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Vol. IX, No. 32 August 9, 2003 IN THIS ISSUE:
 Margaret Manning writes about a visit to a place familiar to movie goers: MIDDLE EARTH BECKONS Hobbiton is a new place name in New Zealand. Some of the scenes from the Lord of the Rings movies were filmed on a farm near the town of Matamata. Local business people, not slow to take up a new money-making scheme, had signposts with the name "Hobbiton" on the outskirts to town. Tourists are queuing up for tours around the former film set. The landscape where Matamata is situated would have looked a lot like Middle Earth before a Josiah Firth obtained leasehold land from local Maori in 1865. He drained the extensive swamps, put in roads and made the river navigable. When he fell on hard times, the land was developed into town sections and Matamata, a Maori word meaning headland, was created. We stayed in a cottage overnight. It was very foggy the next morning but we could just pick out the eerie images of race horses being "galloped" in the long straight paddock across the road. Middle Earth indeed! Instead of going on the Hobbit tour, we visited the Firth Tower Museum. The Tower, with three storeys, is probably the tallest structure in Matamata. Artifacts from the Maori and European culture are on display here. Outside, a number of colonial buildings are set up as a village. Among them are the old school, a jail, farm buildings, workers' cottages, a railway carriage, a church, and a dwelling. The railway carriage has pictorial displays and plans of how the rail tunnel was built through the Kaimais, a formidable mountain range that dominates the landscape. The tunnel took 20 years to complete as the job was so difficult to do. Although the church no longer holds religious services, it is still used for weddings, christenings and funerals. The former homestead is beautifully set out in colonial style with lush furnishings and valuable china. Opal Springs Resort, with its natural mineral pools, is a few kilometres on and adjacent to the golf club. Te Aroha, a short drive from Matamata, is almost a one-horse town. It lures visitors with its wonderful hot thermal pools, Edwardian gardens, Domain and Museum and several outdoor activities. One of these is following tracks up and around Mount Te Aroha, at the northern end of the Kaimais. The natural spring water from this mountain feeds the nearby spa and bathhouse complex. We were lucky enough to hire a bathhouse for half an hour at the discounted price because we went in before 4 p.m. This bath is large enough to have a bit of a swim. It is the original bath in the original building and is the oldest bathhouse in N.Z. The local Maori had their own bathhouse on a lower level, but this is no longer in use. This complex is at the top of the Domain. The museum, which we're sure is very interesting, was closed when we there. The gardens, rotunda and sports facilities are set out on the lower level. What a glorious place to have a game of croquet! I can just picture the cucumber sandwiches and Earl Grey Tea being served beside the lawns at 3 p.m.
Terry Miller Shannon fondly remembers DANCES WITH FLAGS It was The Summer of the Bad Commute. Construction on Highway 101 followed destruction on Highway 101 as the old road was removed and replaced. Sometimes con- and de- appeared to be structioning simultaneously in a dusty, roaring nightmare. Road crews jackhammered up chunks of blacktop while umpteen-billion cars sat waiting for "Pilot Vehicles" or gesturing flag persons to rescue them. If you were there, you might have seen me. I was that glowering, hair-braiding, radio-fidgeting person perpetually the twenty-ninth in line in my little red Honda. My daily half-hour commute streeeetched into an hour and fifteen ear-blasting, just-sitting-there, cranky minutes. From the rubble, it was plain - as day followed endless day - that any ultimate good from the roadwork was but a distant glimmer of a daydream on the horizon. And then he entered my life. Just another flag guy - or so I thought at first. You've seen one, you've pretty much seen them all. They scowl or smile or blankly lift and flip their signs. But, when this fellow turned the stop sign to SLOW, he slid a little dance step sideways. Slipped another, backwards. Tapped a leisurely shuffle, and swiveled a graceful pirouette. He swept his arm and bowed, gesturing us on - like a Fred Astaire in blue jeans, orange safety vest, and hard hat. My lower jaw dropped onto my chest. Someone yahooed. I had the urge, for the first time in my life, to whistle through my fingers. Luckily (since I can't), someone else did it for me. And I drove on, at two slow, dusty M.P.H. And here's the miracle: I was smiling. The next day, there he was. A little box step, followed by a somehow-dapper work-booted toe behind the heel to turn a sharp 180 degrees. The finale was a baton-like wave of the SLOW sign. All topped off by a courtly, hard-hat-sweeping bow, while a long line of audience-filled cars clapped, whistled, cheered and hooted. And so it went that summer, one crawling mile after another. I quit dreading the drive. I thought about the flagman at odd moments during my day. I wondered where he learned to dance: reluctant ballroom lessons as a kid? Inheritance from flag-dancing father to flag-dancing son? A desperate antidote to boredom? The kind of itchy feet only Nureyev or Kelly could relate to? I pondered the ribbing a dancing road crew member might have to endure from his coworkers. Was his orange vest stitched of Teflon, deflecting possible snide remarks? Did he hum "Singing in the Rain" instead of tuning in to taunts? Or did he manage to draw some admiration from the other road crew members? Would some perhaps take soft-shoe lessons in their work-boots? One day, when all the alder leaves had long fallen and crumbled to dust beneath my wheels, I drove to work in half an hour. Never lightning-quick on the uptake, it was only after I parked that I realized 101 was no longer a work in progress. It was remodeled. Done. My ride had been smooth, clean, quiet, and quick. But no one had danced for me. Years later, we're traveling. My husband groans. "Oh, no ... road construction." I sit up. My lips are saying, "Uh oh." But some little thing inside me takes a quick step sideways and pirouettes, lightly. I've got my eye out for an orange construction sign saying, "Caution: Flag Man Dancing Ahead." Or maybe even the foxtrotting flagger himself. You might want to watch for him, too. Those of us who saw him dance could never repay him. But we'll never forget him. ~~~~ Terry (http://www.terrymillershannon.com/) and her son, Tim Warner, wrote a funny, rhyming picture book. Tim's three-year-old bath-loving son inspired TUB TOYS (Tricycle Press, 2002), which Children's Literature calls "a must-have book for families." Check it out at http://snurl.com/tubtoys_amaz
Kate Brookfield posted these USEFUL HOME REMEDIES 1. If you are choking on an ice cube, don't panic. Simply pour a cup of boiling water down your throat and presto! The blockage will be almost instantly removed. 2. Clumsy? Avoid cutting yourself while slicing vegetables by getting someone else to hold them while you chop away. 3. Avoid arguments with the missus about lifting the toilet seat by simply peeing in the sink. 4. High blood pressure sufferers: simply cut yourself and bleed for a while, thus reducing the pressure in your veins. 5. A mouse trap, placed on top of your alarm clock, will prevent you from rolling over and going back to sleep when you hit the snooze button. 6. If you have a bad cough, take a large dose of laxatives, then you will be afraid to cough. 7. Have a bad toothache? Hit your thumb with a hammer, then you will forget about the toothache.
HOW TO HANDLE A BOUNCED CHEQUE Dear Sir: I am writing to thank you for bouncing my cheque with which I endeavored to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations some three nanoseconds must have elapsed between his presenting the cheque and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honor it. I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my entire salary, an arrangement which, I admit, has only been in place for eight years. You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account by $50 by way of penalty for the inconvenience I caused to your bank. My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. You have set me on the path of fiscal righteousness. No more will our relationship be blighted by these unpleasant incidents, for I am restructuring my affairs in 2003, taking as my model the procedures, attitudes and conduct of your very bank. I can think of no greater compliment and I know you will be excited and proud. I have noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, ever-changing, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become. From now on I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person. My mortgage and loan repayments will, therefore and hereafter, no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank, by cheque, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your branch whom you must nominate. You will be aware that it is an offense under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope. Please find attached an Application Contact Status which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative. Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof. In due course I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modeled it on the number of button presses required to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Let me level the playing field even further by introducing you to my new telephone system, which you will notice, is very much like yours. My Authorized Contact at your bank, the only person with whom I will have any dealings, may call me at any time and will be answered by an automated voice service: Press buttons as follows: 1. To make an appointment to see me. 2. To query a missing payment. 3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there. 4. To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping. 5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature. 6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home. 7. To leave a message on my computer, a password to access my computer is required. Password will be communicated at a later date to the Authorized Contact. 8. To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through 7. 9. To make a general complaint or inquiry. The contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. While this may on occasion involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration of the call. This month I've chosen a refrain from "The Best of Woody Guthrie": "Oh, the banks are made of marble, With a guard at every door, And the vaults are filled with silver, That the miners sweated for." On a more serious note, we come to the matter of cost. As your bank has often pointed out, the ongoing drive for greater efficiency comes at a cost which you have always been quick to pass on to me. Let me repay your kindness by passing some costs back. First, there is a matter of advertising material you send me. This I will read for a fee of $20 per page. Inquiries from the Authorized Contact will be billed at $5 per minute of my time spent in response. Any debits to my account, as, for example, in the matter of the penalty for the dishonored cheque, will be passed back to you. New phone service runs at 75 cents a minute. You will be well advised to keep your inquiries brief and to the point. Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement. May I wish you a happy, if ever-so-slightly less prosperous, New Year. Your Humble Client Jan
ANOTHER GROANER Israeli police are looking for a man name Joseph, wanted for looting in the port city of Haifa. The suspect is described as the son of an ex-nun from Barcelona and a German father. He was a former flutist and worked occasionally as a farmer. In short, he was a Haifa-lootin', flutin' Teuton, son of a nun from Barcelona, part-time plowboy Joe.
Don Henderson asks CAN *YOU* SING THE BLUES? If you are new to Blues music, or like it but never really understood the why and wherefores, here are some very fundamental rules: 1. Most Blues begin with: "Woke up this morning...." 2. "I got a good woman" is a bad way to begin the Blues, unless you stick something nasty in the next line like, "I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town." 3. The Blues is simple. After you get the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that rhymes - sort of: "Got a good woman with the meanest face in town. Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town. Got teeth like Margaret Thatcher and she weigh 500 pound." 4. The Blues is not about choice. You stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch...ain't no way out. 5. Blues cars: Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken-down trucks. Blues don't travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles. Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train. Jet aircraft and state-sponsored motor pools ain't even in the running. Walkin' plays a major part in the Blues lifestyle. So does fixin' to die. 6. Teenagers can't sing the Blues. They ain't fixin' to die yet. Adults sing the Blues. In Blues, "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis. 7. Blues can take place in New York City but not in Hawaii or anywhere in Canada. Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle is probably just clinical depression. Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Memphis, and Nawlins are still the best places to have the Blues. You cannot have the Blues in any place that don't get rain. 8. A man with male pattern baldness ain't the Blues. A woman with male pattern baldness is. Breaking your leg 'cause you were skiing is not the Blues. Breaking your leg 'cause a alligator be chomping on it is. 9. You can't have no Blues in an office or a shopping mall. The lighting is wrong. Go outside to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.
10. Good places for the Blues
11. Bad places for the Blues 12. No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be an old person, and you slept in it.
13. Do you have the right to sing the Blues? Yes, if:
No, if:
a. you have all your teeth 14. Blues is not a matter of color. It's a matter of bad luck. Tiger Woods cannot sing the Blues. Sonny Liston could have. Ugly white people also got a leg up on the Blues.
15. If you ask for water and your darlin' gives you gasoline, it's the Blues. Other acceptable Blues beverages are:
The following are NOT Blues beverages: 16. If death occurs in a cheap motel or a shotgun shack, it's a Blues death. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way to die. So are the electric chair, substance abuse and dying lonely on a broken-down cot. You can't have a Blues death if you die during a tennis match or while getting liposuction.
17. Some Blues names for women:
18. Some Blues names for men: 19. Persons with names like Michelle, Amber, Jennifer, Debbie, and Heather can't sing the Blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.
20. Blues Name Starter Kit: 21. I don't care how tragic your life is: if you own a computer, you cannot sing the blues, period. Sorry.
"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another." - James Matthew Barrie |