I’m currently spending my time in the North East end of Calgary; out near the airport. It is to here that those seeking employment and a new life settle and try to lay a foundation in this rapidly growing city. It is almost as multi-cultural here as it is in parts of Toronto, but there are differences. In Toronto, when you walk amongst the city dwellers, it’s almost as if each individual has donned that, “Cone of Silence”, remembered by many ‘Get Smart’ fans. There is no eye contact, no smile, and no responding echo to a friendly, “Good morning”. Everyone seems cloaked in their own personal space.
Here in Calgary though, there is more warmth, more openness and more sense of community. People of all cultures seem willing to respond to a friendly greeting from strangers as they go about their daily routine. On the streets, people pause to let you slip into their lane, and the waves they offer contain several more digits than those I’ve often received in Toronto. It’s almost embarrassing, when I go to cross a street, that people stop to let me, a pedestrian, have the right of way. Inexplicable, to my native Ontarian ear, are the callers in on the radio stations, deploring the loss of driving etiquette on their urban streets.
In my stay here I’ve been using the resources of the Village Square Leisure Centre, 2623 56 St. NE. It is a modern facility with an arena, a series of pools including a wave pool and hot tubs plus a colossal water slide. The tower for the waterslide must stand at least 70 feet tall and you are bombarded with the happy shrieks of youth who, after climbing all those stairs, come cascading down the enclosed water tunnels that entwine the towers height; the climax of their adventure is when they rocket into the waiting pool with great splashes! On Friday evenings, when the facility is turned over to youth, you can stand in the parking lot and feel their excited screams wash over you like echoes of your own youth.
There is a well stocked gym here with most of the equipment in use whenever I’m there. I’ve always been fond of libraries and the Village Square branch of the Calgary Library System does justice to the best of them. The staff is quick, efficient, and so willing to go out of their way to facilitate any needs you may have. I’ve often thought that our Government and Civil Service should be manned by Librarians; everything would be in its proper place, the costs would be accounted for, resources would be marshalled to their best and maximum capacities, and we, as Canadians, would experience a level of civility from our bureaucracy that has traditionally been alien to us. Well ....a fellow can dream can’t he?
As it is this library hums with the vibrancy of an ethnically diverse community. Older people of various races study English as a second language, while young adults, equally diverse racially, apply the resources at hand to finding new and better jobs. Students, all atwitter with the arrival of Spring, and hormones, and the pressures of exams apply themselves to matters both academic and social. Cell phones are ubiquitous here as if all the lines of community converge on this one focal point, make contact, and radiate outward again. Regularly, in one corner, toddlers of all shades sit with rapt attention while a story teller weaves her spell. This recipe may hint at bedlam, but each aspect of the libraries service offering interacts with all the others in a smooth choreography. The cell phones are almost matched by the plates of fries, steaming with poutine that migrate in from the cafeteria just outside the library door.
To me, the real crucible in this melting pot of a community is the steam room down by the swimming pools; and it is here that I make many acquaintances. My first time I met a young fellow from Northern Africa named Leman who came to Canada from his home seven years ago. I tell him that I’m just arrived from Ontario, and that I’m looking for a job. “This is a good place to work”, he tells me, and “there are lots of well paying jobs.” Leman works as a carpet layer, and business is booming. “Did you bring your family with you?” he asks me. I tell him that, “No, I didn’t”, but that my wife and daughter are joining me here in Calgary as soon as we tie up our Real Estate strings in Ontario, and I have a job. “That is good,” he declares, “A man should have his family with him.” I ask whether he has family here in Calgary. “Not yet”, he replies, “It will take three more years before I can afford to bring a wife over!”
In the early mornings, when I prefer to use the facilities, it is mostly populated by older Sikh men, and I find these quite charming with their quiet dignity. They are almost innocuous; patient, with eyes averted, going about their routines. But, invariably, when greeted with a, “Good Morning!”, their eyes raise to meet mine, a quiet smile and a gentle, “Good Morning!”, in return. There are also many Orientals, often men by themselves, but couples also, and, while they are congenial when approached, they seem to be quite happy in their own company. In the evenings the place is awash with children, from babes in arms right through to teenagers. Without exception the smaller children are accompanied by their parents, unanimously attentive, concerned and caring; but I avoid the evenings, I’ve nothing against children, but, I’ve had my turn and done my parental duty.
Yesterday I had an interesting episode in the steam room. When I arrived there were three Oriental ladies sitting against the left wall, and an older Caucasian sitting against the right. To lend a little balance to the group I sat, in the middle against the back wall. The lady sitting furthest from me was probably close to my age, and she sat, curled up in the corner, with her eyes closed, occasionally opening them to glance briefly at the two young girls who I took to be possibly her daughters. They were a very animated pair, and I’d be hard pressed to place their ages, but, I suppose they fell somewhere in the neighbourhood of my daughter, Allison, who is nineteen. They were very animated, bursting with energy, and the personality of each sparked off the other in good humoured hijinks.
I also noticed that they were wearing very modest, one piece, skirted swimsuits, which you don’t see on young ladies in this day. I’d heard, earlier this year, that Sports Illustrated has once again scooped the fashion industry, by bringing out what they call the, ‘Guitar Pick’ bikini. Now, when I first heard of this I thought, “Now, that’s taking things just a little too far!”, and was slightly aghast at the matter! However, once I’d stewed it over for a while, I decided, that, what with the ‘greening’ of our Canadian Political Climate, and everyone jumping on the conservation band wagon, this might be an even greater energy saver than the ‘spiral’ light bulb! Guitar Picks are, after all, plastic, and that means a drain on our petro-chemical resources; it takes fuel to form and mould the plastic, thus more energy invested. Up till now, when your guitar pick was worn out, you just threw it away; what a waste! Now, when it’s been worn down to the point that it will no longer cover a guitar string, you can, with a clear conscience, recycle it, in assurance that it won’t be taking up valuable land fill space, and that it will find a new and happy home of its own. Sometimes it’s good to be green!
I was drawn from my musings by the agitation of the two young ladies; they were arguing, in good humour and high spirits, over which was the tallest. The fellow on my left, and the lady in the far corner, seemed to be ignoring this and dozing. The one young lady turned to me and demanded, “Who is taller? You say!”, and with that the two were standing back to back, each stretching to exact the last millimetre of their own height. Now, their demands were directed at me, and the girl closer to me was about two and a half inches taller, so I announced her winner. Immediately I was hit by cheers from the taller of the two, and protests from the shorter; just as immediately I was forgotten and the two were swept back up in their chattering, giggling conversation.
At that point another fellow came into the steam room and sat beside me. “How are you this morning sir?” I enquired. “I’m just fine,” he replied, “but I’m curious what I might have done to deserve the ‘sir’?” In his tone I detected a long worn down and polished Scottish accent. “Well”, I responded, “You carry yourself with a certain integrity, and to my eye have more of the laddie than the lady about you. That’s just my observation, and you can argue it any way you feel inclined!” Both the older fellows were laughing now, and the new arrival turned to his neighbour saying, “How are you this morning sir?” The laughing and the ‘siring’ continued until we hit a crisis!
It was the two young ladies again, and this time, the same one who began the, “Who is taller?” conundrum, demanded, “Who is prettier?” I couldn’t see any happy outcome from this judging demand, so I demurred. It wasn’t going to work; both of them were laughing and insisting, “Who is prettier? You must say!” Diplomatically, I called it a tie for first place, and this was a disappointment to them as well. They insisted, and the lady in the corner opened one eye for a moment to evaluate the situation, and then resumed her nap. But the two young ladies would not let the issue rest; their excitement, agitation and demands increased, in conjunction to their laughing and volume. There looked to be no easy way out, so, as I slipped from the bench, I agreed to make the final decision. “The winner,” I announced, “is contestant number 3, in the corner!” At this the two ladies roared their disapproval, jumping up and down in their anguish! In the corner the older lady opened her eyes, taking in the two of them, then, her eyes caught mine, and just the warmest smile. I have a feeling that those two young cosmopolites will be fine Canadians, but the place was getting a little too steamy for me, so I left before I could get involved in any more complications.
Here in Calgary though, there is more warmth, more openness and more sense of community. People of all cultures seem willing to respond to a friendly greeting from strangers as they go about their daily routine. On the streets, people pause to let you slip into their lane, and the waves they offer contain several more digits than those I’ve often received in Toronto. It’s almost embarrassing, when I go to cross a street, that people stop to let me, a pedestrian, have the right of way. Inexplicable, to my native Ontarian ear, are the callers in on the radio stations, deploring the loss of driving etiquette on their urban streets.
In my stay here I’ve been using the resources of the Village Square Leisure Centre, 2623 56 St. NE. It is a modern facility with an arena, a series of pools including a wave pool and hot tubs plus a colossal water slide. The tower for the waterslide must stand at least 70 feet tall and you are bombarded with the happy shrieks of youth who, after climbing all those stairs, come cascading down the enclosed water tunnels that entwine the towers height; the climax of their adventure is when they rocket into the waiting pool with great splashes! On Friday evenings, when the facility is turned over to youth, you can stand in the parking lot and feel their excited screams wash over you like echoes of your own youth.
There is a well stocked gym here with most of the equipment in use whenever I’m there. I’ve always been fond of libraries and the Village Square branch of the Calgary Library System does justice to the best of them. The staff is quick, efficient, and so willing to go out of their way to facilitate any needs you may have. I’ve often thought that our Government and Civil Service should be manned by Librarians; everything would be in its proper place, the costs would be accounted for, resources would be marshalled to their best and maximum capacities, and we, as Canadians, would experience a level of civility from our bureaucracy that has traditionally been alien to us. Well ....a fellow can dream can’t he?
As it is this library hums with the vibrancy of an ethnically diverse community. Older people of various races study English as a second language, while young adults, equally diverse racially, apply the resources at hand to finding new and better jobs. Students, all atwitter with the arrival of Spring, and hormones, and the pressures of exams apply themselves to matters both academic and social. Cell phones are ubiquitous here as if all the lines of community converge on this one focal point, make contact, and radiate outward again. Regularly, in one corner, toddlers of all shades sit with rapt attention while a story teller weaves her spell. This recipe may hint at bedlam, but each aspect of the libraries service offering interacts with all the others in a smooth choreography. The cell phones are almost matched by the plates of fries, steaming with poutine that migrate in from the cafeteria just outside the library door.
To me, the real crucible in this melting pot of a community is the steam room down by the swimming pools; and it is here that I make many acquaintances. My first time I met a young fellow from Northern Africa named Leman who came to Canada from his home seven years ago. I tell him that I’m just arrived from Ontario, and that I’m looking for a job. “This is a good place to work”, he tells me, and “there are lots of well paying jobs.” Leman works as a carpet layer, and business is booming. “Did you bring your family with you?” he asks me. I tell him that, “No, I didn’t”, but that my wife and daughter are joining me here in Calgary as soon as we tie up our Real Estate strings in Ontario, and I have a job. “That is good,” he declares, “A man should have his family with him.” I ask whether he has family here in Calgary. “Not yet”, he replies, “It will take three more years before I can afford to bring a wife over!”
In the early mornings, when I prefer to use the facilities, it is mostly populated by older Sikh men, and I find these quite charming with their quiet dignity. They are almost innocuous; patient, with eyes averted, going about their routines. But, invariably, when greeted with a, “Good Morning!”, their eyes raise to meet mine, a quiet smile and a gentle, “Good Morning!”, in return. There are also many Orientals, often men by themselves, but couples also, and, while they are congenial when approached, they seem to be quite happy in their own company. In the evenings the place is awash with children, from babes in arms right through to teenagers. Without exception the smaller children are accompanied by their parents, unanimously attentive, concerned and caring; but I avoid the evenings, I’ve nothing against children, but, I’ve had my turn and done my parental duty.
Yesterday I had an interesting episode in the steam room. When I arrived there were three Oriental ladies sitting against the left wall, and an older Caucasian sitting against the right. To lend a little balance to the group I sat, in the middle against the back wall. The lady sitting furthest from me was probably close to my age, and she sat, curled up in the corner, with her eyes closed, occasionally opening them to glance briefly at the two young girls who I took to be possibly her daughters. They were a very animated pair, and I’d be hard pressed to place their ages, but, I suppose they fell somewhere in the neighbourhood of my daughter, Allison, who is nineteen. They were very animated, bursting with energy, and the personality of each sparked off the other in good humoured hijinks.
I also noticed that they were wearing very modest, one piece, skirted swimsuits, which you don’t see on young ladies in this day. I’d heard, earlier this year, that Sports Illustrated has once again scooped the fashion industry, by bringing out what they call the, ‘Guitar Pick’ bikini. Now, when I first heard of this I thought, “Now, that’s taking things just a little too far!”, and was slightly aghast at the matter! However, once I’d stewed it over for a while, I decided, that, what with the ‘greening’ of our Canadian Political Climate, and everyone jumping on the conservation band wagon, this might be an even greater energy saver than the ‘spiral’ light bulb! Guitar Picks are, after all, plastic, and that means a drain on our petro-chemical resources; it takes fuel to form and mould the plastic, thus more energy invested. Up till now, when your guitar pick was worn out, you just threw it away; what a waste! Now, when it’s been worn down to the point that it will no longer cover a guitar string, you can, with a clear conscience, recycle it, in assurance that it won’t be taking up valuable land fill space, and that it will find a new and happy home of its own. Sometimes it’s good to be green!
I was drawn from my musings by the agitation of the two young ladies; they were arguing, in good humour and high spirits, over which was the tallest. The fellow on my left, and the lady in the far corner, seemed to be ignoring this and dozing. The one young lady turned to me and demanded, “Who is taller? You say!”, and with that the two were standing back to back, each stretching to exact the last millimetre of their own height. Now, their demands were directed at me, and the girl closer to me was about two and a half inches taller, so I announced her winner. Immediately I was hit by cheers from the taller of the two, and protests from the shorter; just as immediately I was forgotten and the two were swept back up in their chattering, giggling conversation.
At that point another fellow came into the steam room and sat beside me. “How are you this morning sir?” I enquired. “I’m just fine,” he replied, “but I’m curious what I might have done to deserve the ‘sir’?” In his tone I detected a long worn down and polished Scottish accent. “Well”, I responded, “You carry yourself with a certain integrity, and to my eye have more of the laddie than the lady about you. That’s just my observation, and you can argue it any way you feel inclined!” Both the older fellows were laughing now, and the new arrival turned to his neighbour saying, “How are you this morning sir?” The laughing and the ‘siring’ continued until we hit a crisis!
It was the two young ladies again, and this time, the same one who began the, “Who is taller?” conundrum, demanded, “Who is prettier?” I couldn’t see any happy outcome from this judging demand, so I demurred. It wasn’t going to work; both of them were laughing and insisting, “Who is prettier? You must say!” Diplomatically, I called it a tie for first place, and this was a disappointment to them as well. They insisted, and the lady in the corner opened one eye for a moment to evaluate the situation, and then resumed her nap. But the two young ladies would not let the issue rest; their excitement, agitation and demands increased, in conjunction to their laughing and volume. There looked to be no easy way out, so, as I slipped from the bench, I agreed to make the final decision. “The winner,” I announced, “is contestant number 3, in the corner!” At this the two ladies roared their disapproval, jumping up and down in their anguish! In the corner the older lady opened her eyes, taking in the two of them, then, her eyes caught mine, and just the warmest smile. I have a feeling that those two young cosmopolites will be fine Canadians, but the place was getting a little too steamy for me, so I left before I could get involved in any more complications.
In the locker room I got talking with a fellow named Leon, and admired his many tattoos. He’d got these when he was young and rebellious, he explained, “the last one I got in 1959!” We introduced ourselves and talked about several things, including his many years in Calgary. “Mackay?” he said, “You should look up Don Mackay, the mayor of Calgary back in the ‘50’s.” So later on, when I had a moment, I did just that. He was a rather flamboyant fellow that was mayor through most of the ‘50’s, and popularized the White Cowboy Hat still famous to this day. Unfortunately, in 1956, he borrowed 35 bags of cement from the town works department for his own residence, and as of 1958 had still not returned them. This oversight led to an investigation of much of his doings, and, subsequently, the electorate dumped him from office.
As I was leaving the Leisure Centre I stopped in to see Vie in the Cafeteria. Vie is the Lady who runs the cafeteria during the day, and she gives me a large coffee for $1.65, but then the refills are $.50. On this particular morning though, I'd left my wallet in my van as I usually do when working out, but had also neglected to bring any change with me for a coffee. Rather than go out to my van and get money, I asked Vie if I might get my coffee now, and pay her when I return to the Library and get my refill. Vie is just about to agree, when an old timer, sitting at one of the tables, interjects. He looks like a street person, with long tangled hair, and a commendable growth of beard. The years have taken a toll on his facial features, wearing down and bluring what were once fine strong lines. He is a little rumpled, but otherwise clean and presentable; and who am I to talk, standing there fresh scrubbed, but still wearing my rumpled sweaty track suit? "Here son," he volunteers, "I'll buy you a coffee!" "Oh, no thank you," I reply, explaining that I really don't need any help. "It's all right," he continues kindly, "I've been in your position many times before!" Again I turn down his offer, but, as I'm leaving with my coffee I think that perhaps I should have let him buy it; after all, he was just trying to give a little back.
Yes, Calgary holds a lot of charm for me, and it’s nice to see that, in its history, the Mackay name holds a long, and, if not illustrious, at least concrete, place!
james
Yes, Calgary holds a lot of charm for me, and it’s nice to see that, in its history, the Mackay name holds a long, and, if not illustrious, at least concrete, place!
james
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