TubaOrNotTuba

If you’re looking for a good movie to watch let me recommend something that played here yesterday. One of those movies that would have been made. Before, in the middle of the last century. But this was a remake. Something, with name talent from Hollywood. Reflecting a period gone by. The movie was Marlowe, starring Liam Neeson. And from what I can tell, they hit the mark. I am basing my report purely upon what I heard. Others have mentioned that things were good on all counts. I was intrigued by the quality of the music. If I had a chance to play in a band that good, I would be proud. The percussion was flawless. And I am not referring to the gunshots. At no point did my attention lag? Sure. I was working overtime to try and figure out what was actually going on. But it was based upon one of those standards from before the Second World War, so I could guess a lot of the details. To be sure, this was a crime story. I am not sure about what the crime actually was, or who actually did it? Remember, I was listening. I only wish I could imitate the detail that they drummers provided. There had to be more than one of them. I say that. Based upon my own experience. No matter how adept you think you are with the sticks, you cannot do everything. Anyhow, this is a movie that I will probably want to rewatch. Again and again. Each time, I will pull a little more of the details or the fog. And yes, there were other instruments. My attention stayed with the drummers. They knew what they were doing. I am unsure  how many. Different books are included in the Marlowe library (Philip Marlowe). But if they do another film from that set, I want to add it to my watch list. Not because of the story, but because of the action.

Earlier this week I received a message that my house had burned down. Not my current house. Rather an apartment building that I had lived in back in the early 1960s. A long time ago but I remembered the building well. At least parts of the building. I can destroyed many features and tell you about the various stairs but for some reason I have no memory of the bathroom. The one room in a house that I would have used every single day. Just a blank spot. Memory is in constant. Perhaps next week I will have total recall our building that no longer exists. Or maybe not. I’m one of those people that can tell you every place I’ve ever lived. I am a resource for my siblings. At least, I think so. Given that the building is now in ruins I will not be going back to fact check. And given that the building contained apartments, I have little faith in my ability to find images from whatever. People do not stay in apartment buildings for their whole life usually. I do know that living there must have affected my family because they avoided apartment buildings thereafter. Seriously, my mother never lived in another apartment building. Odd because we did not become suddenly rich enough to own homes. We always found rental houses until such time as we bought the one that my family still owns. I wonder what happened in that building. What changed the way my family regarded potential houses. At least it did not burn down while we lived there so that is a blessing. My very first home has been gone for many decades because it burned down after we had moved out. Going forward, I hope this house will resist as well. I rather liked the idea of descendants stopping by decades from now to say that’s where my grand father lived. The story of blog posts and family discussions.

I am trying to master a new skill. That is. Letting auto punctuation. Turn my magic words into magic text. It’s working when you pause it. A bit of a mystery. But then, so are many things in my life. I tried. And they failed. And I tried again. Like learning to ride a bike? So be it. Right now I’m watching videos. From Newfoundland. Learning about the different places that people walk on trails. No big plan in mind, I just want to know more. I have some trepidation. Based on previous experience. Our last time in Newfoundland that we went out walking. We came to the edge of a cliff in the fog. It was only the change in sound. They gave us a cue that something was different. And wisely, we halted. We were on the edge of a very high drop to the ocean. So you can see why I am more willing to take my time going forward. It seems that the trails in Newfoundland are rugged. In keeping with the rocks, I guess. I want to find out more. The videos are deceiving because I no longer see as much. If the narration is up to snuff. I have a pretty good idea of what they’re doing. But otherwise. Some days are just gray. There’s nothing to do with the fog. Take it from me, I will not be going on a bicycle tour anytime soon. That can be very challenging. Right now, we’re into a rainy period. My trip out to bring the bin to the road was enough to awaken one. A cold shower, if you will. Last evening, I had food from a community kitchen. The food was good. Although I do not know, the who or the why? But there was lemon pie. I should point out. The people who prepare meals for others are almost like angels. And that goes for my own meals. However, community kitchens still like to push bread. Apparently this is a holiday weekend. I mean. No sign from outside. But I do try to check the calendar from time to time. I do not want to be surprised. At least, not more than I already am. We are less then three months from the onset of summer. Tourists. And tourism? For those that can or will. I have not made any travel plans yet. Because that can be done. Rapidly. Still waiting to hear. If members of my family are coming by. I would hate for them to arrive to an empty house.

My high school was by my calculations large. After all, we had more than 1200 students; a small town in itself. We did everything there: mass, gym, cafeteria and sessions standing around by our lockers. It was our place. The only problem was that we had to, from time to time, write examinations that required a minimum of study. The school actually scheduled time for us to stay at home and crack the books. Some of us however, had better ideas. We could go to school, hang out with friends and study, assuming of course that we could find a quiet place to sit. Not in the classrooms and not in the cafeteria where people went to play cards and make noise; instead a small group of us discovered a stairwell leading to a machine room off the beaten track highly uncomfortable but it was our place. We kept it secret and at regular intervals we would go there to review all the material we thought might be on our exam papers. Important things like verb declension and obscure chemical formulas. Did you know that H2O makes water. Anyhow, I wonder who took our place when we left. No way to tell because the whole school has been demolished. It was a long time ago and for those that wonder; knowing how to decline a verb in Latin turned out to be inconsequential for my life. But back to the stairwell, we could be there for hours at a time as long as we remained quiet. The number of actual workers in the school could be counted on the fingers of one hand. They had no reason to go there. The school would ring its bells just like on an ordinary day so we knew when it was time to go home. Few of us had watches. Did I study much? No, I like most people of my generation, knew it all and besides no one ever failed. We could always promise to our parents that next semester would be better. We would study the next time round and the teachers were just glad to get us through at the end of June, so they could begin the next intake of minds and bodies. I wonder if any photos of our secret stairwell ever made it into a yearbook, probably not. The people who did yearbooks studied at home.

After listening to a friendly discussion about the merits of being punctual I decided to take a few moments and reflect upon how my life has been ruled by the clock. For starters, I grew up in a railroading family. Every employee with a job of any importance carried a watch. An accurate watch. Each time you went into a station you checked your watch against the clock on the premises and you initialed an entry in a ledger that you had done so. The clock in the station received a Standard Time check from further up the line every day. The worst thing that can happen on a rail line is that two trains are in the same place at the same time and so the clock was always right. It carried over into real life schools, they started and finished at a given scheduled time. We even had the angelus bell to let us know when we could have lunch but that’s a whole other story. If you wanted to watch TV you had better know the when of a program otherwise you were out of luck. In sharp contrast for those living on the farm you received subtle signs that it was time to do things. The rooster crowing is a perfect case. If you were out to sea you depended on the tide. That tide times and daylight were on a changeable schedule would have driven me completely bonkers if that’s how my life had been controlled but that was not me. Instead I ended up choosing a lifestyle where there were clocks all around me and where even the times the bus would go by was important. I did not make the schedule but rather I lived by it. One soon realizes that not everyone has the same appreciation of punctuality. No sense fighting about such things but you can always provide example and the time check.

Going back through old memories there are always certain people who stand out. For all sorts of reasons. While I was at university we had a transfer student living in our hall. He spoke English. Not like us but more like you would hear if you were listening to the BBC. And had different budget rules. The rest of us lived on nickels Dimes and quarters but he lived on transfers from his grandparents. A seemingly bottomless pit of money. For example there was the car that came by ocean transport from England and was brought back to the Island by the lad and his friends. A classic road trip. He did not dress like the rest of us. I remember a cloak and a hat that came straight out of Sherlock Holmes. His mother had just bought an apartment and for the rest of us that seemed strange because we rented ours. He only stayed on campus for one year before moving on to greener fields. We had taken the time to ask how he ended up in our corner of the world and his answer was succinct. He wanted to live away from home but in a place that was sort of English so it shows one in a province named for royalty. It’s all what you know I guess. Anyhow it made for an interesting year. An introduction to things that weren’t just like at home for us. And I know he’s still out there somewhere. I think he became a university professor. If you read this Charlie let me say hello. You should come back and visit someday.

Today I turned to old TV shows. That place in history for anything was possible even if implausible. Specifically an episode of Sea Hunt. Let me set this up for you. We have a retired frogman working feeding the fish at a local attraction. Somewhere nearby an experimental jet plane crashes in the water. Within minutes a helicopter is on scene to pick up our skilled diver along with all his gear and an underwater voice system. A slate board that actually worked. Extra gear for the man they would rescue. Cutting torches in order to break through the canopy. I guess that hammers and crowbars had not been invented back in that time. At everything running across the screen counted on the clock. Things like he only has four more minutes of air as they take eight minutes to set up the scene. Of course the wreck was located quickly and with that torch he was able to cut a very accurate hole in the side of the fuselage of an experimental airplane to reach the lever that would release the canopy. You can’t make this stuff up. Within minutes all were safe on the surface along with the camera from inside the sunken jet, added a pair of baby shoes. I’ll have to think about that part. I have gone diving, nothing happens quickly. It can take you half an hour just to get dressed. But not on TV., the clock is always running in your favour, like finding something underwater and cutting an accurate hole in the side with a blowtorch. Did I mention this was all in black and white because they had not invented colour either. That wonderful time just after the Second World War when anything was possible. And the cool part is that they could wrap the whole thing up including commercials in under half an hour and get ready for the next episode. I’m sorry about that jet airplane it was too heavy to lift out of the water so it seems to have been abandoned. Maybe I should get some dive gear and go see if I can find it inside of a minute. Should be easy to recognize it. It has a very accurate hole on the side where that escape lever was available. Not to the pilot but to a diver who just happened by and found the plane. As I say, you can’t make this stuff up.

I have spent my life rescuing musical instruments. Orphans for the main part. It all started with a snare drum which is still around here on a shelf received as a gift from an uncle by marriage. While at university, I had a bugle. Not a trumpet but a bugle. With a serious air leak. Often ended up at football games serving as a noise maker for someone else. And then there was a day I rescued a recorder. A large, wood tenor recorder. I was waiting for a train, in Halifax and in a nearby window of a shop I saw my next treasure. Wouldn’t with all the pieces. I entered the shop checked some other items and then asked, nonchalantly, how much for that. The shopkeeper quoted a price and I responded that it was too much. He made the usual well, take it or leave it. And I actually had an answer. I pointed out the window to awaiting passenger train and I told him with a voice full of calm that I was going to leave on that next train, with or without the recorder. There are other instruments that have been rescued around the house. Or around other people’s houses. In particular a trumpet that was rescued piece by piece while I was at university with the help of a real instrument repair company the trumpet was restored to playing order. There are a couple of flutes that came into my hands from the surplus market end of violin purchased by my father when I was still a child. All still around all still in playing order because instruments deserve careful treatment. Am I through collecting? Probably. I no longer have the will to forage.

Some of my early jobs never made it to the point of being included on a resume. But, they were jobs nonetheless. At one point I was hired because I was punctual and polite. Also, I could read and use paper scissors. The local university like any large operation tries to keep track of what others are saying about it. And so I became the clipping service. Once a week I would show up at a small office take a place at the desk and sort out that week’s newspapers. From all across the province. Then I would read or skim until I found a mention of the university. I would clip it out and date it, carefully. I did not have to read them aloud. These would just go into a folder so that if ever the question came up there was no need to quote into the bins looking for old newspapers. It was a job at a time when jobs did not pay much but my costs of life were low. And I did have dreams. I imagine some point in future where that office would decide that I was the only person suitable for a full time roll. As a paper Clipper or whatever. That never happened but I did find other things to do for them that would keep me with regular pay. I took photographs at a time when that actually meant something. I would deliver newsletters to drop boxes around the campus. And I would do my own garbage pickup. A complete solution to a small problem. The experience did me well. I was able to make the connection between giving what people said about you substance. Small pieces of news print if you will. And I took it to heart that no mention is too small when you have to justify a large budget. Paying some kid to do cutouts made sense. A lifetime later I have no idea if the position ever became large or permanent. I had moved on to other things. But I remember the wind and the wear and then notice that even small mentions are important to some people.

Today I have a question without an answer. My question is whether or not I should spend time looking at where I’ve been or looking at where I would like to go. Sort of a finite versus infinite kind of equation. I know where I’ve been more or less asking where I would like to go is much more complicated. And what I am learning along the way is that even the places I’ve been still have things to show me period. Videos that replaces as if I have never been there. Mysteries. Even the simple things. I went on a virtual road trip to northern Newfoundland. If you had said to me have you ever been there, I would answer in the affirmative but what I see in these videos leaves me with a lot of unanswered questions. How did I miss so many attractions the last time around. Of course, some of the problem is that my last trip there was years ago and things evolve. As we look forward to the next travel season I will have to provide some input. Give some clues about what I would like to visit. Would I like to return to the rock? Indeed. Just because. And there are closer provinces that I can visit or revisit as the case may be. I realized that they only saw a small bit of what was available, on those other occasions. What will really happen is that I will take my place as a passenger and give only mild indications. The driver does not want to hear about the things I thought I saw in a video. She knows. I do not get all the details anymore.