoned with a promise of winter fun: making a snowman with grandpa.

But the snow was not only light but dry and powdery. It wouldn't roll. It refused to even pile. But stuff like that may stop some but not a dedicated kid. She decided to make a melted snowman. A snowman past his prime. And so she put her Frosty hat on her creation and sure enough, just like the song says, the hat was magic. The almost formless large lump of snow became a snowman.

Cities should not be built on flood plain

 If you have been following the news out of British Columbia, Canada's western most province, and also the news out of Nova Scotia, the province on Canada's Atlantic coast, you would know both these areas are receiving extreme amounts of precipitation. In B.C. one area got an average month's worth of rain in 24 hours. The Trans Canada highway has suffered washouts as have the railways linking B.C. to the rest of the country.

Although rain has not posed a serious threat in London in decades, a record breaking rainfall could wreck real havoc on certain areas of this city. Most of the city, like Springbank Park, would be safe but there are areas built on flood plain. These areas are protected by a system of dikes and a large dam in the north end of the city. But in the event of a truly extreme amount of precipitation, the Thames River could easily break free of its restraints and flood the homes built on the flood plain.

Black apartment pops viewed against blue sky

Scanning London from a spot in the south end of town, near Wharncliffe Rd. and Base Line, a black-painted apartment building immediately catches one's eye. It is big, black and dramatic today but one must wonder what it will look like in a few years hence. Black paint has a reputation for fading.

Automobile Dealers Short on New Cars

 

It was time for the annual fall tire change. Summer tires off and snow tires on. While the service department makes the switch, folk usually stroll about the showroom looking at the new cars, sitting in them and dreaming not of a seasonal tire change but of a complete change of cars.

But there was no dreaming today as the dealership showroom was completely devoid of new cars. There's a chip shortage, you know. And new cars need numerous electronic chips to function. 

The floor was not totally bare, the dealer had a 1960s era VW Beetle on display. Today it was memories wandering the showroom conjured up and then only in the oldest, most senior of clients. I had a robin-egg blue memory haunt me while I was there.

Art, not brown paper, covers windows of empty store

When businesses go under, brown paper often goes up on all the exterior windows. It looks as if this company has found a more attractive answer: art. The empty store offers a leasing opportunity and I, or one, like the positive approach.

Memories of Hyde Park are fading

Some time ago, the village of Hyde Park sat at the corner of Hyde Park Road and Gainsborough Rd. Not today. The village was annexed by London and very few of the original structures remain.

One building that dodged the demolition bullet, a white, wood frame farm home with a large, front port, has found that its luck has run out. It sits empty, its windows boarded up, patiently awaiting the arrival of the demolition crew.

Voting still out on value of pulse oximeters

In early October, The New York Times carried an article headlined "Do I Still Need a Pulse Oximeter?" It went on to report that a study done in South Africa showed home monitoring of oxygen levels can be a true lifesaver.

My youngest granddaughter has not been vaccinated. Up until a few days ago children her age were not even offered the opportunity of getting vaccinated against COVID-19. This left me feeling uneasy whenever my 84-year-old sister and my granddaughter both paid me visits at the same time. How to feel comfortable having a non-vaccinated person in the same house as my double-vaccinated oh-so-senior sister?

The truth is there is no truly safe way this can be done. None. But a pulse oximeter can provide a little assurance that the child is unlikely to be an asymptomatic person quietly fighting the COVID-19 virus. 

 

It is not a perfect COVID-19 screening device but it does work in a statistically important number of cases. A perfectly healthy child often has a reading as high as 98 or 99. My granddaughter always hits 99. If she hit lesser number, I'd ask why.

Is this art?

About to download today's image, I looked at the camera back and noticed a button had been touched and a multitude of older images were being displayed. A friend using an older model smart phone took a picture of the camera monitor.

I have to say that with a more up-to-date smart phone delivering pictures with a greater tonal range and a bigger file, this could be art. What do you think?

Longevity like real estate can hinge on location

How long one lives is influenced by a number of factors. Genes, of course, play a big and commanding role but where one was born also carries a lot of weight. Folks living in Hong Kong often live to 85. If you were born in Switzerland, knock a year off the average age at departure to put Switzerland in 4th place in the global rating.

Run a finger down the column listing countries and their position in the longevity sweepstakes, move past Italy, Spain, Iceland, Sweden and France and assorted other countries and when you reach the 16th place you have reached the entry for Canada. A Canadian at birth can hope to see almost 83 years-of-age.

Run your eye down the column all the way to the 46th entry and you find the United States. The low rating for the States is correct but many would argue it does not reflect the reality facing many seniors living in the U.S. Childbirth death rates are high in the States and too many people die early thanks to gun violence. Healthcare and longevity are actually better in the States than the numbers indicate.

Still, for many people, health care in the senior years is more available in many places when compared to the United States. Take a simple thing like prescription drugs. In Ontario, Canada, a senior pays for the first hundred dollars of prescription drugs annually. After that, the cost is only $4.11 for each prescription.

I've known folk living in the States, admittedly not all that well off, who had to pick and choose between prescriptions when it came to having their prescriptions filled.

For seniors anywhere in the world, it can be tough when it comes to maintaining good health. But I look at the ratings and it is pretty clear that many other places around the world are quite possibly doing things better than we are in North America. Hey, 16th position doesn't come with a lot of bragging rights. And what can one say about 46th?

Shorts? Really?

It is mid November. The temperature is barely above freezing. And yet one sees Canadian teens coming home from school wearing shorts. Why? Do these kids have anti-freeze for blood? 

When I was a teen, the girls complained that they had to wear a dress or a skirt to school and were not allowed to wear slacks. They were cold and resented the stupid dress code rules. 

Who would have thought that once the codes were history, teens, both boys and girls, would choose shorts over jeans. Not me!

Stream of Dreams: a nationwide program

 

Why are there painted schools of fish on many school fences? This is a question on the lips of many living in not only Ontario but also in BC and Alberta. Most folk in these provinces have not heard of the "Stream of Dreams" program nor noticed the painted fish, for that matter.

It was 2001 when hundreds of painted fish began appearing on school fences thanks to the Stream Of Dreams non-profit. The fish symbolize the importance of the world's water in supporting life. 

 

School kids paint fish for display and do research to understand how water gets polluted. They learn even washing the family car at home can send dirty, oil-laden water down storm drains. And water running off lawns may be contaminated with fertilizer, herbicides and pesticides.

 

The fish are painted blue on the side facing the fence. It is odd to say but the blue fish silhouettes are easier to read as fish when seen from any distance.

 

First real snowfall of the winter

A hint of things to come: snow. Sunday Londoners awoke to the first real snowfall of the winter. It was heavy, wet snow that began melting the moment it touched down. And yet, by late afternoon, as the sun was beginning to set, the snow was beginning to build up on streets, sidewalks and shrubbery. Come tomorrow morning there may be another chapter to this story and it may be time to get out the snowblower.

A palace worthy of the Roman Catholic Bishops

 

When I moved to London, I lived in an area once known as Petersville. It was a suburb of London built on the low lying land across the Thames River from London proper.

When I went for a walk about the neighbourhood I would cross the North Branch of the Thames River at the Blackfriars Bridge. Above the large wrought iron span, overlooking the Petersville and Blackfriars neighbourhoods, there was a large and somewhat rundown looking white home with massive columns gracing the front.

I have since learned that the magnificent home was designed by a local architect, William Robinson, and it originally presented a less grandiose appearance. The massive columns were added before the home was donated to the Roman Catholic Church to be used as the new Bishop's Residence.

Reportedly, the donor, John Donally of Buffalo, New York, didn't find the original Italianate look regal enough for the bishops of London.

When last I looked, thanks to some creative thinking, the old home had been converted into four condominiums and the structure promised to be around for many years to come.

Remembrance Day: today a jet trail has extra meaning

 

A chap with whom I once worked, he was an editor at the local paper, wrote the following piece to mark Remembrance Day. Earlier, I reposted it on my Facebook page and many of my friends and relatives thought the former editor struck just the right note. Many of my older followers also lost relatives and family friends while off fighting in a far away war.

This evening, looking at the setting sun, one massive jet trail made me think of the essay I've reposted. For me, the jet trail symbolized how many, far too many, airmen fell from the sky, plane aflame, to become just one more dead airman among thousands.

So I am reposting his essay here in hopes than even more people will read it and reflect on the significance of today, Remembrance Day. I fear that as the years pass, our memories of the horror of war are fading. And that is also sad.

From the Geezers' Newsletter 4: An essay by Bill Jory

 

“Older men declare war. But it is the youth that must fight and die.” 

– Herbert Hoover

 

 

Is there an echo in the room? Sounds like it. Is there something reminiscent about this week’s offering? I believe so. Is this déjà vu all over again. Definitely. Long-time readers may remember this column from a few years back. I’ve decided to recycle it to honour of Remembrance Day this Thursday and for new subscribers who didn’t see it last time. Read on:

 

I have been one of the fortunate ones. War has never come knocking on my door.

As a baby boomer born after the hostilities of the Second World, my life has been one of peace and privilege. My generation never saw the face of armed conflict.

 

Sure, in our youth we learned the history in school, watched the propaganda films that glorified battle on TV, heard veterans talk quietly of their experiences and were reminded of the sacrifices at annual Nov. 11 ceremonies. But, and it’s a big but, my generation never had to confront war’s realities on a personal level.

 

The prospect of waking up one day and finding out a friend or loved one was no longer here simply because the nation was at war is something we never faced. We hardly ever thought about the grief and suffering that had come just a few years before we were born.

 

Our parents and grandparents, no doubt thinking it was for the best, protected us from the horrors they had lived through. Probably there seemed little point in reviving old pains and inflicting them on the next generation. My father, for example, never even bothered to collect his war medals. He wanted to forget that time and he hardly ever talked about it.

 

This Remembrance Day, though, I am trying to put a face on war. It’s the face of an uncle whose name I bear – William Jory. Some people I’ve encountered over the years say I am like him. I don’t know. I never met him. He was killed four years before I was born when his RCAF Lancaster bomber was shot down by a German night fighter during the Second World War.

 

From my earlier days, though, I recognized that his loss had devastated my father’s family. My grandmother hardly ever left her home after his death and my aunts would suddenly become tearful if – in childish curiosity – I asked about the uncle whose photos haunted the house. It seemed best to avoid the subject. Until now.

 

When the last of my father’s sisters died a few years back, she left me a touching and fascinating legacy – a scrapbook detailing my uncle’s life of 24 years. Perusing its pages, I came face to face with the overwhelming price of war. A life snuffed out before it had a chance to flower. A family left in sadness until the last survivor died. A beautiful young woman robbed of the fellow who was born to be her husband. A community deprived of one of its most promising young men.

 

The book begins innocently enough: routine pictures with parents, older siblings, grandparents. It progresses through a happy childhood of excelling in athletics, being a popular lad about town, taking part in the usual teenage activities and receiving affectionate notes from a special girl named Peggy.

 

Then suddenly there is jarring change. The photos show men in uniform. Telegrams arrive congratulating Bill on getting his wings and becoming a flying officer. Another comes confirming safe arrival in England.

 

Whatever hopes, thoughts or anguish the family harbored remain a secret.

But the worst fears came home to rest with a cold, informal telegram on Oct. 19, 1944:

“Regret to advise that your son, Flying Officer William Edward Jory – J22936 – is reported missing after air operation overseas October sixteenth.”

 

Still, faint hope was offered. The next day, his commanding officer wrote: “While it would be as wrong for me to raise false hope as it would be to give you the impression that you should definitely conclude that your son is no longer alive, I ought to tell you that there is always the possibility that he may be a prisoner of war.”

 

Squadron Leader F. R. Anderson would write four days later: “It is our hope that some happier report may yet come back to his squadron in the not-too-distant future.”

 

Chills run up my spine thinking of the sleepless nights, the fears and worries that must have tormented the family in the days ahead. Emotions must have run from optimism to pessimism with terrifying regularity.

 

Perhaps not knowing is more stressful than facing the worst news. Who knows? But I suspect few things could be more heartbreaking than the telegram of Jan. 12, 1945: “Regret to advise International Red Cross quoting German information states your son, Flying Officer William Edward Jory, lost his life but does not give additional particulars...”

 

After the war, gruesome particulars would be learned. The plane crashed on the evening of Oct. 15-16, 1944, on the farm of Holfer Christiansen, near the village of Idum in northwest Denmark. The crew of seven was killed.

 

In later years, my father would travel to Denmark and befriend Christiansen and his wife. They would become fast friends and Mrs. Christiansen would tell my father the real story of what happened that night. Her tale of courage makes the blood run cold even today.

 

She was at home alone with her small children because her husband, a member of the Danish resistance movement, was hiding outside the country with a Nazi death sentence on his head. She had just gone to bed when she heard the sound of a sputtering aircraft engine.

 

Recognizing all was not well, she ran outside just in time to see the aircraft crash a short distance from her home. Rushing to the scene, she found the entire crew dead.

 

She thought quickly and decided to take precautions for after the war. From each body she took a piece of identification so she could write to the families and tell them exactly what had happened. These she buried under her house.

 

Nazi troops arrived soon after, seized the bodies and refused requests from the Danish people to give the airman a proper funeral in the church cemetery. Instead, they buried them in an unmarked grave in a field. But Mrs. Christiansen had ventured into the night and followed the Nazis. She knew where the bodies were hidden. 

 

Though the Danes were ordered not to put flowers there or go near the site, they did so anyway. Before long, shrubs were planted and each day fresh-cut flowers were placed there. After the war, the bodies were exhumed and given a hero’s Christian burial in the tiny nearby churchyard.

 

What tears my heart apart to this day is that my uncle’s story is not unique. In all, 41,700 members of the Canadian military were dead or missing at war’s end. We will honour their valour and sacrifice by wearing a poppy and with two minutes of silence at 11 a.m. next Thursday. Yet I can’t help thinking about those left behind to live with the grief. Imagine the suffering and sorrow of my family multiplied by 41,700. Add to that all war and all nations. The pain seems incomprehensible.

London's John Paul II is Canada's 1st Carbon Neutral School

 

According to the CBC, the $9.7 million project will feature geothermal heating and cooling, solar panel covered carports and roof, energy storage, electric vehicle charging stations and more to make John Paul II Catholic Secondary School Canada's first carbon neutral school.

Does climate change threaten colourful fall foliage?

The leaves in London seemed to shift from green to red, yellow and orange much later this year than in past years.  I decide to google this apparent change. 

I discovered that cold October temperatures may be the biggest driver of the fall foliage colour change. Other factors such as the shortening day length, latitude and precipitation are all secondary. It seems no one knows the specific impact global warming will have on our northern forests.

According to The Washington Post, in recent years extreme weather has dulled the colour of the leaves and in certain years the colourful fall season has been severely shortened.

What has infected this maple tree?

 

Maple leaves are often marred by a variety of diseases. Some are fungal, some indicate the presence of mites and other problems can be weather related. Why is this bright yellow maple leaf marred by small spots? If it reappears next year, it might be worth seeking an answer. This year, the leaves are falling and winter is but days away. The problem, for now, is on hold.

An early photo of the Ontario Furniture Co.

 

Recently, I posted the photo on the left. Then I came across an original photo of the Ontario Furniture Co. store.

The Ontario Furniture Co. store on Dundas St. in the city core was known for being a beautiful building when new well over a century ago. 

For decades the original store front was hidden behind a modern skin. Then, a few years ago, the modern facade was removed. Many Londoners were surprised to see what the skin had been hiding. The building was handsome once more.

Good jogging weather

 

The days are cool, the nights are nudging cold but it all adds up to good jogging weather. The incredible hot, humid summer days are now but memories. Soon the parks walkways will be snow covered and slick with icy patches. Joggers are out enjoying the moment.

A good neighbour, friendly community, story

When my wife, Judy, ran low on flour right at the beginning of the first COVID-19 lock-down, a neighbour said he was going to the grocery store and he'd pick-up some flour for her. He did but he would not take any money. So, Judy gave the fellow and his wife a chocolate cognac truffle tart to say thank-you. 

That was months ago. During the intervening time the fellow set out to find a suitable dessert to give to Judy in return. The other day he and his wife stopped by with his response to Judy's gift: a German chocolate bombe. 

Wow! He said this was the first dessert that he has ever made. Wow! Both Judy and I are speechless. And damn it, this thing tastes as good as it looks. The fellow is amazing. I hate him. I'm looking for a gypsy to put a curse on him. 

I try to cook. I often make dinner and I've tried my hand at a dessert of two. But I don't come close to delighting Judy to the extent that he did. Grrrrr. Isn't jealousy and ugly emotion? Now, I've got to go. I have to go looking for a proper gypsy. (Stephen King would understand.)

Seating for three and four now for one

 

Hospitals like the Vic in London have very pleasant spots out in the open air for sitting with friends and other patients who have some mobility. The benches and swings hold three people and the tables have seating for four. Since the appearance of COVID-19 notices have been posted; only one person is allowed per bench, swing or even table. 

Surely with so many folk getting vaccinated, soon the limitations will be lifted. A swing or bench for three is simply not the same with only one user.

When will it end?

 

The pandemic seems to be the gift that just keeps on giving. Soon it will be legal to sing and dance in Montreal pubs but in London patients must still line-up to enter Victoria Hospital. And those bringing family members to the hospital must drop the patient off and then leave. Only patients, and those with special dispensations, are allowed entry.

Running the gauntlet to enter the hospital can be time consuming. First, patients must answer a number of questions designed to winnow out anyone who might carry the virus. Then the mask they wore to the hospital is tossed and they are given a new, hospital-issue mask.

The question on everyone's lips is "When will it end?"

Stairway to nowhere is a mystery

 

This was an incredible wooden staircase, complete with landings and built in-place wooden bench seats. I am not sure when it was built nor when it was opened to the public. And I am not exactly sure when it was closed but it is closed and remains closed to this day. All indications are that someday, when the city budgets for the cost, the walkway to nowhere will be dismantled and removed.

The only thing left will be the question: Why?