The Qwerty Writers' Group
"QWERTY" is the first row of keys on the typewriter keyboard which is why we named our group after it (8 members so far).
Keyboards and writers go together like jam and bread.
Each has posted one piece in this blog, and each regularly posts new work so you will come back.
You can post a COMMENT in this blog on what you read too
Scroll down to see each member's piece, and CLICK on "OLDER POSTS" to keep advancing..
Members meet about once a month to read aloud their latest pieces --short fiction mainly, some poetry. Then they critique the pieces -- where the stories may have become confusing or need more clarity ...helpful comments to help them hone their skills. And to keep them all actively writing -- that's the main thing!
Sometimes they even listen to music to get them in the writing mood -- hear a variety of selections below in file #4 (just click on the song of your choice).
Apr 19, 2008
Jan 5, 2008
2. Blog INDEX to this blog's contents
1. About us? Who are we?
2. Blog Index to 24 files
3. Scroll down to see files and members' writing
4. Music to help you enjoy this blog
SCROLL DOWN THE PAGE TO READ EACH WRITER;
CLICK ON "OLDER POSTS' AT BOTTOM OF PAGE TO KEEP ADVANCING
Stories by Doug Hagan
Stories by Marilyn Kerr
Stories by Nan Williamson
Stories by Tom Muskett
Stories by Nan P.
Stories by Krys P.
Stories by Janet Baal
Stories by Margaret S.
Stories by Lauren Markovich
14. Publishing a ZINE: our future?
15. Writers' festivals, lectures, contests etc.
16. LINKS to media of interest to writers
17. News items on writing and publishing
18. Links to media U.S. and Canada
19. Famous quotations on the writing life
20. Qwerty memoranda
21. New words entering the English language
22. Writing tips, advice, articles on writing
23. Book reviews of interest to writers
2. Blog Index to 24 files
3. Scroll down to see files and members' writing
4. Music to help you enjoy this blog
SCROLL DOWN THE PAGE TO READ EACH WRITER;
CLICK ON "OLDER POSTS' AT BOTTOM OF PAGE TO KEEP ADVANCING
Stories by Doug Hagan
Stories by Marilyn Kerr
Stories by Nan Williamson
Stories by Tom Muskett
Stories by Nan P.
Stories by Krys P.
Stories by Janet Baal
Stories by Margaret S.
Stories by Lauren Markovich
14. Publishing a ZINE: our future?
15. Writers' festivals, lectures, contests etc.
16. LINKS to media of interest to writers
17. News items on writing and publishing
18. Links to media U.S. and Canada
19. Famous quotations on the writing life
20. Qwerty memoranda
21. New words entering the English language
22. Writing tips, advice, articles on writing
23. Book reviews of interest to writers
3. TO READ EACH WRITER? Scroll down to see writers' stories
SCROLL DOWN PAGE to find each writer's work; click on "OLDER POSTS" to advance page after page
4. Tune in/ Turn on MUSIC ONLINE while in this blog
Click on the tune's red lines (links to CBC-Radio 2) and then simply minimize your selection so you can return to the blog to read stories while hearing the music.
Rufus Wainwright "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen -- lyrics shown
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=EbO6P-_Zx0Y
Exactly Like You - Van Django (Django Reinhardt)
http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/codPlayer.html?/radio2/media/20070623djan3/11.asx#Django%20Fest%20-%20Van%20DjangoExactly%20Like%20You
Lazin' With Ita -- (by Van Django)
http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/codPlayer.html?http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/media/20070623djan3/12.asx#Lazin
I'll Never Be The Same -- Hogtown Syncopators at the Palais Royale
http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/codPlayer.html?/radio2/media/20071103hgtwn/04.asx#Hogtown%20Syncopators%20at%20Palais%20RoyaleLittle%20Buttercup%20(I'll%20Never%20Be%20The%20Same)
John Arpin plays a W.C. Handy Medley (ragtime)
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=alLJUlO7IOc
Beale Street Blues - Climax Jazz Band at Palais Royale
http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/codPlayer.html?/radio2/media/20071103clmax/02.asx#Climax%20Jazz%20Band%20at%20Palais%20RoyaleBeale%20Street%20Blues
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAZWiP1U9UM
Speak Softly Love -- Joey DeFrancesco Trio
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=T7SwDGTuSKY
Swedish Ragtime Society Home Page
http://www.ragtime.nu:80/
Rufus Wainwright "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen -- lyrics shown
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=EbO6P-_Zx0Y
Exactly Like You - Van Django (Django Reinhardt)
http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/codPlayer.html?/radio2/media/20070623djan3/11.asx#Django%20Fest%20-%20Van%20DjangoExactly%20Like%20You
Lazin' With Ita -- (by Van Django)
http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/codPlayer.html?http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/media/20070623djan3/12.asx#Lazin
I'll Never Be The Same -- Hogtown Syncopators at the Palais Royale
http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/codPlayer.html?/radio2/media/20071103hgtwn/04.asx#Hogtown%20Syncopators%20at%20Palais%20RoyaleLittle%20Buttercup%20(I'll%20Never%20Be%20The%20Same)
John Arpin plays a W.C. Handy Medley (ragtime)
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=alLJUlO7IOc
Beale Street Blues - Climax Jazz Band at Palais Royale
http://www.cbc.ca/radio2/codPlayer.html?/radio2/media/20071103clmax/02.asx#Climax%20Jazz%20Band%20at%20Palais%20RoyaleBeale%20Street%20Blues
Fly Me To The Moon -- The Joey DeFrancesco Trio
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=uhFIupVoVKc
How Insensitive (by the Joey DeFrancesco Trio)http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAZWiP1U9UM
Speak Softly Love -- Joey DeFrancesco Trio
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=T7SwDGTuSKY
Swedish Ragtime Society Home Page
http://www.ragtime.nu:80/
Stories by Marilyn Kerr
India Travels
These are my bits and pieces from India.
Tuck Tuck
Tuck Tucks are three -wheeled auto-rickshaws driven by touts who wish to gain every last rupee for every last km. I rode them everywhere all the time. The back bench seat, designed for two passengers, more often than not was filled with whole families, who squeezed in or hung out the sides.
Once I was riding in the country with three traveller friends. A man jumped on the back bumper ledge for a ride, saying he was just there for 'security.' He rode along with us on the dirt road 'till he got to where he was going which happened to be nowhere but the middle of a rice paddie.
He jumped off as we zoomed on. No problem.
So here I go now,on my TuckTuck ride through South India on hot winter days, up the western ghats and down to the coastal beaches, to the villages, and the wide green lazy rivers; into the backwaters, and around the bazaars; always in the company of swarms of people.
I squinted my eyes shut, for the driving skills while honed to motorcross speeds and turns, left me in terror of hitting cows or buses, water buffalo or bicycles, pot holes or ditches as we whizzed along with bumps and zest, The Tuck Tuck motors strained for the top of each gear change, always with that sound of impending breakdown but protected by the sacred shield of numerous idols which hung in the front windows with dangling fake flowers and ever twinkling lights to adorn the Vishnas.
In all the many many rides I had, we never hit a cow, nor scraped a passerby, Like black and yellow bees they swerved and parked, to take riders wherever there was a road. I never once saw a signal light used, nor a stop sign obeyed, the most I ever paid was about 80 rupees. ($2.00)
Ganesh
I loved the ganesh, the little idol for worshipping.
He was everywhere, in the temples in the TuckTucks and buses on the trains, in the houses, he was a busy deity, bringing good fortune to all believers.
With his little pot belly and navel, his long elephant trunk and human eyes, he sat serenely on his thone, kindly and benign casting goodness and prosperity with Hindu blessings.
He was beloved for as a youngster his father Siva, not recognizing him, had chopped off his head and then in remorse replaced it with an elephant's so that he would continue in godly duties.
One lovely large ganesh was in the temple at Udipi.
He was covered with orange cream.
People came to take a finger full of colour and place in on their forhead, a bindi of blessing from their very own chosen idol. I bought a small ganesh in a temple stand.
He sat among the other gods patiently waiting for me. The sign on the stand read 'Idols and Gifts' and I thought the ganesh was both!. I felt very prosperous in India, indeed I do even today. The ganesh reminds me of the gifts of my life.
OOty.
Ooty was a hill station in the Western Ghats, (a ridge of mountains, the spine of south India) developed in the time of the Raj, and still speckled with english cottages their tiny gardens and fenced yards protected with latch gates.
I went there for two reasons. One to cool off, south India is very hot and the hill stations were cool and pleasant, so for a few days I relished the freshness of the high breezes.
But there was more to Ooty than the air, I also wanted to visit the tea plantations. My old grey high school geography book had photos of the plantations and Indian women wearing head bands holding large baskets on their backs for the tea leaves and there they were in Ooty,
With miles and miles of fresh green tea plants, and newly sprouted leaves picked over every 7 days, packs of women roamed and harvested for as far as the eye could see, and piles of tea leaves were hauled off to the tea factory to be cut and dried and packed, ready for a brew in three hours.
The tea bushes were flat topped from the picking so that you could almost imagine walking over the tops, on a green carpet, growing up and down the slopes.
I trekked with a group across the nearby open land, stopping to admire the huge mimosa trees and the silvery barked stately eucaliptis, whose leaves provide soothing medicinal oil. We stopped in a village for lunch served in a dirt floor lean to, by an old man who made very strong black tea with boiled milk and a cotton strainer that looked as if it held enough steamed tea leaves to last all day.
We ate rice and dal on banana leaves with our handss as was the custom, then carried on up the hills.
I stayed at the YWCA in Ooty, a wonderful hillside place where I joined 12 fellow travellers around a table to eat supper together, each sharing their adventures with gusto.
One couple spoke 5 languages during the course of the meal, including mandarin. They were French from Paris and had driven their van across Europe, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, Kashmir,and now down through India. They parked the van in the yard and came in for supper.
I bought a small bottle of whisky in Ooty, the only woman in the the tiny liquor stand. Men came in with small empty bottles to be filled, some with shot glasses for one drink. The whisky, shared at the table was pretty rough.
Dhotis
The men wore dhotis. Long wrap around skirts overlapped in front and tucked into their underpant waistbands. They were cumbersome, protective, adjustable, sometimes elegant, as they flapped with the strides, and fluttered with the air. They never came undone, nor looked untidy, they were more useful than trousers because they were handy.
The construction and road workers wore dark coloured dhotis, but most wore white with a long coloured band down the side to enhance the effect.
I liked to watch the men walk in the dhotis, I never saw them restricted by the ankle length fabric, nor bothered by the walking upstairs or climbing into a car. But they did hoist them up in the midday sun. They lifted up the lower hem, drew the fabric around their waste and tucked them over,with a rather phallilc front bunching of fabric, which flopped easily into place. This allowed cool air around their legs, and a nice feel of free movement.I kept waiting for the whole thing to fall apart, for embarrassment to take over the look, but it never happened.
Those dhotis stayed in place no matter what the activity, they just hung on the bodies with careless abandon. Often the men would untuck the frontal lobe to let the skirt down again, or hold one corner out to allow the breeze to circulate aound the knees.
It was always a drama with those dhotis, up or down, tucked or released, the men seemed to enjoy the continuous tactile adjustments. They carried their wallets safely tucked in their underwear, and their straight cotton shirts hung outside.
I saw men with ties and briefcases wearing dhotis but I did notice they weren't so popular in Bombay.
I missed them. Trousers seemed so ordinary
Wedding sadness
Madura, a large modern city in the south of south India, had a most magnificent temple in the centre of the market. It took up a whole block and two days worth of visiting. The high carved entrance portrayed a myriad of gods and godesses in rows and rows of incarnations that reached up and up, a pyramid of deities.
I stood outside straining to find my ganesh and my vishna for fortune and protection. There they were up there and I found them so I was ready to enter. But first, off came the shoes and into a pile of hundreds of pilgims pairs. I tried to find a spot near the wall so that I could see my own 'Clarkes" when I came out.
Little did I know there were four exits and I would have to walk around on the hot paved streets to find my well worn pair later in the day.
The temple was designed with dark stony ancient passageways, which led to hidden candle lit inner sanctums containing strange multi armed androgynous idols with piercing eyes, and pleasant smiles.
People everywhere were quietly visiting their favourite gods with flowers and food for brahmin men who welcomed and guarded the sanctity of the monuments. With water blessings, face touches, and meditations, a prayerful parade of pilgrims wandered in and out of the many enclaves, each with a private purpose and I sensed an enjoyment of their hindu religion, while brahmins sat to sing soft vocal ohms and sacred elephants stood patiently in courtyards with painted trunks and mirrored colour sashes.
I watched fathers lift young children to touch their favoured idol, and smoky fires pass on silver trays for welcoming hands to push the sacred heat onto eager faces, A brahmin dipped his spoon to spill water on my hair, and a parade of drums came through the corridors with low tribal sounds repeated and repeated.
A woman told me I should see the diamonds. Puzzled, I joined a line of pilgims thinking I would see a sacred diamond. My turn came quickly, I peered in through several grates in, in, to a small grotto, and there was an unknown god, his vest covered with candle lit shining diamonds a blaze of glory. I filed past three times to take my turn at amazement.
But it was the wedding that turned my head away.
A cloister around the large lotus centred sacred reflecting pool was a coveted place to hold wedding groups, an important event for all hindu daughters. When I arrived, there was a wedding in progress (often a three -day event). Women were sitting in irregular circles around the bride, flowers and jewels bedecking everyone, and men gathered not far away to joke and nudge the groom who had taken a new yellow shirt out of a box to match his dhoti. The two groups were seperate and full of chat and humour.
The bride wore a lovely purple sari with flowers and head jewels in her hair and a large decorated nose ring attached to a chain which connected to her ear. It was the day she had been waiting for.
I saw her there in the midst of her family, a smiling child. She looked so vulnerable and unprotected, all dressed in expectation, too young to enter an arranged life.
Her smile was constant and full of fear.
Perhaps the groom was young too I thought. I went to look at him.
The groom was older. He was ready, and waiting.
The families brought the two side by side, They were festooned with wedding flower capes, as was the custom. There was much clapping and laughing.
Neither looked at each other. I saw only the haunting fearful smile.
I walked away. Her life, just begun, would now begin again, in her mother -in -law's house, the hindu way, and more children would be raised in the land of too many.
Matrimonials
Sunday march 15. 2009. The classified section of the newspaper 'The Hindu.' Bridegrooms Wanted. Brides Wanted. There were approx.1,000 advertisements for brides and bridegrooms on four full pages entitled Bringing People Together. Here are samples of the ads.
#1
Hindu Vilakkathala Nair girl 28 Allitam-4 slight papan M.com. M.phil. seeks educated employed boy from same caste. (tel. given)
#2
Caste no bar. Settled senior director in a reputed company seeks fair and educated girl from a decent family. (Box# given)
#3
Mother SalvaPilia, Father SC Arunthathiar, Son, 32/175 Fair Bsc. employed CTS Chennia.seeks fair graduate employed girl expected salary 20k age between 23-27 Caste no bar. (phone and e mail given)
I met Chetana and her 13 year old son, in a garden in Kanyakumari. We were staying at the same ashram Vivekananda Kendra.
We went together to watch the sunrise over the Indian Ocean at the southern tip of India, She was a lawyer and a a sanskrit scholar, and a hindu devotee. We travelled together for four wonderful days. I was able to ask her about her family and why she had agreed to an arranged marriage.
"I did not want to disappoint my father" she said. "And how has it worked out?" I asked.
" He is a very nice man" was her answer. They had lived with her bridegroom's family as was the custom.
She was hoping to come to Toronto in two years to attend a woman's rights conference.
Slumdog
I saw dalits, (formerly called untouchables or pariahs) begging or sweeping on the streets.
They had dark skin and wore saris. They found garbage. In Mumbia, they slept on sand piles at construction sites near the Taj. I saw a young mother and two small children sitting on the side of the road one morning with a paper cup of water. They were brushing their teeth with their fingers.
These are my bits and pieces from India.
Tuck Tuck
Tuck Tucks are three -wheeled auto-rickshaws driven by touts who wish to gain every last rupee for every last km. I rode them everywhere all the time. The back bench seat, designed for two passengers, more often than not was filled with whole families, who squeezed in or hung out the sides.
Once I was riding in the country with three traveller friends. A man jumped on the back bumper ledge for a ride, saying he was just there for 'security.' He rode along with us on the dirt road 'till he got to where he was going which happened to be nowhere but the middle of a rice paddie.
He jumped off as we zoomed on. No problem.
So here I go now,on my TuckTuck ride through South India on hot winter days, up the western ghats and down to the coastal beaches, to the villages, and the wide green lazy rivers; into the backwaters, and around the bazaars; always in the company of swarms of people.
I squinted my eyes shut, for the driving skills while honed to motorcross speeds and turns, left me in terror of hitting cows or buses, water buffalo or bicycles, pot holes or ditches as we whizzed along with bumps and zest, The Tuck Tuck motors strained for the top of each gear change, always with that sound of impending breakdown but protected by the sacred shield of numerous idols which hung in the front windows with dangling fake flowers and ever twinkling lights to adorn the Vishnas.
In all the many many rides I had, we never hit a cow, nor scraped a passerby, Like black and yellow bees they swerved and parked, to take riders wherever there was a road. I never once saw a signal light used, nor a stop sign obeyed, the most I ever paid was about 80 rupees. ($2.00)
Ganesh
I loved the ganesh, the little idol for worshipping.
He was everywhere, in the temples in the TuckTucks and buses on the trains, in the houses, he was a busy deity, bringing good fortune to all believers.
With his little pot belly and navel, his long elephant trunk and human eyes, he sat serenely on his thone, kindly and benign casting goodness and prosperity with Hindu blessings.
He was beloved for as a youngster his father Siva, not recognizing him, had chopped off his head and then in remorse replaced it with an elephant's so that he would continue in godly duties.
One lovely large ganesh was in the temple at Udipi.
He was covered with orange cream.
People came to take a finger full of colour and place in on their forhead, a bindi of blessing from their very own chosen idol. I bought a small ganesh in a temple stand.
He sat among the other gods patiently waiting for me. The sign on the stand read 'Idols and Gifts' and I thought the ganesh was both!. I felt very prosperous in India, indeed I do even today. The ganesh reminds me of the gifts of my life.
OOty.
Ooty was a hill station in the Western Ghats, (a ridge of mountains, the spine of south India) developed in the time of the Raj, and still speckled with english cottages their tiny gardens and fenced yards protected with latch gates.
I went there for two reasons. One to cool off, south India is very hot and the hill stations were cool and pleasant, so for a few days I relished the freshness of the high breezes.
But there was more to Ooty than the air, I also wanted to visit the tea plantations. My old grey high school geography book had photos of the plantations and Indian women wearing head bands holding large baskets on their backs for the tea leaves and there they were in Ooty,
With miles and miles of fresh green tea plants, and newly sprouted leaves picked over every 7 days, packs of women roamed and harvested for as far as the eye could see, and piles of tea leaves were hauled off to the tea factory to be cut and dried and packed, ready for a brew in three hours.
The tea bushes were flat topped from the picking so that you could almost imagine walking over the tops, on a green carpet, growing up and down the slopes.
I trekked with a group across the nearby open land, stopping to admire the huge mimosa trees and the silvery barked stately eucaliptis, whose leaves provide soothing medicinal oil. We stopped in a village for lunch served in a dirt floor lean to, by an old man who made very strong black tea with boiled milk and a cotton strainer that looked as if it held enough steamed tea leaves to last all day.
We ate rice and dal on banana leaves with our handss as was the custom, then carried on up the hills.
I stayed at the YWCA in Ooty, a wonderful hillside place where I joined 12 fellow travellers around a table to eat supper together, each sharing their adventures with gusto.
One couple spoke 5 languages during the course of the meal, including mandarin. They were French from Paris and had driven their van across Europe, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, Kashmir,and now down through India. They parked the van in the yard and came in for supper.
I bought a small bottle of whisky in Ooty, the only woman in the the tiny liquor stand. Men came in with small empty bottles to be filled, some with shot glasses for one drink. The whisky, shared at the table was pretty rough.
Dhotis
The men wore dhotis. Long wrap around skirts overlapped in front and tucked into their underpant waistbands. They were cumbersome, protective, adjustable, sometimes elegant, as they flapped with the strides, and fluttered with the air. They never came undone, nor looked untidy, they were more useful than trousers because they were handy.
The construction and road workers wore dark coloured dhotis, but most wore white with a long coloured band down the side to enhance the effect.
I liked to watch the men walk in the dhotis, I never saw them restricted by the ankle length fabric, nor bothered by the walking upstairs or climbing into a car. But they did hoist them up in the midday sun. They lifted up the lower hem, drew the fabric around their waste and tucked them over,with a rather phallilc front bunching of fabric, which flopped easily into place. This allowed cool air around their legs, and a nice feel of free movement.I kept waiting for the whole thing to fall apart, for embarrassment to take over the look, but it never happened.
Those dhotis stayed in place no matter what the activity, they just hung on the bodies with careless abandon. Often the men would untuck the frontal lobe to let the skirt down again, or hold one corner out to allow the breeze to circulate aound the knees.
It was always a drama with those dhotis, up or down, tucked or released, the men seemed to enjoy the continuous tactile adjustments. They carried their wallets safely tucked in their underwear, and their straight cotton shirts hung outside.
I saw men with ties and briefcases wearing dhotis but I did notice they weren't so popular in Bombay.
I missed them. Trousers seemed so ordinary
Wedding sadness
Madura, a large modern city in the south of south India, had a most magnificent temple in the centre of the market. It took up a whole block and two days worth of visiting. The high carved entrance portrayed a myriad of gods and godesses in rows and rows of incarnations that reached up and up, a pyramid of deities.
I stood outside straining to find my ganesh and my vishna for fortune and protection. There they were up there and I found them so I was ready to enter. But first, off came the shoes and into a pile of hundreds of pilgims pairs. I tried to find a spot near the wall so that I could see my own 'Clarkes" when I came out.
Little did I know there were four exits and I would have to walk around on the hot paved streets to find my well worn pair later in the day.
The temple was designed with dark stony ancient passageways, which led to hidden candle lit inner sanctums containing strange multi armed androgynous idols with piercing eyes, and pleasant smiles.
People everywhere were quietly visiting their favourite gods with flowers and food for brahmin men who welcomed and guarded the sanctity of the monuments. With water blessings, face touches, and meditations, a prayerful parade of pilgrims wandered in and out of the many enclaves, each with a private purpose and I sensed an enjoyment of their hindu religion, while brahmins sat to sing soft vocal ohms and sacred elephants stood patiently in courtyards with painted trunks and mirrored colour sashes.
I watched fathers lift young children to touch their favoured idol, and smoky fires pass on silver trays for welcoming hands to push the sacred heat onto eager faces, A brahmin dipped his spoon to spill water on my hair, and a parade of drums came through the corridors with low tribal sounds repeated and repeated.
A woman told me I should see the diamonds. Puzzled, I joined a line of pilgims thinking I would see a sacred diamond. My turn came quickly, I peered in through several grates in, in, to a small grotto, and there was an unknown god, his vest covered with candle lit shining diamonds a blaze of glory. I filed past three times to take my turn at amazement.
But it was the wedding that turned my head away.
A cloister around the large lotus centred sacred reflecting pool was a coveted place to hold wedding groups, an important event for all hindu daughters. When I arrived, there was a wedding in progress (often a three -day event). Women were sitting in irregular circles around the bride, flowers and jewels bedecking everyone, and men gathered not far away to joke and nudge the groom who had taken a new yellow shirt out of a box to match his dhoti. The two groups were seperate and full of chat and humour.
The bride wore a lovely purple sari with flowers and head jewels in her hair and a large decorated nose ring attached to a chain which connected to her ear. It was the day she had been waiting for.
I saw her there in the midst of her family, a smiling child. She looked so vulnerable and unprotected, all dressed in expectation, too young to enter an arranged life.
Her smile was constant and full of fear.
Perhaps the groom was young too I thought. I went to look at him.
The groom was older. He was ready, and waiting.
The families brought the two side by side, They were festooned with wedding flower capes, as was the custom. There was much clapping and laughing.
Neither looked at each other. I saw only the haunting fearful smile.
I walked away. Her life, just begun, would now begin again, in her mother -in -law's house, the hindu way, and more children would be raised in the land of too many.
Matrimonials
Sunday march 15. 2009. The classified section of the newspaper 'The Hindu.' Bridegrooms Wanted. Brides Wanted. There were approx.1,000 advertisements for brides and bridegrooms on four full pages entitled Bringing People Together. Here are samples of the ads.
#1
Hindu Vilakkathala Nair girl 28 Allitam-4 slight papan M.com. M.phil. seeks educated employed boy from same caste. (tel. given)
#2
Caste no bar. Settled senior director in a reputed company seeks fair and educated girl from a decent family. (Box# given)
#3
Mother SalvaPilia, Father SC Arunthathiar, Son, 32/175 Fair Bsc. employed CTS Chennia.seeks fair graduate employed girl expected salary 20k age between 23-27 Caste no bar. (phone and e mail given)
I met Chetana and her 13 year old son, in a garden in Kanyakumari. We were staying at the same ashram Vivekananda Kendra.
We went together to watch the sunrise over the Indian Ocean at the southern tip of India, She was a lawyer and a a sanskrit scholar, and a hindu devotee. We travelled together for four wonderful days. I was able to ask her about her family and why she had agreed to an arranged marriage.
"I did not want to disappoint my father" she said. "And how has it worked out?" I asked.
" He is a very nice man" was her answer. They had lived with her bridegroom's family as was the custom.
She was hoping to come to Toronto in two years to attend a woman's rights conference.
Slumdog
I saw dalits, (formerly called untouchables or pariahs) begging or sweeping on the streets.
They had dark skin and wore saris. They found garbage. In Mumbia, they slept on sand piles at construction sites near the Taj. I saw a young mother and two small children sitting on the side of the road one morning with a paper cup of water. They were brushing their teeth with their fingers.
Stories by Doug H.
The Job Description
by Doug Hagan
Note to file: Sioux Lookout, Ontario, January 5th, 1965: I am about to conduct my first interview for Ontario Government contract 59X – 66 – Position Audits. The subject is one Herman Boyko, whose title is, “Wildlife Management Officer, Classification CO4.” The location is the Fish and Wildlife Office which occupies the second floor over the home and place of business of the town’s only jeweler.
“Mr. Boyko…”
“Might as well call me, ‘Herman.’”
“Herman,” I continued, “As you know, my company is conducting position audits within the Department of Lands and Forests throughout the province. It is perceived that written job descriptions are mostly out-of-date or poorly done. They are not particularly useful when it comes to making decisions on staff deployment and allocation. As a result, my company has been contracted to analyze actual key duties being performed by various positions and we will provide the government with descriptors which will assist in rationalizing the current organization. Do you understand?”
“No,” said Herman. “But I rarely do understand what contractors do. Most of the time they ask us what we already know so they can write a report about what is already obvious. Or, they screw it up completely.”
I looked up from my notepad, expecting to detect malice. Herman was grinning.
“Ah…well..yes. I see where you might think that,” I muttered. I was not about to defend God knows whoever had come before me.
“So, the outfit is thinking about moving us around, are they?” Herman asked.
“Deployment might be an outcome,” I responded. “It is, however, not a certainty,”
“Because most of us are quite settled here,” Herman said.
This came as a surprise to me. I had just spent three days in Sioux Lookout in January. This was the first time in my life I had found myself north of Richmond Hill. There was endless, drifting, fine snow in a depressing darkness that gave way a mid-day, gray gloom. Only the two restaurants and the pool hall bothered to light their signs. None of the buildings exceeded two stories. I missed Toronto. Deprived of light, I was depressed beyond mere words. I believed that no human should live like this.
“Shit. I been all over the place and I thought I was finally going to settle down,” Herman continued.
“Have you ever spent time in southern Ontario?” I asked.
“Oh yah,” said Herman. “I hated it down east. Spent most of my time in a car, for God’s sake. Can you imagine? A Conservation Officer in a car? But then, I was born and raised in the Inter-Lakes of Manitoba, eh.”
“Well,” I said, “moving is not a foregone conclusion. I would assume the present organization has some rationality, if only through evolution.”
“Uh, I guess,” said Herman. “It has taken us a good while to get to where we are at, and at times we still need more people here than we got. Do you know how big this district is?”
“I was going to get to that,” I said. “But let me ask you a set of questions in an order my company likes to ask them. It will keep me on track.”
“Sure,” said Herman.
The matter of how big a district was, was nowhere in my line of questions. The company had assumed that all organizational units were much the same. I had just spotted a map behind Herman which outlined Lands and Forests districts in the Province of Ontario. They were anything but equal in size. Sioux Lookout District was enormous.
“Er, how big is this district?” I asked.
“One-hundred and ten thousand square miles,” Herman said. “But, that isn’t the whole picture.” Because we have pilots and year-round aircraft, we service part of the next two districts to the east. We also have trappers we have to maintain contact with living in Shamattawa, Manitoba. We go from below the Trans-Canada Highway to the Hudson’s Bay coast,” said Herman. “We provide services to people in Fort Severn and Winisk on the coast, Fort Hope and Lansdowne House over here in the east, then Kasabonika and Big Trout and Cat Lake here in the middle, and Pikangikum, Sandy Lake and Shamattawa on the west side. I’m talking mostly about trapping, goose camps, and commercial fishing, and stuff like that. We are able to drive to places only in the southern tenth of the district.”
The area he was outlining on the map was bigger than most countries. It had more lakes than land. With some hesitation, I returned to the order of questions set out by the company.
“Tell me Herman, what does a Wildlife Management Officer do?”
“Um, I haven’t seen my job spec for some time. I don’t know if it is up-to-date.”
“That is what this exercise is all about,” I said. “Just tell me in your own words what you do, say in a typical year.”
“We keep track of the fur harvest by species and in late spring make recommendations on trapping regulations for the next year. We can do this because every piece of fur that is sold is recorded as to where it came from and where it goes. In late summer, we visit all the sealing officers in all those communities I just told you about. They place seals on the pelts before they are sold, mostly to the Hudson’s Bay Company or the North Bay fur auction. There are some other dealers but not many any more. I may also visit each of the communities again in the winter to take care of any problems, all of it depending on the availability of aircraft and flying weather.”
“In between times, I deal with the Feds in developing resource programs with the native communities, like the goose hunting camps on the coast at Winisk and Fort Severn. I may give a hand to the Fisheries Management Officers in test netting some lakes, because I know the people in the communities, or I help the biologists in their projects like the moose and caribou aerial surveys. Every few years I help the Research people with polar bear surveys.”
“There are two Wildlife Management Officers here, according to the organization chart,” I observed. “Where is the other one?”
“He is down in Thunder Bay, drying out again,” said Herman.
“Seems like a lot to do for one person,” I said.
“With two biologists, our supervisor and two fisheries management officers, we can make do for a while,” said Herman. “But, it is getting a bit much. The other guy has been essentially gone from the job for four years. You send him on a polar bear survey and he still manages to get absolutely pissed and stay that way for a week in a place like Fort Severn.”
“I thought someone who manages wildlife would have more to do with wildlife. Like, catching them and moving them around, and stuff like that,” I said.
“A few years ago we had a lot of that when we transplanted beaver back into the western part of the district,” said Herman. “But, we get extra people from Head Office and other districts if stuff like that happens.”
“Why did the beaver leave?” I asked. I know this was off-track, but I was beginning to find Herman’s wanderings interesting.
“They didn’t leave. The beaver died of tularemia. So did some of the trappers, and their wives and kids.”
I was shocked. How could this pristine place contain lurking death? Herman broke the sudden silence.
“The researchers told us that tularemia was always present in beaver populations, but for some reason, a strain developed that was particularly lethal, and it followed the water courses from the western part of our district, out the Nelson and Hay Rivers, and into the ocean. Before that, rabies came at us in the opposite direction from western Arctic to the east through the Arctic fox population. It affected the carnivores except the wolves. When it got to southern Ontario, it stayed in the red fox and skunk populations.”
“So, things happen here,” I said.
“Oh ya,” said Herman. “Never a dull moment.”
“Let’s get back to your job, Herman. You are a conservation officer, so I assume that you set quotas for trappers, for example, then prosecute them if they exceed the quotas.”
“Nope,” said Herman. “I haven’t laid a charge for a wildlife offence since I left the sunny south.”
“What do you do then?” I asked.
“I set the quotas but they are for guidance in this part of the world. It is a rough estimate of what the particular terrain of the trapline can sustain. We can’t hope to survey all traplines so it is based more than anything else on information the trapper gives us. But, the trapper knows that he has the trapline only as long as he, or he and his helpers, take care of it. They have been working on this system since the late 50’s and it works pretty well now. The trappers are committed to it. Our main problems are to get them to take their quotas and to prepare their pelts properly. It is hard work under hard conditions, and it takes skill and knowledge.”
“What if they don’t perform according to targets?” I asked.
“We try to bring in education sessions when they are needed and before the trappers get out onto their lines. We try to use other trappers as instructors because trappers tend to listen better to other trappers. I also keep in contact with the sealing officers and the local chiefs who know the trappers and why they might be having trouble. Changes in fur harvest are more likely to be affected by changes in welfare programs than natural conditions.”
“Herman, it seems that a lot of your work in wildlife management is very indirect.”
“Right! You got it. Most of it is people management. But the fur program is one of the places it really works well.”
“Herman, this is such an extensive area with so few people. How do you know that poaching isn’t going on?”
“Poaching fur was a hell of a problem in the old days, just after the second World War. It was so bad that people were shooting at each other. The Conservation Officers of that day were chasing illicit fur dealers on dog teams across the Manitoba border. There was a real concern that the resource, about twenty-one different species, was going to disappear. The management program we have now makes it impossible for anyone to market or export fur without some kind of licence. All the transactions are rationalized. In the twenty-five years we have had the system, all species except wolverine and badgers have recovered and are doing well – and we never had many of those two species to start with in Ontario.
“A lot of the tough old buggers who chased poachers by dog team are now supervisors, including mine. One or two of the poachers are now management officers.
Herman continued. “For the other species, people don’t move around in this country without being noticed. If someone is taking unfair advantage with, say, moose or caribou, someone else will resent it. We find out about things. Unfortunately, it isn’t always fresh information. We gotta work constantly to improve that”
“So, Herman, what do you do in the summer?”
“I go fishin’ a lot. Oh! You mean work-wise. Well, I help the biologists and the supervisor with annual reports and work estimates. We also meet with the other districts on our mutual programs. We meet with the Feds on resource development programs. We set the native sealing officers up for the fall season. We provide input on regulation changes. We set up the native goose camps for the snow and blue goose hunt, see that repairs are made to the facilities, recruit operators, and make sure the Mounties are going to have staff on site for each hunt. We have to make sure those Mounties know a goose from a duck and most of the time, we have to provide them with copies of their own Migratory Bird Convention Act and gently instruct them in its use. Also, the research people may want to do some polar bear work, and we help them.”
By this time, I had completely lost any methodical approach to the interview.
“My God, Herman, how did you ever come into such an interesting job?”
“I asked for it,” said Herman. “Actually, it was a really unusual situation, and I was the only one who applied for it.”
“There are Wildlife Management Officers in just about every district,” I said.
“This job began in Winisk,” Herman said, pointing to the end of the Winisk River as it emptied into Hudson’s Bay. “They were shutting down the Pine Tree Line, the line of radar stations south of the Dew Line, There were a lot of military people there all of a sudden, dismantling the place, and they needed one of us on-site to make sure no one took liberties with the local fish and wildlife resources. The local Cree Chief, Jonas Goose, asked for extra protection. So, I went there for a year, me and my new wife.”
“New wife?” Herman had done it again.
“Oh yes. Mary and I had just tied the knot. Of course she was from the inter-lake region too. Hard to get bushed anywhere else when you grow up in that part of the world. We were glad to see the end of the tour and get back to Sioux Lookout. But we were sorry in a way too. Even learned enough Cree to get by on. They really missed Mary. She was a nurse. She still writes to people up there.”
I marveled at this man. First, he had the nerve to take a new wife on a year-long honeymoon to the Hudson’s Bay coast. Then, they were both glad to get back to civilization, which they considered this town to be, smack in the middle of nowhere.
“I take it you are able to function without constant supervision?” Ah, I was back on track!
“Oh yes. That isn’t unusual up here.”
“But, you are in constant contact by radio if you need guidance or assistance, I take it?”
“Not really,” Herman said. “The best radio we have has a range of about fifty miles, early in the morning, if you can find a tree tall enough to throw the aerial wire up into. And there are no tall trees on the coast. Also, most of the communities are a hell of a lot further than fifty miles away from here. The village priest at Winisk had a radio telephone that works sometimes.”
“Herman, how can they have put a level four technician into a job that had no direct contact with supervision? It’s unheard of.”
“Not in this country. Incidentally, I was level-three at the time. I’d be happy to consider retroactive pay, though,” Herman said with his now familiar grin.
“You look like you are getting ready to go on another trip,” I said. There was a large eiderdown sleeping bag in a duffel in the corner, a couple of cardboard boxes, and a backpack lying on the floor behind his desk.”
“Yes,” said Herman. “The Chief at Fort Severn wants a meeting over the operation of the goose camp last fall. He’s got a problem with some villagers who resent the privileges that have been given to the operator of the camp, who happens to be one of them, and they picked him. Now something has gone wrong, after we spent about $20,000 to train the guy, and they want a change. On the way, I’ll stop at Big Trout Lake to check in with the chief there, and to give some orders for mukluks to Elsie MacDuff, who happens to make the best moosehide mukluks in the country. Elsie is also our sealing officer at Big Trout. I’ll make a side trip to Kasabonika to find out why some trappers are not trapping yet this winter. They get all tied up in religious issues in that village from time to time. Last time I was there the religious leader had led his group out of the village and they were living in teepees for God’s sake. He said that God had told him to do it.
“I may drop in a Fort Hope on the way back if we aren’t delayed by weather anywhere, just to see if there is any gossip of value from Father Ouimet. Before I go I’ll get the latest prices from the fur auction, just to let the sealing officers know so they can pass this information on to the trappers. Also, the pilot I am flying with wants to look at the site of a recent plane crash on Sachigo Lake. A guy we both know flew a commercial Twin Beech right into the lake during a whiteout. He walked away from it.”
“Herman,” I said, “I am going to have to restructure my interview notes and extend my stay. It’s four-thirty now. Do you have time for a beer?” ---30---
by Doug Hagan
Note to file: Sioux Lookout, Ontario, January 5th, 1965: I am about to conduct my first interview for Ontario Government contract 59X – 66 – Position Audits. The subject is one Herman Boyko, whose title is, “Wildlife Management Officer, Classification CO4.” The location is the Fish and Wildlife Office which occupies the second floor over the home and place of business of the town’s only jeweler.
“Mr. Boyko…”
“Might as well call me, ‘Herman.’”
“Herman,” I continued, “As you know, my company is conducting position audits within the Department of Lands and Forests throughout the province. It is perceived that written job descriptions are mostly out-of-date or poorly done. They are not particularly useful when it comes to making decisions on staff deployment and allocation. As a result, my company has been contracted to analyze actual key duties being performed by various positions and we will provide the government with descriptors which will assist in rationalizing the current organization. Do you understand?”
“No,” said Herman. “But I rarely do understand what contractors do. Most of the time they ask us what we already know so they can write a report about what is already obvious. Or, they screw it up completely.”
I looked up from my notepad, expecting to detect malice. Herman was grinning.
“Ah…well..yes. I see where you might think that,” I muttered. I was not about to defend God knows whoever had come before me.
“So, the outfit is thinking about moving us around, are they?” Herman asked.
“Deployment might be an outcome,” I responded. “It is, however, not a certainty,”
“Because most of us are quite settled here,” Herman said.
This came as a surprise to me. I had just spent three days in Sioux Lookout in January. This was the first time in my life I had found myself north of Richmond Hill. There was endless, drifting, fine snow in a depressing darkness that gave way a mid-day, gray gloom. Only the two restaurants and the pool hall bothered to light their signs. None of the buildings exceeded two stories. I missed Toronto. Deprived of light, I was depressed beyond mere words. I believed that no human should live like this.
“Shit. I been all over the place and I thought I was finally going to settle down,” Herman continued.
“Have you ever spent time in southern Ontario?” I asked.
“Oh yah,” said Herman. “I hated it down east. Spent most of my time in a car, for God’s sake. Can you imagine? A Conservation Officer in a car? But then, I was born and raised in the Inter-Lakes of Manitoba, eh.”
“Well,” I said, “moving is not a foregone conclusion. I would assume the present organization has some rationality, if only through evolution.”
“Uh, I guess,” said Herman. “It has taken us a good while to get to where we are at, and at times we still need more people here than we got. Do you know how big this district is?”
“I was going to get to that,” I said. “But let me ask you a set of questions in an order my company likes to ask them. It will keep me on track.”
“Sure,” said Herman.
The matter of how big a district was, was nowhere in my line of questions. The company had assumed that all organizational units were much the same. I had just spotted a map behind Herman which outlined Lands and Forests districts in the Province of Ontario. They were anything but equal in size. Sioux Lookout District was enormous.
“Er, how big is this district?” I asked.
“One-hundred and ten thousand square miles,” Herman said. “But, that isn’t the whole picture.” Because we have pilots and year-round aircraft, we service part of the next two districts to the east. We also have trappers we have to maintain contact with living in Shamattawa, Manitoba. We go from below the Trans-Canada Highway to the Hudson’s Bay coast,” said Herman. “We provide services to people in Fort Severn and Winisk on the coast, Fort Hope and Lansdowne House over here in the east, then Kasabonika and Big Trout and Cat Lake here in the middle, and Pikangikum, Sandy Lake and Shamattawa on the west side. I’m talking mostly about trapping, goose camps, and commercial fishing, and stuff like that. We are able to drive to places only in the southern tenth of the district.”
The area he was outlining on the map was bigger than most countries. It had more lakes than land. With some hesitation, I returned to the order of questions set out by the company.
“Tell me Herman, what does a Wildlife Management Officer do?”
“Um, I haven’t seen my job spec for some time. I don’t know if it is up-to-date.”
“That is what this exercise is all about,” I said. “Just tell me in your own words what you do, say in a typical year.”
“We keep track of the fur harvest by species and in late spring make recommendations on trapping regulations for the next year. We can do this because every piece of fur that is sold is recorded as to where it came from and where it goes. In late summer, we visit all the sealing officers in all those communities I just told you about. They place seals on the pelts before they are sold, mostly to the Hudson’s Bay Company or the North Bay fur auction. There are some other dealers but not many any more. I may also visit each of the communities again in the winter to take care of any problems, all of it depending on the availability of aircraft and flying weather.”
“In between times, I deal with the Feds in developing resource programs with the native communities, like the goose hunting camps on the coast at Winisk and Fort Severn. I may give a hand to the Fisheries Management Officers in test netting some lakes, because I know the people in the communities, or I help the biologists in their projects like the moose and caribou aerial surveys. Every few years I help the Research people with polar bear surveys.”
“There are two Wildlife Management Officers here, according to the organization chart,” I observed. “Where is the other one?”
“He is down in Thunder Bay, drying out again,” said Herman.
“Seems like a lot to do for one person,” I said.
“With two biologists, our supervisor and two fisheries management officers, we can make do for a while,” said Herman. “But, it is getting a bit much. The other guy has been essentially gone from the job for four years. You send him on a polar bear survey and he still manages to get absolutely pissed and stay that way for a week in a place like Fort Severn.”
“I thought someone who manages wildlife would have more to do with wildlife. Like, catching them and moving them around, and stuff like that,” I said.
“A few years ago we had a lot of that when we transplanted beaver back into the western part of the district,” said Herman. “But, we get extra people from Head Office and other districts if stuff like that happens.”
“Why did the beaver leave?” I asked. I know this was off-track, but I was beginning to find Herman’s wanderings interesting.
“They didn’t leave. The beaver died of tularemia. So did some of the trappers, and their wives and kids.”
I was shocked. How could this pristine place contain lurking death? Herman broke the sudden silence.
“The researchers told us that tularemia was always present in beaver populations, but for some reason, a strain developed that was particularly lethal, and it followed the water courses from the western part of our district, out the Nelson and Hay Rivers, and into the ocean. Before that, rabies came at us in the opposite direction from western Arctic to the east through the Arctic fox population. It affected the carnivores except the wolves. When it got to southern Ontario, it stayed in the red fox and skunk populations.”
“So, things happen here,” I said.
“Oh ya,” said Herman. “Never a dull moment.”
“Let’s get back to your job, Herman. You are a conservation officer, so I assume that you set quotas for trappers, for example, then prosecute them if they exceed the quotas.”
“Nope,” said Herman. “I haven’t laid a charge for a wildlife offence since I left the sunny south.”
“What do you do then?” I asked.
“I set the quotas but they are for guidance in this part of the world. It is a rough estimate of what the particular terrain of the trapline can sustain. We can’t hope to survey all traplines so it is based more than anything else on information the trapper gives us. But, the trapper knows that he has the trapline only as long as he, or he and his helpers, take care of it. They have been working on this system since the late 50’s and it works pretty well now. The trappers are committed to it. Our main problems are to get them to take their quotas and to prepare their pelts properly. It is hard work under hard conditions, and it takes skill and knowledge.”
“What if they don’t perform according to targets?” I asked.
“We try to bring in education sessions when they are needed and before the trappers get out onto their lines. We try to use other trappers as instructors because trappers tend to listen better to other trappers. I also keep in contact with the sealing officers and the local chiefs who know the trappers and why they might be having trouble. Changes in fur harvest are more likely to be affected by changes in welfare programs than natural conditions.”
“Herman, it seems that a lot of your work in wildlife management is very indirect.”
“Right! You got it. Most of it is people management. But the fur program is one of the places it really works well.”
“Herman, this is such an extensive area with so few people. How do you know that poaching isn’t going on?”
“Poaching fur was a hell of a problem in the old days, just after the second World War. It was so bad that people were shooting at each other. The Conservation Officers of that day were chasing illicit fur dealers on dog teams across the Manitoba border. There was a real concern that the resource, about twenty-one different species, was going to disappear. The management program we have now makes it impossible for anyone to market or export fur without some kind of licence. All the transactions are rationalized. In the twenty-five years we have had the system, all species except wolverine and badgers have recovered and are doing well – and we never had many of those two species to start with in Ontario.
“A lot of the tough old buggers who chased poachers by dog team are now supervisors, including mine. One or two of the poachers are now management officers.
Herman continued. “For the other species, people don’t move around in this country without being noticed. If someone is taking unfair advantage with, say, moose or caribou, someone else will resent it. We find out about things. Unfortunately, it isn’t always fresh information. We gotta work constantly to improve that”
“So, Herman, what do you do in the summer?”
“I go fishin’ a lot. Oh! You mean work-wise. Well, I help the biologists and the supervisor with annual reports and work estimates. We also meet with the other districts on our mutual programs. We meet with the Feds on resource development programs. We set the native sealing officers up for the fall season. We provide input on regulation changes. We set up the native goose camps for the snow and blue goose hunt, see that repairs are made to the facilities, recruit operators, and make sure the Mounties are going to have staff on site for each hunt. We have to make sure those Mounties know a goose from a duck and most of the time, we have to provide them with copies of their own Migratory Bird Convention Act and gently instruct them in its use. Also, the research people may want to do some polar bear work, and we help them.”
By this time, I had completely lost any methodical approach to the interview.
“My God, Herman, how did you ever come into such an interesting job?”
“I asked for it,” said Herman. “Actually, it was a really unusual situation, and I was the only one who applied for it.”
“There are Wildlife Management Officers in just about every district,” I said.
“This job began in Winisk,” Herman said, pointing to the end of the Winisk River as it emptied into Hudson’s Bay. “They were shutting down the Pine Tree Line, the line of radar stations south of the Dew Line, There were a lot of military people there all of a sudden, dismantling the place, and they needed one of us on-site to make sure no one took liberties with the local fish and wildlife resources. The local Cree Chief, Jonas Goose, asked for extra protection. So, I went there for a year, me and my new wife.”
“New wife?” Herman had done it again.
“Oh yes. Mary and I had just tied the knot. Of course she was from the inter-lake region too. Hard to get bushed anywhere else when you grow up in that part of the world. We were glad to see the end of the tour and get back to Sioux Lookout. But we were sorry in a way too. Even learned enough Cree to get by on. They really missed Mary. She was a nurse. She still writes to people up there.”
I marveled at this man. First, he had the nerve to take a new wife on a year-long honeymoon to the Hudson’s Bay coast. Then, they were both glad to get back to civilization, which they considered this town to be, smack in the middle of nowhere.
“I take it you are able to function without constant supervision?” Ah, I was back on track!
“Oh yes. That isn’t unusual up here.”
“But, you are in constant contact by radio if you need guidance or assistance, I take it?”
“Not really,” Herman said. “The best radio we have has a range of about fifty miles, early in the morning, if you can find a tree tall enough to throw the aerial wire up into. And there are no tall trees on the coast. Also, most of the communities are a hell of a lot further than fifty miles away from here. The village priest at Winisk had a radio telephone that works sometimes.”
“Herman, how can they have put a level four technician into a job that had no direct contact with supervision? It’s unheard of.”
“Not in this country. Incidentally, I was level-three at the time. I’d be happy to consider retroactive pay, though,” Herman said with his now familiar grin.
“You look like you are getting ready to go on another trip,” I said. There was a large eiderdown sleeping bag in a duffel in the corner, a couple of cardboard boxes, and a backpack lying on the floor behind his desk.”
“Yes,” said Herman. “The Chief at Fort Severn wants a meeting over the operation of the goose camp last fall. He’s got a problem with some villagers who resent the privileges that have been given to the operator of the camp, who happens to be one of them, and they picked him. Now something has gone wrong, after we spent about $20,000 to train the guy, and they want a change. On the way, I’ll stop at Big Trout Lake to check in with the chief there, and to give some orders for mukluks to Elsie MacDuff, who happens to make the best moosehide mukluks in the country. Elsie is also our sealing officer at Big Trout. I’ll make a side trip to Kasabonika to find out why some trappers are not trapping yet this winter. They get all tied up in religious issues in that village from time to time. Last time I was there the religious leader had led his group out of the village and they were living in teepees for God’s sake. He said that God had told him to do it.
“I may drop in a Fort Hope on the way back if we aren’t delayed by weather anywhere, just to see if there is any gossip of value from Father Ouimet. Before I go I’ll get the latest prices from the fur auction, just to let the sealing officers know so they can pass this information on to the trappers. Also, the pilot I am flying with wants to look at the site of a recent plane crash on Sachigo Lake. A guy we both know flew a commercial Twin Beech right into the lake during a whiteout. He walked away from it.”
“Herman,” I said, “I am going to have to restructure my interview notes and extend my stay. It’s four-thirty now. Do you have time for a beer?” ---30---
Stories by Tom Muskett
Just so We Understand one another....
written by Tom for Qwerty
"Let me see now, you want work that's engaging and gives you worklife balance as I understand it?" asked the company's personnel officer, speaking to one of 47 applicants from Gen Y for the exploration job at the mining company.
"Well, yes, that would be part of it,"Peter the applicant replied nervously. "Many Generation Y workers struggle to find contentment in the workplace and at the same time, many businesses are having a tough time retaining Generation Y workers."
Studies have also shown, Peter continued bravely "that people under 35-years-old are the least engaged or involved in the workplace which means, I think you'll agree, that businesses need new tools to successfully engage and retain younger employees."
The personnel officer listened and nodded -- a sign he understood what he was hearing -- it was only polite to do so, although he did have some mixed feelings to put it mildly, about beng somehow obliged to make Generation Y workers feel more welcome and appreciated in the workplace. He was of the boomer generation, and was unable to recall anybody in the outfit showing much concern for his state of mind in the previous 28 years of his worklife.
" Just so we understand one another," he said to the candidate, "you know about supply and demand I presume, being well educated as you are, which means that you see employees today more or less being diamonds in scarce supply and in a strong position as a result of that, to negotiate their working conditions with employers who you see as struggling to find the people their workplaces demand?"
Peter, sitting in the chair cross the table indicated his concurrence and explained that he was born in the mid-1980's and was one of 70 million Generation Y "Millennials, " the fastest growing segment of today’s workforce. He said he was of the view that employers today must compete for available talent and cannot ignore the needs, desires and attitudes of this vast generation.
The P.O. controlled himself and continued listening, asking Peter to describe more of Gen Y's expectations.
"We're the tech-savvy generation that grew up with technology and who rely on it to perform our jobs better. With BlackBerrys, laptops, cellphones and other gadgets, we're plugged-in 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; we prefer to communicate through e-mail and text messaging rather than face-to-face and we prefer webinars and online technology to traditional presentations that boil down to being just lectures."
"We are also family-centric," he ventured. "The fast-track has lost much of its appeal for Generation Y who are willing to trade high pay for fewer hours, flexible schedules and a better worklife balance. We appreciate that older generations may view this attitude as narcissistic or lacking commitment, discipline and drive, but Gen Y professionals have a different vision of workplace expectations and prioritize family over work."
"We are ahievement-oriented," Peter continued. " Generation Y is confident, ambitious and achievement-oriented. We have high expectations of our employers, we seek out new challenges and are not afraid to question authority. Generation Y wants meaningful work and a solid learning curve."
We are "also team- oriented," he added. As children, Gen Y kids participated in team sports and play groups -- we value teamwork and seek the input and affirmation of others. Part of a no-person-left-behind generation, Gen Y are loyal, committed and want to be included and involved."
Some say we crave attention in the form of feedback and guidance, he said and "that we appreciate being kept in the loop and seek frequent praise and reassurance and expect to benefit from mentors who can help guide and develop us in our young careers."
The P.O. wondered where to start. Time to let Peter know, he thought, about the nature of the job and somehow impart to him (without sounding harsh) that if the job didn't meet his Gen Y requirements, there were 46 others behind him who just might feel a little less in the driver's seat.
"If you're hired Peter, your first assignment will be in Papua New Guinea in our camp at the north end of the island where you'll have 24 men reporting to you each day and you'll be expected to show progress toward establishing the new mine before year's end-- how does that sound?" Peter's face looked a little pale as he envisioned the working conditions.
"And as for communicating through e-mail and text messaging, there is no internet service in that part of Papua -- some technical reason or other -- , so it's the fax or the phone....you no doubt do remember those gadgets?"
Peter became quiet and his face slightly pale compared to when he first sat down.
"The job sounds great," he said.
And the P.O. smiled.
There'd be no need to interview the other 46 after all.
---- END
//////////////////next story:--//////////////////////////////////////
Welcome to
Quotes Café
“So, what are you drinking?”
Ernie the barkeep knows everybody at Quotes – it’s a new place that always seems to draw a number of students and professors from the nearby university. This night was typical – the educated ones demonstrating their stuff for the sheer fun of it. They top one another as sport.
“Where are we going, and why am I in this handbasket?" one of the gang said.
“Who is famous for having said that?”
“It was on a bumper sticker down the street.”
“Well,” said another patron, since we’re into the metaphysical how about something Carl Sagan once said?
“ And that was?”
"If you want to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe." He got a good laugh from the table next to him.
“Then there’s Aldous Huxley and his observation.
“And what did Mr. Huxley have to say?”
"Maybe this world is another planet's Hell.”
“Well, for my part,” said one of the professors, “ I prefer those who travel closer to the ground than Huxley and Sagan. Like Mario Andretti.”
“Andretti the car racer man? He said?”
"If everything seems under control, you're just not going fast enough,” was the reply, the prof winking to the audience across the table from him.
“Hey I like that one-- good on Andretti!
Some philosopher!”
“Wait until it is night before saying that it has been a fine day,”.says an old French proverb.”
The remark came from one of the younger students new to the Quotes scene.
“And then there was the old French man Jean Paul Sartre.”
“And what did that existentialist have to tell us?”
"Everything has been figured out, except how to live.”
“I prefer the Chinese when it comes to proverbs on living.”
“Give us a taste.”
“If you must bow at all, bow low.” “Great – try us with another one if you can!.”
“When you drink the water, remember the spring.”
“Great! More, more!”
“To know the road ahead, ask those coming back. “
“Give me the Japanese for proverbs anytime,” one of the guys sitting near the kitchen said. ”
“Such as?”
“Fall seven times, stand up eight.”
One of those assembled at the bar felt it was time to offer quotes of a more personal nature -- on such topics as love and life.
“So what have you to tell us?”
“Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke – something said by Lynda Barry.”
How about some words from Oscar Wilde? He was always rather ascerbic?”
“Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes,” said a young English lit professor.
“Anything else of his come to mind?”
"It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating."
“Good –we like that one!
“Is anyone around in need of a drink other than me?” said Ernie the bartender. To which half a dozen pushed their empty glasses forward signaling time for a refill.
“I like what Henry Kissinger had to say.”
“Such as?”
“The nice thing about being a celebrity is that if you bore people they think it's their fault."
“Give me Charles Schulz from Peanuts instead! Charlie Brown said that nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.”
There was a moment of silence while everyone laughed and enjoyed their drinks. Then one of the group said she recalled a quote from Marlene Dietrich.
“It's the friends you can call up at four a.m. that matter,” she said.
“Give me some Truman Capote instead –anyone?”
“Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.--- that;s
by Capote himself.!”
“I like Ingrid Bergman better.”
“And what did she have to add to the party?”
“She said that happiness is good health and a bad memory.”
“I prefer Ernest Hemingway – his advice was to write drunk; edit sober.”
“Give me Chesterton anytime over him. “Art, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere—now that’s old G.K. at his best.”
“Hey, we’re missing the hockey game! Ernie, give us a break! Quick--Turn on TSN!”
written by Tom for Qwerty
"Let me see now, you want work that's engaging and gives you worklife balance as I understand it?" asked the company's personnel officer, speaking to one of 47 applicants from Gen Y for the exploration job at the mining company.
"Well, yes, that would be part of it,"Peter the applicant replied nervously. "Many Generation Y workers struggle to find contentment in the workplace and at the same time, many businesses are having a tough time retaining Generation Y workers."
Studies have also shown, Peter continued bravely "that people under 35-years-old are the least engaged or involved in the workplace which means, I think you'll agree, that businesses need new tools to successfully engage and retain younger employees."
The personnel officer listened and nodded -- a sign he understood what he was hearing -- it was only polite to do so, although he did have some mixed feelings to put it mildly, about beng somehow obliged to make Generation Y workers feel more welcome and appreciated in the workplace. He was of the boomer generation, and was unable to recall anybody in the outfit showing much concern for his state of mind in the previous 28 years of his worklife.
" Just so we understand one another," he said to the candidate, "you know about supply and demand I presume, being well educated as you are, which means that you see employees today more or less being diamonds in scarce supply and in a strong position as a result of that, to negotiate their working conditions with employers who you see as struggling to find the people their workplaces demand?"
Peter, sitting in the chair cross the table indicated his concurrence and explained that he was born in the mid-1980's and was one of 70 million Generation Y "Millennials, " the fastest growing segment of today’s workforce. He said he was of the view that employers today must compete for available talent and cannot ignore the needs, desires and attitudes of this vast generation.
The P.O. controlled himself and continued listening, asking Peter to describe more of Gen Y's expectations.
"We're the tech-savvy generation that grew up with technology and who rely on it to perform our jobs better. With BlackBerrys, laptops, cellphones and other gadgets, we're plugged-in 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; we prefer to communicate through e-mail and text messaging rather than face-to-face and we prefer webinars and online technology to traditional presentations that boil down to being just lectures."
"We are also family-centric," he ventured. "The fast-track has lost much of its appeal for Generation Y who are willing to trade high pay for fewer hours, flexible schedules and a better worklife balance. We appreciate that older generations may view this attitude as narcissistic or lacking commitment, discipline and drive, but Gen Y professionals have a different vision of workplace expectations and prioritize family over work."
"We are ahievement-oriented," Peter continued. " Generation Y is confident, ambitious and achievement-oriented. We have high expectations of our employers, we seek out new challenges and are not afraid to question authority. Generation Y wants meaningful work and a solid learning curve."
We are "also team- oriented," he added. As children, Gen Y kids participated in team sports and play groups -- we value teamwork and seek the input and affirmation of others. Part of a no-person-left-behind generation, Gen Y are loyal, committed and want to be included and involved."
Some say we crave attention in the form of feedback and guidance, he said and "that we appreciate being kept in the loop and seek frequent praise and reassurance and expect to benefit from mentors who can help guide and develop us in our young careers."
The P.O. wondered where to start. Time to let Peter know, he thought, about the nature of the job and somehow impart to him (without sounding harsh) that if the job didn't meet his Gen Y requirements, there were 46 others behind him who just might feel a little less in the driver's seat.
"If you're hired Peter, your first assignment will be in Papua New Guinea in our camp at the north end of the island where you'll have 24 men reporting to you each day and you'll be expected to show progress toward establishing the new mine before year's end-- how does that sound?" Peter's face looked a little pale as he envisioned the working conditions.
"And as for communicating through e-mail and text messaging, there is no internet service in that part of Papua -- some technical reason or other -- , so it's the fax or the phone....you no doubt do remember those gadgets?"
Peter became quiet and his face slightly pale compared to when he first sat down.
"The job sounds great," he said.
And the P.O. smiled.
There'd be no need to interview the other 46 after all.
---- END
//////////////////next story:--//////////////////////////////////////
Welcome to
Quotes Café
“So, what are you drinking?”
Ernie the barkeep knows everybody at Quotes – it’s a new place that always seems to draw a number of students and professors from the nearby university. This night was typical – the educated ones demonstrating their stuff for the sheer fun of it. They top one another as sport.
“Where are we going, and why am I in this handbasket?" one of the gang said.
“Who is famous for having said that?”
“It was on a bumper sticker down the street.”
“Well,” said another patron, since we’re into the metaphysical how about something Carl Sagan once said?
“ And that was?”
"If you want to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe." He got a good laugh from the table next to him.
“Then there’s Aldous Huxley and his observation.
“And what did Mr. Huxley have to say?”
"Maybe this world is another planet's Hell.”
“Well, for my part,” said one of the professors, “ I prefer those who travel closer to the ground than Huxley and Sagan. Like Mario Andretti.”
“Andretti the car racer man? He said?”
"If everything seems under control, you're just not going fast enough,” was the reply, the prof winking to the audience across the table from him.
“Hey I like that one-- good on Andretti!
Some philosopher!”
“Wait until it is night before saying that it has been a fine day,”.says an old French proverb.”
The remark came from one of the younger students new to the Quotes scene.
“And then there was the old French man Jean Paul Sartre.”
“And what did that existentialist have to tell us?”
"Everything has been figured out, except how to live.”
“I prefer the Chinese when it comes to proverbs on living.”
“Give us a taste.”
“If you must bow at all, bow low.” “Great – try us with another one if you can!.”
“When you drink the water, remember the spring.”
“Great! More, more!”
“To know the road ahead, ask those coming back. “
“Give me the Japanese for proverbs anytime,” one of the guys sitting near the kitchen said. ”
“Such as?”
“Fall seven times, stand up eight.”
One of those assembled at the bar felt it was time to offer quotes of a more personal nature -- on such topics as love and life.
“So what have you to tell us?”
“Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke – something said by Lynda Barry.”
How about some words from Oscar Wilde? He was always rather ascerbic?”
“Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes,” said a young English lit professor.
“Anything else of his come to mind?”
"It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating."
“Good –we like that one!
“Is anyone around in need of a drink other than me?” said Ernie the bartender. To which half a dozen pushed their empty glasses forward signaling time for a refill.
“I like what Henry Kissinger had to say.”
“Such as?”
“The nice thing about being a celebrity is that if you bore people they think it's their fault."
“Give me Charles Schulz from Peanuts instead! Charlie Brown said that nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.”
There was a moment of silence while everyone laughed and enjoyed their drinks. Then one of the group said she recalled a quote from Marlene Dietrich.
“It's the friends you can call up at four a.m. that matter,” she said.
“Give me some Truman Capote instead –anyone?”
“Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.--- that;s
by Capote himself.!”
“I like Ingrid Bergman better.”
“And what did she have to add to the party?”
“She said that happiness is good health and a bad memory.”
“I prefer Ernest Hemingway – his advice was to write drunk; edit sober.”
“Give me Chesterton anytime over him. “Art, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere—now that’s old G.K. at his best.”
“Hey, we’re missing the hockey game! Ernie, give us a break! Quick--Turn on TSN!”
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