Dolores Galina Brown

This is Dolores G. Brown (Doll to friends), as I met her at "The Duke of Earl" on Bay at Elm. She told me about her latest project, to write the definitive book on "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People?". I said that correct grammar is "Why Do Bad Things Happen to Good People?" and we seemed to have hit it off ... but let me tell you he origin of this idea. Doll is vegetarian, jogs and goes to the gym five times a week, buys her clothes from "Salvation Army counters", volunteers for the "Rosedale Food-bank", cooks for the "People's Kitchen", flosses after every meal and donates to the Humane Society and World Refugee Fund. Earlier today Doll was hurrying to court where she was to appear as defendant for a minor misunderstanding: she caused the slightest bump and most minuscule scrape when she hit the patrol car that chased her three blocks and managed to box her in after she ran a red-light. She was prepared to mount a vigorous defense. Suddenly Doll saw a person in distress and in obvious need of assistance to cross the road, so she hastened to assist. Once they've crossed the road she bought them coffee and doughnuts and listened to their story, at the end she left them her mobile number and said to call anytime if any need arises. This all took about thirty-five minutes, the bulk of the forty-five minutes she was late for court, where she was informed that she was sentenced in absentia and documents will be mailed to her address of record. She managed to say that she was ready to mount a vigorous defense. Doll went to "The Duke of Earl" for a few pints and shots of Tequila (which always provided her with great ideas). After she told me her story, Doll said she's certain that publishers, once they've read the manuscript, will line up and fight for her book but, as she wanted editorial independence, she thought of self-publishing. It would cost about twenty-four thousand of which she had almost half ($9,800) and would I be willing to invest the balance for a thirty-three percent share of profits? I replied  that I got to run as I just remembered that I've started the dishwasher which is now running unsupervised. I left my mobile number and said to call anytime if any need arises.

Eberhard Dolch

This is Eberhard (Ebb) Dolch, retired optometrist from Indianapolis, as I met him a while ago, wearing his leather jacket and hat with the insignias of the 23rd Division "Americal", a proud Vietnam veteran (his full unit designation: 11th Infantry brigade, 4th battalion, 1st infantry). We sat, he had club-soda, slice of lime and I had Jack and Coke and Ebb told me his story. He was drafted in May 1967, went to Ft. Bliss, TX for basic training and deployed later that year to the 23rd in 'Nam. I asked if he knew anybody in the 3rd Infantry Regiment who was ”involved”. He became very defensive and said: ”what a shame that my buddies were smeared by those ”peaceniks”, good that justice prevailed and all unbased charges were dropped. Even when they got Lt. Calley as scapegoat and sentenced him to life, Nixon let him go”. Ebb was much happier to talk about the GI Bill and how he went to Ilium College in Eastern New York to study optometry. His family was originally from Dresden and Billy Pilgrim, professor at the college, had spent time in that city and knew it well. Ebb asked him if he knew Metzger Strasse 5, the location of the original Dolch Butcher Shop, but Billy was stuck. He later became unstuck in time, so it goes.

Hannah Caro (Diamond)

This is Hannah whoruns the "Das Caro", a pub on Caroline-Michaelis-Straße.

You cannot meet a sweeter kid: clever, hardworking and talented: just a beautiful person. We had beers and she told me her story. One night, after she threw out the last stragglers and locked the pub she started towards home and, as it was a warm evening, she decided to walk. Her playlist going, she heard behind her a strange loud noise, like a series of bangs and scrapes. When she turned, she saw a huge dark shape or shadow. She thought it looked a little like a dragon and when it started rising, she realized that it was indeed a dragon in aggressive stance: glowing eyes, large mouth full of teeth and scales all over down to the fishtail. Hannah is not intimidated easily, she shouted: "Get lost Fafnir!!!" and took out her can of trusted Ballistol Pepper Spray upon which the silly dragon instantly dissolved into nothingness. The number 12 street car direction Pasadagplatz was just slowing to stop so Hannah ran for it. Once aboard, breathless from the effort she showed the driver her pass and sank on a seat in the empty car. Rely on Berliner drivers to be funny: "Rennst wie du 'nen Drachen jesehen hast." Still panting Hannah replied: "Denkste?"

Gigi Roth

This is Gigi Roth as I met her the other day at the Art Gallery of Ontario. She was making notes on her favorite painter: Cornelius Krieghoff. We went for coffee and I started telling her what a crappy painter Krieghoff actually is; Gigi was very upset and defensive. Turns out she is a believior ... there is nothing anyone can say or do to convince her otherwise than what she believes (like the Smofpses of Atlanta, who believe that inside our earth is another earth with a diameter eighteen times larger than the external one or like those who believe that Ștrumpf won the 2020 election). Gigi is delightful and nice but just a tad gullible: about four years ago, at a party, she met this guy Michael and when she told him that her mother left her $15,000, he said "Put it all in Bitcoin!" and she did. A few months ago, when she looked it up, she had more that nine hundred grand. Gigi immediately cashed in and bought that mountain bike she always wanted, then, went to the Toronto Humane Society and rescued a dog (William) and a cat (Oscar) both chipped and neutered.  

Mel and his Many Talents

There was this older, thin, slightly stooped guy that I saw in neighborhood grocery stores. We always nodded  "How you doin?" one day we went for coffee. His name is Mel, he lives alone, a retired book keeper who said he was a very boring person with a very boring life but has talents, one: excellent shoplifter, two: very clever with witty, come-back lines. 

Wasn't he afraid to be caught? "They'll never catch me, I am really good". I could tell he was dying to share something and asked him his story: He was working at an  accounting firm involved in vote counting for the film festival and his boss asked him to "assist with the awards". It was a coveted assignment for junior staff. You went with the boss to carry the shiny brown leather briefcase with the sealed envelopes. "Wear your best suit, be here at seven!" A limo was waiting, Mel took the case and the "All Access + BACKSTAGE" pass with his name and picture and sat with the boss in the car. At the hall they took the side entrance to the "Green Room". It was large and very bright, full of people around tables with expensive looking food and exotic deserts. Waiters in white gloves and black ties walked around with trays of drinks. Mel sat on a couch by the door and the boss "mingled". A pretty waitress asked "Anything to drink?", he whispered "Just coffee". He felt somebody sitting down next to him and when he turned, he almost spilled his cup: it was the great Alida Venti multiple winner of Best Actress Award. She seemed smaller, older and wearing more make up than on-screen. "Hello, I am Alida Venti from Verona, nice to meet you, how is the coffee here?" She was smiling and talking to him! Mel choked, he  managed: "Just coffee". He saw the boss, eyes bulging, fighting the crowd making his way towards them. A loud group burst in:  "Andiamo Alida" she stood up just when the boss got there to hear her say "Ciao caro!" "You talked to Alida Venti?! She called you caro?!" Mel told him that Alida introduced herself and said that she is from Verona. "And what did you say?" Mel said he told her that everybody knew who she was and that he watched all her movies many times and he thought her to be magnificent. "That was clever, Mel". Somebody called and the boss turned  "Let's go!", Mel ran behind him with the briefcase. "The case! Wait here!" Mel stood against the wall, heard the murmur of the crowd and saw people with headsets busy in the half-shadows. There was applause and gasps and shouts and music and applause again over and over, Alida and a bunch of others rushed past laughing and holding shiny little statues. He waited for a long time: things settled and it was quiet when he asked a guy if he knew where his boss was "Everybody left". Mel found the stage exit and took the bus home. The next morning he proudly hung his precious backstage pass in his cubicle as people came to ask  how it went. The boss emerged from the elevator and told a stunned audience how Mel had a tête-à-tête with Alida Venti on a couch and how Mel came up with really clever lines. 

Mel turned to me: "This was the highlight of my very boring life", then stood up looking for the right bin to throw his empty coffee cup. A tall blond girl said: "Can you move already?!" Mel came back to the table saying in a sarcastic tone "Was there anywhere a 'please' that I didn't quite hear?" He had a shy smile when he said: "See? I always come back with a clever, witty line ... but late".

Jancsi and the Legend of the Air Beast

I meet Jancsi every Thursdays at ten in the admin office on the ground floor to borrow the cart to deliver food to Parkdale Foodbank clients in the building. He is a big guy (at least 300 lbs.) of an age difficult to guess (I'd say thirty something to fifty something) with masses of dark hair covering his face and head. He also has remarkably small feet. His English is grammatically excellent and he has a perplexingly rich vocabulary all spoiled by his atrocious Hungarian accent. We say ”Hi!” and load the boxes from the trunk of my car onto the cart and go to the elevator. I used to start at the top floor working my way down but when I was paired with Jancsi he insisted we deliver in ascending order, I am easy, so this is how we do it: unit 103 first and 909, on the ninth floor,  last. Then we take the empty cart to the elevator, punch the down button and wait. Inevitably we end up looking at the dirty sign: ”EXIT AIR BEAST”. Jancsi jokes (I cannot tell if is German, Hungarian, English or his combination of the three) so I nod and smile to get the few seconds I need to untangle the words from his messy pronunciation. He usually quotes Schiller's Fiesco's Conspiracy at Genoa: ”The Moor has done his work—the Moor may go" He says: disappear, exit like us, the Air Beasts. We take the cart back to the office and say ”So long, until next week, yeah?”. Yesterday Jancsi stared at the so familiar sign for a long time and then started scratching the lower left-hand corner of the cardboard with his fingernail. In time, the grimy paper peeled off to reveal the surprising full original text: ”EXIT STAIR B EAST --->” Janci grabbed his heart and cried out: ”Jaj, Istenem!” and we laughed all the way to the office

Murad et Grand-père

This young man approached me to ask where to dispose of his banana peel, I showed him the nearby rubbish bin and asked his name, he was Murad Piez, severely myopic refusing to wear glasses as he thought to see the world as God intended him to see it. His voice was unusually high and melodious reminding of the Barry Gibb falsetto. When I asked if he is the singer of "The Ziegenzwischenwirtshaft" he was astonished to be recognized and by my so correct pronunciation.

We had coffee and he told me his story going back to his grandfather Zbigniew Piez: in the south-central Polish village Kraśnica of his birth, rumors started that Zbigniew was a wizard who poisons the water in wells (and should be burnt at stake - is how Catholics were known to fix this). His friend, the dentist, told him that they actually just want to take his goats. The following week when Zbigniew took his fourteen goats to the fair, he couldn't find buyers even at very lowest of prices. That night he killed the goats, threw their carcasses into as many wells he could and walked to near city of Konin where he jumped a freight train to Gdansk. He signed up on a ship to work for his fare anywhere. He landed in Halifax, Canada where he found work loading beer barrels at a brewery. In time, married the brewer's daughter, bought a house and a few goats (never more than fourteen); he had a son he called Murad who also had a son who was also called Murad. Murad (père) studied economics and ran the brewery he inherited very successfully. Zbigniew, on his deathbed, gave Murad (fils), a piece of paper saying "this is the secret of my life". It contained only one word: Ziegenzwischenwirtschaft. So Murad just had fun, wrote songs and used that word to name the alt-rock band he founded. They played along the Eastern Seaboard and had a small but dedicated fan-base. When I told Murad what the word actually meant, he stopped smiling, turned and walked away without a word.

About six months later I saw Murad on Letterman talking about signing with a major label, his band's number on hit and about his book (#1 NYT list) based on the life of his grandfather.

Charlie Melfort

This is Klaus-Heinz Frischzeit (*2 April 1922, Trier, Rhineland-Palatinate, Germany – †1 July 2010, Melfort, Saskatchewan, Canada), I never met him, but I know his story from Burt Melfort, who also supplied the picture, but let me start at the beginning:

Klaus-Heinz turned eighteen in 1940 and fell desperately in love with Gertrud, wife of his much older brother Klaus-Werner, who had a son of fourteen named Hans. In an act of incalculable cruelty Klaus-Heinz killed his brother, who was sleeping in the backyard, by trusting in his ear a very sharp thin dark hardwood stick he found in the attic. There was no blood, no sign of external injury and the doctors concluded "natural causes". When Gertrud rejected Karl-Heinz' awkward advances and "Uncle Hans" became suspicious almost violent, even pretending to see his father's ghost, Karl-Heinz, in another bout of irrational anguish, went to the recruiting office and enrolled in the Wehrmacht. He went first to France and then to Northern Africa where he was captured by the Allies and sent to the POW Camp in Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada. Pretending to have farming skills and waiving his rights under the Geneva Convention, Karl-Heinz became a labourer in the rural community of Melfort, Saskatchewan. In 1946 when German POWs returned to (the now divided) Germany, the British government allowed him to stay as he married Ophelia, youngest daughter of Paul Danmark, his employer.  His name was unpronounceable to all around him, so he changed it officially and picked Melfort as a nod to the host community, first-name Charlie, what people called him anyway. The Melforts had five children who had children of their own: Burt was the eldest and Charlie's unabashedly favourite grand-son. One dark summer night, sitting on the porch looking out to nowhere, Charlie, by now in his eighties, told his story and showed Burt the sharp polished dark hardwood stick that he kept all these years. "Burt, meboy, this is where's y'all comes from!".

Edward Thomas

This is Phillip Edward Thomas (*3 March 1878 – †9 April 1917), I never met him as died in France during World War I, but let me start at the beginning:

The quiet Saturday early mornings are pleasant and the streets belong only to the dog walkers and the homeless. Casey was sniffing out the best grassy front-yard on Shanly when I, for no apparent reason, remembered Adelstrop. Edward Thomas was always among my favorite poets notwithstanding his relatively small volume of work, all written in a short three or so years. As father of daughter, the  opening lines of  "What Shall I Give You?" always choked me up

What shall I give my daughter the younger,

More then will keep her from cold and hunger?

. . . 

Picture credit Wikipedia under GNU and such, public domain Image copyright: Copyright expired 

So, once Casey makes her choice and makes, I go home and read meself some poetry, and, in the most respectful manner, I suggest so should you (too)!

Leonora Fitzroy

This is Leonora Fitzroy as I met her the other day at Pape and Harcourt. When she said her last name, I remarked that it was famously used by illegitimate children of the British royalty and Leonora said she knew, as she has an MA in History with a minor in Philosophy. She said people call her Leo as she is born in August and went on to say that, unfortunately, she didn't find a job in her chosen field and is currently a part-time lingerie model and volunteer for the Community Share Food Bank at The Church of the Ascension. We had that in common, I said (not de modelling, the volunteering). I asked if she'd like to have coffee and tell me her story and she said "Thank you, but that's my bus coming up".  I wished her good luck with all that stuff, said bye and walked South. When I turned around I saw her unlock her bike, put on her helmet and pedal away ... now I'm not even sure if her name is really Leo.

  

Elke

This is Elke Fuchs-Werner as I met her recently at the Dineen Café at Yonge and Temperance. There are, she told me, three things she is fanatical about: Yoga, Bridge and the Opera. There are forty-eight things that she is passionate about: the Environment, Jazz, Cooking, Watercolor, Biking, Cats, Montserrat Caballé, Venice, Arsenal Football Club, Penne Arrabiata, Rembrandt, Schubert's Impromptus, Culatello de Zibello, Merlot, James Joyce, Denmark, Vanilla ice-cream, Raisins, Richard III, Paul van Himst, the Fortified Church of Bierthelm, Comfit de Canard, James Ensor, Jasper FForde, Boca Juniors, Grey Goose, Tabasco, Toronto Maple Leafs, Dogs, Blues, Carnaroli rice, John Irving, Eric Satie, Brunello di Montalcino, Jamon Pata Negra, d'Alambert, Cashews, Guiness Stout, Bucatini All'Amatriciana, Hamlet, Giraffes, the Color Blue, Chrysanthemums, Fernet-Branca, Peñarol Montevideo, Kandinsky, Zaha Hadid and Berlin. Elke confessed that there are two hundred and thirty three things she hates but did not supply a list. As a child she had a pet zebra called Fibonacci, her cousins from Arnstadt had a pony called Klement.

Fran, the Maker of Splendid Soup

This is Frances DuLac and her dog Phi, as I met them a few Sundays ago for coffee at a small place on Pape Ave (See a French and a Vietnamese version of the picture). She runs an extremely successful catering business built on the Vietnamese Pho soup. It was, as she told me, an accident until it wasn’t. She made Pho from a recipe on a calendar and her friends went nuts. When the pandemic hit, with not much else to do, she perfected the recipe and started selling first to friends or phone orders and then on her website. She can hardly keep up with demand, had to hire three cooks and a delivery service. This natural talent for Pho, where did come from she asked herself and then dug into family history (a box with letters, photos and documents her mother had). Turns out, her great grandmother Linh Pham, born in Qui Nhon, Vietnam in 1934, was a famous beauty. Jacques Dorléac, a French colonel fell deeply and totally in love and, in 1954 when the French left Vietnam, took her to Paris. They got married (his family did not attend: Jacques et sa meuf d'Indochine, alors!). On April 12th 1961 a daughter was born: Françoise Paulette Louise. When the colonel died in 1972, the family helped them go to Canada on condition to change their name (they picked DuLac) and never contact them. Linh and Françoise bought a small house in Toronto, on Broadview Avenue and lived there quietly until January 1990 when Linh died of pneumonia and Paul Chayse, boyfriend to Françoise, moved in. On November 16th, on the holly feast of St. Matthew the Evangelist and Apostle, their daughter was born. They briefly considered naming her Matilda (closest to Matthew) but they chose to honor the Vietnamese grandmother where it all flows from: the beauty and the art of Pho.

 

Dana Hunt-Jollie

This is Dana Hunt, she has a hyphenated last name, which she never uses as she thinks is weird and not cool at all. We met in July 2019 at the Art-Fair. Dana is depressed and unhappy thinking that most of the things in her life are weird. She has loving parents and gets along well with her younger sister Nadine. Dana does reasonably well in school, is a talented tennis player and likes to hang out with her friends. She does not need to sell ice cream on weekends in a silly uniform for ten bucks an hour but she applied for the job on a dare and got it. Now she is bored and annoyed by all these people who come and stand in line to buy it. Her supervisor, Helen, stopped by and, when she saw her face, asked if there is something wrong, then told her to smile and be friendly to clients. Dana said: "Sure, cool, no problem!" For a while she thought to write a short story about her ice cream sales experience then she thought that nobody will read it and it's not worth the effort. Then she imagined that she'll be an actress with a part as a sales girl and this is her method acting preparation for the role. So, when the next client asked for a Dark Chocolate and Vanilla Almond Bar, she responded aggressively: "Are you talking to ME? Are YOU talking to me?" The guy started to laugh and said "Yeah, I'm talking to you, who do you think?" Dana gave him the ice cream for free. The guy thanked her, said his name is Todd and asked her when she got off and if she wanted to go for a drink. Dana thought to herself that this is another weird thing happening in her life and replied "Seven thirty, sure, but I have to change".   

Volker Zauner

This is Volker Zauner (he goes by Van Miller) as I saw him the other day having a drink with current girlfriend Tanya. Van was born in Bad Ischl, Austria into the famous local Zauner family owners and operators of the renowned Konditorei-Kaffee Zauner (since 1832). Van's father, Waldemar, met, fell in love and married Margarete von Schulz against the will of the family. They emigrated to the US when Van was just a toddler and settled in Rochester. Van did badly in school, got into all kinds of trouble and eventually went to Toronto where he found a copywriter job at Q&W Communications. Van had many girlfriends but the relationships never lasted: the women he dated discovered quickly that he is an uninteresting fake with no real opinions: a flake and a waste of time to be with. The initial short-lived attraction was his ability to listen quietly brooding with an air of awkward discomfort that was taken as approving and sympathetic. These young ladies, little did they know that Van creates this artificial impression by wearing women's underwear two sizes too small that make him squirm and cramp in controlled, near agony distress.

Bhubaneshwar Shopping Weekly

These are Gita (5½, right) and Nargita (3½, left) during their weekly trip to the "Reliance Smart" supermarket in  Kharavela Nagar with their father Naresh (not in the picture) and do they ever seem to have a great time. The explanation for their less than usual features for typical Odisha natives is that they are foundlings and here is the story as I heard it from Naresh himself. 

One sunny Sunday, almost three years ago, Naresh was fishing for carp on the banks of the river Kuakhai when he saw a basket float by and getting stuck in some reefs just downstream. He went to look closer, heard whining and discovered that the basket help an infant and another very young child both wrapped in a white and red blanket. He packed up his fishing gear and quickly drove home with the children. Naresh called Dr. Gopal, a pediatrician family friend who, after thorough examination, declared the two girls in good shape, just a little dehydrated. The doctor advised to call the authorities. The formidable Gayathri, mother to Naresh and matriarch in charge of everything, vehemently opposed this course of action as she jumped on the unexpected chance for grand kids she'd otherwise never had (Naresh is gay). 

It took a few meetings and lots of phone calls and some fat envelopes changing hands, but within a month official paper work arrived and the household descended in blissful chaos. True: the girls never warmed up to curry and other kids sometimes made fun of their ugly yellow hair but it was harmless fun and the girls loved lamb chops and fish. 

Naresh still goes Sundays to fish for carp at his favorite spot where he smokes his horrible Bidis and sometimes looks over at the little red and white shrine he built for Parvati, goddess of masculine energy. 

My 16th Day of March

I woke up this morning and I realized two things: (1) that I am just seven hundred and eighty seven days away from having lived in Canada longer than I lived in my native Romania (the score is 13,798 to 13,011) and (2) it is the feast of  St. Sabin of Egypt who lived during the reign of emperor Diocletian. So I brushed my teeth and went to my ”Yoga in the Park” at 7:15. The sky was covered with what seemed to be a thick, gray solid layer of cloud. The class was invigorating at -1° C (according to the weather channel it felt like -9° C). I got home at 8:30 and had a shower and breakfast (cup of coffee and a glass of one third orange juice and two thirds mineral water) and then went to do my shift at the community fridge at Ossington and Dupont. The sky was covered with what seemed to be a thick, white solid layer of cloud. 

On my way home, at Hallam and Delaware, I saw a young girl wearing a white wedding dress and black cowboy boots, on a bike, with a ladder on her right shoulder pedaling relatively fast and very determined going North. I decided to investigate further and make it the subject of a future post in my, this here, blog.