Please, just tell me how much

This notice recently appeared in our laundry room. The words “pricing update” caught my eye. Darn, laundry’s going up, I thought. Better check this out.

Unfortunately, the text that follows the title is mainly promotional drivel. The cost will increase in “the next few weeks.” If our resident manager hadn’t kindly hand-written a posting date at the top of the notice, anyone back home after being away wouldn’t know when it went up. Short on useful information, the posting also shows a washing machine like the ones we had 10 years ago.

The new price? A “small increase to the overall cost of a wash and a dry.” Ok then, Coinamatic, is that your idea of “small” or mine? And will an increase apply to both washers and dryers?

When we still had coin-operated machines that accepted only quarters and loonies, price hikes had to be at least 25 cents for both washers and dryers, adding 50 cents to the “overall cost.” Now that we conveniently use cards instead of coins, might the increase be smaller? Ten cents “overall” sounds nice. I could handle a nickel more per wash/dry.

I doubt they’re planning such a small increase. But I digress from my main point: the notice’s shortcomings, as described above. Coinamatic, you can do better.

As I took the photo above, I imagined a conversation about it at the Coinamatic office in BC. Their head office is in Mississauga, Ontario, so the Richmond branch is probably small, with at most three staff. Mahmoud, the service technician, is out on repair calls most days.

Milton (branch manager): “Hey, Amira! Draft me a notice about a price increase for the Utopia Estates laundry room, ok?”

Amira (front desk admin, sales rep, dispatcher, overworked, frazzled): “Utopia, sure. How much and when do you need it?”

Milton: “Need it yesterday. Head office emailed me in December, and the increase kicks in next week.”

Amira: “They emailed you in December, and you’re telling me now!? Don’t you remember I’ve got to finish the annual report and weekly service reports for head office today?”

Milton: “Yeah, yeah, I forgot all about it. I get too many bloody emails. Just put in the usual stuff about the value of our services, and that the cost’s only going up a bit, blah, blah. Oh, and stick in a snapshot of a pretty woman happily doing laundry.”

Amira (after muttering under her breath for a minute): “Why don’t I just dig out the one you did in 2012? It has all that stuff in it already.”

Milton: “Good idea! Then you’ll have time to figure out why YouTube keeps crashing on my laptop before quittin’ time.”

Too bad Milton never gave any thought to what residents of Utopia Estates might like to know. And Amira, I’m rooting for you.

Why I abandoned teaching

Glendon Hall Manor, Glendon College, York University, where my post-secondary education began

When I started university, some people asked, “What will you do with your degree? Teach?” They couldn’t conceive of any other reason to major in English. Nobody believed me when I said I just wanted to read books. I had no goal in mind.

I got my degree, and worked in offices for a while (and got fired, but that’s another story). Then I decided to go to graduate school. By the time I started my PhD, I was considering the possibility of teaching.

My first teaching job was a fluke. I’d sent applications to several Toronto community colleges, without much hope. Temp office work loomed when I got a call from the administrator of a college apprenticeship program. Could I substitute teach communications for six weeks? Yes, of course, I said. Could I start tomorrow? Umm, ah, yes, sure, I stuttered.

I was naïve. I thought my persuasive cover letter had worked (it sure wasn’t my experience-free résumé). Truth? As a colleague later revealed, I was the only one to answer the phone at 9 pm on a Sunday night.

The next day, I met the instructor I was replacing. He was taking the second half of the semester off. Course content was identical for all his classes: how unions work in Ontario, and writing memos and résumés.

I would teach three classes of apprentices: plumbers, glaziers, and bricklayers. All men. The outgoing instructor briefly introduced me to his classes: “Hey, guys, you’re getting a girl now! Behave yourselves.” Never saw him again after that.

At my first class with the plumbers, I asked what they wanted to learn. They begged me to ditch unions and résumés. As third-year apprentices, with future jobs already secured, they knew more about unions than I did, and they didn’t need résumés. They wanted to learn how to write reports and invoices. I spent the next two days cramming reports and invoices, and learned a lot about teaching from those plumbers. Most importantly, how to listen to my students.

I asked the bricklayers the same question. They didn’t have an answer. Like the plumbers, they were apprentices, not job seekers. This communications course was a program requirement. Agreeable but unmotivated, they struggled to write. So I taught them basic sentence structures.

The apprentice glaziers, also with future jobs lined up, were suspicious. Why was I asking them what to teach? I gave up on getting their input and started with report writing. I brought some samples to class, then asked them to write their own work-related reports. As we were reading these out loud and discussing improvements, one glazier, looking more and more enraged as the class went on, sprang out of his seat and roared, “What is this s**t? F**king Shakespeare?” Most of the class leapt out of their seats and started shouting as well.

Uh-oh, I thought. The end of my teaching career. Will they get violent? Where’s the nearest exit?

To my surprise, however, they were all shouting at the angry glazier. “Shut up, you a**hole! Show some respect! Stop swearing at the lady!” I’d obviously graduated from “the girl” I’d been introduced as, and it was ok to swear, just not at me.

This vocal defence of me by the majority set the tone for the rest of the course. They were respectful and, if not always enthusiastic, at least compliant. Even the angry glazier made progress.

University students I taught in subsequent years were less respectful. First-year engineers loudly objected to their grades and demanded rule books and shortcuts to improve them. While motivated, they were frustrated by the inconsistencies of the English language.

One tried to cheat, turning in an obviously plagiarized essay. I agonized for a week over what to say to him. Needlessly. Just asking him to stay after class proved enough. He confessed and apologized before I even opened my mouth. He got an F on the essay, and never did it again.

I was lucky. Mr. Fluffster has encountered far more cheating. He’s written about that in Dear Cheater, Tell Me Why?

The last English course I taught was mandatory for all first-year students. Unsurprisingly, they had a wide range of writing abilities. Some didn’t know enough English to pass. A few were repeating the course for the second or third time; frustrating for them and me. Most were unmotivated students who did just enough to scrape by, and vociferously disputed every mark below an A. I had no time or energy left to enjoy teaching the few who did well.

When I marked student essays, my fingers itched to fix the grammatical mistakes myself. Teaching helped me recognize that my calling was editing, not teaching others how to write.

At my PhD thesis defence, I listened while the academic panel argued about the shortcomings of my dissertation. I don’t remember any positive comments but was awarded the degree, so maybe I’ve just forgotten. 

As their voices rose and fell, I thought: I don’t like these people. And I don’t want to keep teaching.

That was when I decided to become an editor.

Spring comes early on the West Coast

Growing up on a farm in Southern Ontario made me keenly aware of the changing seasons. The start of spring will always be my favourite. In my youth, it began in mid-March, when something would spark in me a joyful hooray-winter’s-over feeling.

I still get that feeling every year.

When I was very young, that moment came when I could jump into puddles without having to break ice first. Later, it was prompted by pussy willows, crocuses, snowdrops, or the water running in the creek after months of frozen immobility. A few times it struck during Easter picnics: lunches of chocolate only, while basking in the sun on a dry log.

Sure, brief periods of snow and cold sometimes followed, but those were temporary blips; I knew I had the upper hand on winter.

Childhood triggers for Ms. Fluffster’s “IT’S SPRING!” moments

When we moved to the West Coast, I expected to feel that spring moment at the same time as I did in Ontario. Our first January here was an eye-opener. We’d had a soggy November (it poured all day, every single day), followed by colder temperatures and a single snowfall in December. The snow brought the whole city to its knees, much to my amusement.

I also giggled about all those folks out there wielding umbrellas to keep off the snow. How silly is that? I thought back then. I’ve since learned that because Vancouver snow is so often mixed with rain, an umbrella is actually useful. I use one myself now.

The day of that snowfall, we saw something like this being pulled along the street. An umbrella going for a sleigh ride. When we walked past, we realized that a small child was hidden underneath.

When January started, we expected more of the same. Instead, the sun got warmer and temperatures rose. In the second week of the month, I was pleasantly surprised by rows of brightly coloured primroses outside our local grocery store. For the first time ever, my spring feeling arrived early. I tried to suppress it. Surely I was mistaken? But as the weeks wore on, the weather only improved, trees budded, and crocuses popped up everywhere. By the end of February, it felt like late March in Ontario.

Sure, a few cold days followed, but it no longer felt like winter.

With more than 30 West Coast winters under my belt, I’m convinced — despite that pesky official March 21 date — that spring unofficially arrives here in January. I try not to gloat over it to friends and relatives back East, but sometimes I can’t resist sharing photos of the flowers that pop up here two to three months earlier than they do in southern Ontario. I’m only human, after all.

This year is no different. I had two triggers this year; first, the magnolia buds on a street nearby. Note the clear blue sky above them.

Second, the grocery store primroses, below (and at the top of this post).

We recently endured a week of dense chilly fog, but then a run of sunny weather brought with it the triggers above, along with my light-hearted spring feeling.

I’m sorry, Ontarians. It’s minus 30, and you’re still buried under snow. I just can’t help myself.

* Agricultural Working Boots by Florent B and Easter Willow by icon 54 from NounProject.com

Random bits of Toronto fluff

Now that we’re back home, I’m planning new topics, but I have a few leftover Toronto photos that refuse to be wrestled into a single coherent theme. Be warned: meandering flight ahead.

First, Toronto wildlife. Not much. Hey, it was winter, and we spent all our outdoor time in wildlife-unfriendly city neighbourhoods. But I did manage to snag two examples.

These birds found an appropriate place to carry on their conversation. I believe they’re sparrows, and judging by their fluffed-up feathers probably as cold as I was after removing my gloves to take the photo. I’d have tried for a closer shot, but my fingers got numb.

The fellow below was rambling one afternoon through a parkette on a busy street. Maybe it forgot that it’s nocturnal?

Here’s one in the interesting architecture category, except this is actually a large backlit mural at Pearson Airport. We never made it downtown to the 130-year-old Gooderham Building (aka the Flatiron Building). That’s on the agenda for our next trip. I'd like to try matching this spectacular photo with one of my own.

The rest of the photos are transport/airport related. We took a Go Transit bus from/to Pearson Airport, trips that took less than half an hour on near-empty buses, and the bus stop was right outside our hotel. On our return trip, we caught a bus adapted in 2020 when it was thought plexiglass would slow the spread of COVID-19. Most experts don’t believe that anymore, but the plexiglass remains.

Such measures seem laughable now that we know COVID-19 is airborne. Of course, some people have odd ideas about how airflow works. An elderly relative of mine was convinced that her shower curtain wouldn’t dry if not left open on one side to allow air to flow around it. (The gap above the curtain seemed to have escaped her notice.)

The airports had COVID-19 measures in place, but some seemed dubious. When flying out of Vancouver, our boarding passes allocated the two of us to different zones even though we had seats next to each other. When asked, airline staff said this was intended to allow those in window and middle seats to settle in first and minimize having to jostle with strangers.

It’s a good idea, in theory. In practice, not so much, given human nature. At the very first boarding call, everyone surged into the lineup, regardless of zones. Stampeding onto that plane trumped any safety considerations. Announcements that the flight was full and some might have to check carry-ons increased the panic. Our carry-ons ended up at opposite ends of the plane, but at least not checked in. We were thankful for our N95 masks.

The sign below about air quality at Pearson Airport was reassuring, although the reference to disinfecting air with ultraviolet light reminded me of Donald Trump’s infamous briefing ("So, supposing we hit the body with a tremendous - whether it's ultraviolet or just very powerful light.") I’m sure the airport relies on scientifically proven methods.

Keeping lineups moving and at the same time distanced is a challenge. I’m not sure the photos below capture this, but these portable posts and retractable belt stanchions force passengers to zigzag in close quarters before reaching the end of the security lineup.

As you can see, it wasn’t busy, so we took a shortcut to reach the end of the line.

We didn’t encounter any weather-related delays. The snow that fell on the West Coast around Christmas had mostly melted by the time our flight landed (though our feet got soaked trudging through slush created by the wet snow that welcomed us home). A few days later, it snowed good and proper again. See below.

I’m delighted that we missed the snowmageddon that pummelled Toronto last week. I like looking at snow through a window. I can do without trudging through it.

* Raccoon by Olga from NounProject.com

Toronto the good, the bad, the ugly

In my first Toronto post, I promised more photographs. Here they are, starting with the ugly.

Mr. Fluffster and I did a lot of walking, as Omicron made other pastimes unwise. Above, a stretch of Yonge Street between Sheppard Avenue and Highway 401. Hard to imagine a more desolate landscape. The street here has a sidewalk on one side only, and no redeeming features. With traffic (and a cold wind) whipping past us, this stretch made for a bleak walk.

When we started down Yonge Street, we expected to enjoy strolling past homes, businesses, and restaurants all the way. We’d both forgotten the ghastly wasteland around the highway. Sadly, it hasn’t changed for the better in the 32 years since we bid Toronto farewell.

Also ugly, but at least more colourful — the signage we saw when walking to/from my mother-in-law’s place. A cacophony of colours, styles, and fonts assaults the senses.

One more below. The discordant elements make it hard to focus on a single sign. It’s like a visual version of listening simultaneously to several different songs, sung off-key and at differing volumes.

Enough ugly. Let’s move on to the bad. Just one. No, this isn’t the photo that appears in Reflections on plain language and dog poop. This one’s new!

I did more research, in case I missed something last time, but found only the same two repeal notices in the online Vaughan By-law Library:

No unrepealed By-law 122-87 is listed.

The “87” refers to the year it was passed. This mind-boggling sign has been threatening pet owners for at least 8 years (since 2014, when I first saw it) and possibly much longer (up to 35 years?) Bad sign. Very bad sign!

On to the good. We’ve always enjoyed looking at interesting architecture and houses from a bygone era. Toronto has lots. The day we walked down Yonge Street, we saw several lovely old buildings, like this hydro-electric substation.

Glengrove Substation, built in 1930

Glenview Apartments date back to at least 1941, possibly earlier

Lawrence Park Apartments, built in 1925

Also, one bright little orphaned house, currently a doggie daycare and grooming “boutique,” jauntily hanging in there between soulless apartment buildings.

What a good house!

As I wrote earlier, our hotel room faced Gibson House Museum. The day our performance of Come from Away was cancelled, we decided to check out this historical house instead. Not live theatre, of course, but still interesting.

Two staff members welcomed us with delight. They must have been bored stiff waiting for visitors to show up during a pandemic.**

Since we were the only ones to book a tour that day, our guide gave us a personalized, yet physically distanced, tour (plus traditional gingerbread cookies). Windows left wide open ensured adequate ventilation. We kept our coats on and sidled closer to the fireplace whenever we could. Our guide kindly threw more logs on the fire when we started to turn blue.

I won’t recount the history of this 19th century farmhouse (you can find that here), just one tidbit. In 1837, the government burned down the original Gibson House in retaliation for the owner’s involvement in William Lyon Mackenzie’s Battle of Montgomery’s Tavern. David Gibson fled to the US, leaving his family behind, was pardoned in 1843, and returned from exile to (re)build the house you see above and resume his surveying career.

We made our own small contribution to the 1837 rebellion:

Mr. Fluffster and his mom doing their bit for responsible government

David’s wife Eliza, who looked after the family while he was in exile and on the road surveying, likely has her own rich history, but all we know about her is that after ensuring her children were safe, she rescued the clock-face and mechanical workings of their grandfather clock from the fire. They were later installed into a new clock that’s still standing in the parlour. Eliza deserves more recognition for her competence.

Finally, below, a rare sighting. Public telephones are few and far between now. I assume these particular ones work, though I never saw them used.

Not sure whether these phones qualify as good, bad, or ugly; good because they’re useful or bad because they’re unused and just take up space? Ok, maybe not ugly.

More photos to come in my next post.

* Created by Prettycons, Luis Prado, and David Šauer from the Noun Project.
** All Toronto museums closed due to COVID-19 a week after we visited.