---

IN THIS ISSUE

• Arthur Pay continues working in demolition in London
• Bob Brown tells why he adopted his signature
• Jack Peaker summarizes a biography of Princess Grace and Prince Ranier
• We have letters from Jean Sterling, Irene Harvalias, and Verda Cook
• Catherine Green answers a familiar question from irate husbands
• Miriam Ockenden sends a poem that describes a working woman´s tasks
• Barbara Wear and Jack forward an essay on how it feels to grow old
• The editor wants to know about your internet connection

Arthur Pay carries on his demolition duty in wartime London:

"WHAT DID YOU DO IN THE WAR, DADDY?"

Some weeks after working at West Ham I was detailed to work at H. V. Smith´s yard at Tottenham Hale, where I was engaged in making asphalt. This involved barrowing various combinations of shingle, sand, and cement into large vessels containing bitumen heated by furnaces. The resulting mixture, all piping hot, was covered with tarpaulins and rushed post-haste to wherever the stuff was required.

Time was very critical since asphalt sets rock-hard as soon as it cools and there is no way of softening it without it having been broken up into manageable lumps to melt down again. I was once given a lorryload of the stuff to level out to six inches thick and then cut into manageable one- foot squares. However, nobody told me it was going to set so hard so rapidly, and I think the "manageable blocks" finished up at about 3 ft. by 3 ft. by 3 ft. As far as I know, they are still there.

One evening just before knocking off time at six o´clock, I had finished a task and was washed and ready to cycle home when I was stopped by the foreman. When I asked him what he wanted me to do, he said, "Get a broom and sweep up the yard." The yard was about a quarter of a mile long, so I told him to sweep it up himself and demanded my cards and money. I waited for the heavens to break but instead the managing director came out from his office and put his arm round my shoulder. "You don´t want to leave us, do you, boy?" he said. I suspect this might have had something to do with the cost plus scheme.

The following week I was detailed to work on an experiment in Tottenham for replacing painted zebra crossings. (Belisha crossings, they were called, after the Minister of Transport who introduced them.) Dusty Miller, who was the managing director of H. V. Smith, had the idea of replacing the painted markings with white asphalt about half inch thick, and the job consisted of digging out the painted markings with a portable Kango hammer and pouring the white asphalt into the channel thus formed.

I was about the only labourer strong enough to handle the drill, which was petrol operated and self contained. Many years later my doctor concluded that I had damaged my elbows doing the work, though I doubt it myself as I was on the job only a week or so.

I was very strong and fit at the time from working hard physically in the open, and I remember I used to unload and carry sacks of cement from barges up almost vertical ladders some 50 or 60 feet to the top of the asphalt-making plant, when the mechanical hoist had broken down.

Charlotte continued to work at Waterlows and the air raids on London had begun to subside as Adolph began to make preparations for the attack on Russia. I had continued to apply to various councils for ARP work but no-one was interested. The Tribunal people kept writing to ask about my compliance with their conditions, but when I told them of my occupation, said that they had no objection to my doing temporary work of national importance and left me alone.

To be continued.

I asked Bob Brown why he included "bushmanbob" in his e-mail address. Here is his answer:

HOW I EARNED MY NICKNAME

In the year 1954 I emigrated from England to Rhodesia, as Zimbabwe was then known, and in 1958 I was conscripted for National Service with the Royal Rhodesia Regiment. I ended up serving 19 years in the Territorial Army, 18 of those years on counter-terrorism duty deep in the African bush miles away from any form of civilization. When Carol and I were first married, our home was on a disused gold mine in a very small bush town named Que Que (now Kwe Kwe). Que Que had gold, snakes, scorpions, and spiders in abundance, but we loved it, and although we both were born in England, we always considered Que Que as our home town.

So there you have it. After so much time living in the African bush, I ended up spending half the year working in a bank and the other half as a soldier. It was a case of six weeks on and six weeks off. It´s no wonder that I felt I was entitled to use the title ´Bushmanbob.´ Our grandchildren always refer to me as "Bushman Bob", which tickles me pink!

Jack Peaker, who likes to read biographies, believes the most intriguing one he has ever read is the romantic story of

PRINCE RAINIER AND GRACE KELLY

Grace, Princess of Monaco, (nee Grace Patricia Kelly, 1929-1982) was an Academy Award-winning American film and stage actress who, upon marriage in 1956 to Rainier III, Prince of Monaco, became Her Serene Highness, The Princess of Monaco, but was generally known as Princess Grace of Monaco.

Princess Grace maintained dual American and Monegasque citizenship after her marriage. The principality´s current sovereign prince, Albert II, is the son of Prince Rainier and Princess Grace.

The American Film Institute ranked Kelly No. 13 among the Greatest Female Stars of All Time.

The biography tells about Winston Churchill being a regular visitor to Monaco and his passion for good cigars - the Cubans gave him 10,000 and he smoked about 10 per day in Monaco. Frank Sinatra sometimes came for a month and when he was there, business boomed.

The billionaire Aristotle Onassis and his lady friend, the opera singer Maria Callas, frequently welcomed Grace and Prince Rainier aboard the luxury yacht ´Christina´. In 1957, while still married to husband Giovanni Battista Meneghini, Callas was introduced to Greek shipping magnate Onassis at a party given in her honour by Elsa Maxwell after a performance in Donizetti´s ´Anna Bolena´. The affair that followed received much publicity in the popular press, and in November 1959, Callas left her husband. It was claimed that Onassis was not why Callas largely abandoned her career, but that he offered her a way out of a career that was made increasingly difficult by scandals and by vocal resources that were diminishing at an alarming rate.

Other close friends of Rainier and Grace included Marlon Brando, Elsa Maxwell, and Cary Grant, with whom Grace starred in "To Catch a Thief". The Grand Corniche - linking Nice and Italy - is where Cary and Grace did their famous driving scene in that movie. Ironically, on this steep and winding road down from La Turbie is where Princess Grace lost her life.

In October, 1971, Rainier and Grace flew to Iran as guests of the Shah to join in the celebrations marking the 2,500th anniversary of the founding of the Persian monarchy. The Shah, his empress Farah and 600 of their closest friends, including 37 heads of state and representatives of 69 nations, moved in an armoured convoy to Persepolis, capitol of the ancient Persian empire.

Estimated to have cost anywhere between $1OO million and $1 billion, the feast was cooked by 180 chefs from Maxim´s and other famous Paris restaurants. The first course was quails stuffed with golden imperial caviar and served with champagne. Next came a mousse of crayfish tails with a Haut Brion Blanc 1964. Then there was roast saddle of lamb with truffles, served with Chateau-Lafite Rothschild 1945. After that waiters paraded in carrying silver platters with 50 peacocks, their tail feathers put back in place and surrounded by roasted quails, etc., etc., etc.

There was such a spread in the estimated cost that no-one ever learned the actual cost.

CORRESPONDENCE

Jean Sterling comments on the American in Paris series written by Richard Ross: "And to think, it was those bright and cultured Americans who first recognized just how free France is and took it upon themselves to replace French fries with ´freedom fries´."

The freedom fries fiasco was STUPID imho. It would almost be funny if it wasn´t so doggoned brainless!

Re stereotyping the French: I don´t about the French (I haven´t been there), but I found the Quebecois very friendly and gracious and most appreciative of a sincere effort to speak their language.

ED. NOTE: In fact, the Quebecois are so quick to answer in English all efforts to address them in French that my daughter, Judith, who majored in French and has long immersed herself in the language, is completely frustrated at not being answered in French. It was not always so: when we lived in Quebec some 60 years ago, many people would pretend they did not understand you, and indeed, some of them did not. They were not as bilingual then as they are now.

~~~~~

Irene Harvalias writes again about

GARBAGE BAGS

Just after I´d sent you my original comment/question about garbage bags, I read in the paper that somewhere they´re trying to manufacture biodegradable plastic bags. Now wouldn´t THAT be a good thing? Meanwhile, in our apartment building, we have garburators which get rid of most of the kitchen waste, and huge recycling bins for newspapers, other paper, and other containers (such as yogurt containers, cans, plastic bottles etc.) which are collected by the city. The recyclable cans/bottles are in a different bin, and somebody in the building has volunteered to take them in and collect the deposit from them, which is then used to buy equipment and/or plants for the gardens around the building. I think we´re doing our share, don´t you?

~~~~~~

Verda Cook writes: Would it not be possible to wrap the kitchen waste in multiple layers of newspaper before putting it into the garbage container? Newspaper decomposes, as does kitchen waste. I am presuming you subscribe to the daily news.

ED. NOTE: The biodegradable plastic bags and newspapers both sound like very good ideas, unless there is some law against them because of the danger of attracting rats, which are plentiful here at the coast. There is another option: worm composting. Apart from the problem of where to put such an operation, I wonder how one separates the worms from the composted garbage? Picking up worms is not one of my ambitions. Mary Appelhof has written a book about setting up and maintaining a worm composting system, "Worms Eat my Garbage". It is sold out at Chapters Bookstore online at the moment, so there must be a lot of interest in the subject. Wish I could be more enthusiastic about worms!

Catherine Green´s story answers men´s eternal question:

WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?

When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it´s your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied.

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won´t latch. It doesn´t matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants!

The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone´s Mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one, but there isn´t - so you carefully but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume "The Stance."

In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You´d love to sit down, but youcertainly hadn´t taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance."

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother´s voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!"

Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that´s still in your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse around your neck, that now you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It´s still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn´t work. The door hits your purse, which ishanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it´s too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try. You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because you´re certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because "Frankly, dear, you just don´t KNOW what kind of diseases you could get."

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of water that covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your shoes. The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.

At this point, you give up. You´re soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You´reexhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.

You can´t figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting. You are no longer able to smile politely to them.

A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it?) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman´s hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this."

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used, and left the men´s restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?"

This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restroom (rest? You´ve GOT to be kidding!).

It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked questions about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It´s so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse, and hand you Kleenex under the door!

This HAD to be written by a woman! No one else could describe it so accurately!

Miriam Ockenden writes: This poem by an unknown author was published in the July 2007 edition of RSS News, a magazine for members of the Royal Statistical Society in London. Have you ever seen it before - do you know who wrote it?

THAT´S LIFE: A CENSUS POEM

He said, "Your occupation, please,"
This census-taking guy.
I started to enumerate
And said quite frankly, "I
Wash the dishes, scrub the floors,
Shine the windows, polish doors,
Bathe three children, wipe their noses,
Work a little in the roses.
Do the washing, iron the clothes,
Pick up playthings, mend the hose,
Sweep out daily, close britches,
Sew a dress with tiny stitches,
Nurse a sick one, make the beds,
Kiss hurt places, shampoo heads,
Wash the blood off, hunt the mittens,
Wipe up after pups and kittens,
Tuck in covers, hear each prayer,
Brag a little, ease a care.
Take your pick. I get no pay,
But that´s what I do every day".
He listened very carefully,
That´s why I´m so annoyed,
Because that man just scribbled down,
"Housewife. Unemployed."

Barbara Wear and Jack Peaker both sent this article, which obviously resonates with those of us who are "older":

HOW I FEEL ABOUT GETTING OLD

The other day a young person asked me how I felt about being older. I was taken aback, for I do not think of myself as old. Upon seeing my reaction, he was immediately embarrassed, but I explained that it was an interesting question, and I would ponder it and let him know.

Growing older, I decided, is a gift. I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body! I sometime despair over my body ... the wrinkles, the baggy eyes, and the cellulite. And often I am taken aback by that older person that lives in my mirror, but I don´t agonize over those things for long.

I would never trade my amazing friends, my wonderful life, my loving family, for less gray hair or a flatter belly. As I´ve aged, I´ve become more kind to myself, and less critical of myself. I´ve become my own friend.

I don´t chide myself for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn´t need, but looks so avante garde on my patio. I am entitled to be messy, to be extravagant, to smell the flowers. I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon, before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.

Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 a.m. and then sleep until -- ? I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60s and 70s and if, at the same time, I wish to weep over a lost love, I will.

I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body, and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the bikini set. They, too, will get old (if they´re lucky).

I know I am sometimes forgetful. But then again, some of life is just as well forgotten, and I eventually remember the important things.

Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when a beloved pet dies? But broken hearts are what give usstrength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.

I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turn gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into grooves on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver. I can say "no" and mean it. I can say "yes" and mean it. As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don´t question myself anymore. I´ve even earned the right to be wrong.

So, to answer your question, I like being older. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be.

JUST AS A MATTER OF INTEREST

Burke Dykes said that a poll of seniors at a seniors´ centre in Seattle last year revealed that over half of them still had dial-up internet connections. I would be interested in hearing from my readers how many have dial-up, how many have high-speed cable, and how many have light cable connections. It makes a difference to the length of the Tale Spinner, and the inclusion of pictures, because if many subscribers have dial-up connections, it is a real pain to have to wait for long download. Drop me a line and let me know, will you please?

Do you realize that in about 40 years, we´ll have millions of little old ladies running around with tattoos and pierced navels? (Now that´s scary!)