Imbolc

The pagan festival of Imbolc occurs in a couple of days on February 2. This festival has always been a difficult one for me to grasp. It celebrates not so much Spring itself, but the promise of Spring. Now this is all well and good in Europe where winters are milder and shorter than here. Maybe in Europe on February 2 the snow is starting to melt and lambs are being born and ewes' milk is being produced, but here in Canada we still have freezing cold, tons of snow and a stiff Arctic breeze blowing up our collective wazoo. It's very hard to relate to Imbolc imagery here. (More bitching on this topic tomorrow!)

Soothing Simplicity

I had occasion yesterday to access my safety deposit box. In our fast-paced world of high technology, there is a soothing simplicity to participating in this ritual that has probably changed little, if at all, from Victorian times. While the bank vault's time-lock security doors are, I'm sure, as high-tech as possible, the rest of the access ritual is amazingly low-tech. Where else these days are hand-signed and hand-stamped file cards an integral part of accessing important information or material? In the rest of our world, file cards and their little cabinets are being pitched in the dumpster in favour of computers. Then there is the solemn production of the long, silver duplicate keys -- one by the bank clerk, one by me -- and their sequential use to open (and later close) the little individually-numbered door. No computers, no lasers, no fingerprints, no retina scan. Just file cards and weird-looking keys.

Prairie Humour

My recent hiatus involved a drive across the prairies on the Yellowhead Trail (Highway No. 16). I was amused by bits of prairie humour encountered in several small towns and cities along the way. Some of it was a wry commentary on Canadian winters, like a Mexican goods import store in Yorkton, Saskatchewan called "The Frozen Cactus" or the East Indian restaurant in Brandon, Manitoba called "Chilly Chutney." Some of it involved bad (but oddly endearing) puns, like the "Jolly Lodger Motel" in Russell, Manitoba. And then there was the Co-op Gas Bar and Convenience Store in Wynyard, Saskatchewan where a sign proudly pointed the way to the "Washroom and Hockey Hall of Fame" without the least sense of irony.

John Mortimer Rests His Case

Another favourite of mine who died recently was John Mortimer, creator of Rumpole of the Bailey. For Christmas, my Rare One gave me a complete DVD set of the TV series and we are currently working our way through it with much enjoyment. I've read nearly all of his 20 Rumpole novels and, although Mortimer did descend fairly quickly into plot and stylistic formulas, the books are always a fun and interesting read. He was a witty raconteur and observer of life like no other.

Heather Mallick, the CBC columnist, wrote a lovely appreciation of his life in which she wrote that, during the course of an interview with him:

I asked Mortimer about a critic who accused him of being a lightweight, of "covering pain with jokes." He was mystified, saying that covering pain with jokes was the only possible attitude to life.

She also repeated another of his typical and delightful opinions:

Mortimer liked his food and grew fat on it, saying, "I refuse to spend my life worrying about what I eat. There is no pleasure worth forgoing just for an extra three years in the geriatric ward."

Mortimer was a prominent and successful barrister, well-versed in the legal system. He knew better than to be pompous about his profession. "No brilliance is required in law," he once said. "Just common sense and relatively clean fingernails."

Farewell, Number Six

I was saddened to read that the actor Patrick McGoohan died earlier this month. He was, of course, "Number Six" on the 1960s British television series, The Prisoner. I watched that series on CBC when I was a kid and speculated along with everyone else about what the series really meant. Was he being held prisoner by an evil, brainwashing Enemy Government or by -- shudder -- the British Government itself, the ostensible Good Guys? A few years ago, I rented and watched the entire series again on DVD. My theory now (as an adult) is that the series is an incredible depiction of mental illness from the point of view of a mentally ill person (Number Six). He doesn't realize he's mentally ill, of course, so he is paranoid about everyone else's motives and actions. His angry search for "Number One" -- the powerful authority figure who is keeping him a prisoner -- reflects his unwitting split personality. He is himself both Number One and Number Six.

I also read that a remake is currently being done of the series. I hope it is worthy of the original.

Another Short Hiatus

Duty calls, so I won't be blogging for the next week to 10 days. See you later!

Nom Nom Nom in The Peg: Wagon Wheel Lunch

Another Winnipeg eatery trapped in the past was the Wagon Wheel Lunch, just off Portage Avenue in the downtown. It was long and narrow, with a decor that favoured arborite, the colour orange and -- yes, you guessed it -- wooden wagon wheels. It had a lunch counter and an open grill where the short-order cooks worked their magic. And what magic it was! The Wagon Wheel Lunch might look to the uninitiated like a greasy spoon, but insiders knew that it served the best lunches in The Peg. I still dream of its clubhouse sandwiches. You had to get there early to eat, though, or you'd be stuck in the huge line-up that wound out the front door and down the street. Even in the winter!

This wonderful photo of the Wagon Wheel Lunch was taken by a photographer named Ikurnarsky. I found it posted on Flickr.