An Old Video?

 

Exploring History

It was my birthday. I don’t recall exactly which year, but probably nineteen seventy-six, seventy-seven. I had no plans for the night. Just hung out in the basement on McKay until it was late at night and the urge to move hit me.

I’d learned to trust the urge, as it had sent me down some very interesting paths. This night, it sent me out on my bike, as it was one of those warm nights following the kind of smoking hot late-summer day for which Winnipeg is renowned. I love the late-night, late-summer rides the best. Little traffic, no wind, and the scent of humidity that would be burned off by ten the next morning, to be replaced by the flinty hardness of another scorcher. In my, I don’t know, shoulder-bag, purse, pouch, yeah, pouch, I carried a half-mickey of Southern Comfort for old time’s sake, and a harmonica. I wanted to see the river.

Fraser’s Grove Park wasn’t far away, and the banks of the river were low there, intimate. In springtime a little too cozy with the river, which would take it over all the way up to Kildonan Drive and beyond. I walked the bike into the park, not wishing to brave the irregular ground in the dark at anything above a walking pace. Uncharacteristic caution on my part, I know, but I certainly wasn’t in any rush. I wandered down the bank to where the grass gave way to the river silt and flotsam of the last spring flood. The moon provided plenty of light and glistened on the water in a most inviting way, but a swim was out of the question. Ick. I slid down next to a particularly inviting elm tree and just sat for a while, enjoying the silence and thinking about nothing.

After a while of this, I had a sip of Southern Comfort and played some harmonica, just noodling away without any goal for awhile until I was interrupted by the somewhat surprising arrival of a rent-a-cop. He told me that I’d have to vacate the vicinity as no one was allowed in the park after dark. While this struck me as rather a strange rule, I wasn’t about to give him any grief about it and prepared to move along. We chatted for a while, brothers in arms, as I’d done my time as a security guard the previous year and well understood the loneliness that goes with a dead-end job that compels one to curtail the fun of otherwise law-abiding citizens late at night. Granted, my great claim to peacekeeping consisted entirely of rapping on the inside of the window of a locked-up K-Mart, attempting to shoo away the kids on the other side of glass who were sitting on the dime-a-ride pony. They treated me with the respect I deserved, gave me the finger, and moved along. So I did, too.

I rode along the streets that follow the river, over the Redwood Bridge, and through the northend, something I wouldn’t recommend nowadays. Through some circuitous meanderings, I ended up in the Wellington Crescent neighbourhood and figured I’d see if Danny was around.

Dan’s basically my oldest friend. I’ve got a few months on him, so when we were about four and five, I was the old guy. To him, of course, this was a great challenge, so he’d attack me at unexpected moments and attempt out-wrassle me. Having a bit of height on him worked to my advantage, but by sheer persistence, he’d occasionally get the better of me. We could go for years without seeing one another as I roamed about the prairies and he around the world, but the threat was always there, and continues to this day. I expect that one day we’ll run into each other and he’ll try to tip me out of my wheelchair.

In any case, he lived with his childhood sweetheart in the Wellington neighbourhood, so I parked in the street near his second-floor apartment in a stately old house. It had, as mentioned, been smokin’ hot that day, and those old walk-ups tended to get equally hot, so leaving all the windows open over night was mandatory. I pulled out the harmonica and noodled away for a couple minutes until his head appeared at one of the casements and he said, “Ya got any liquor?”

I waved my little bottle in the beam of a streetlamp and he was down in the street in a few moments. Susan was probably upstairs fuming at that moment, so it was best that I not go up. There was a history of, ummm… conflict between us due to the chemistry between Dan and me. He toasted my birthday and we did a little catching up before jumping on our bikes for a leisurely cruise around the neighbourhood.

Dan’s grandparents had once lived around the corner from where we were at that moment, so we drifted over in that direction to check it out. Charlie and Rae had been the housekeeper and handyman for the Richardsons, one of Manitoba’s preeminent families, and had a nice little house on the property, a bit back off the street from the main mansion. On this night, however, most of the old house was missing, as some sort of major demolition was underway.

Unbeknownst to us, the matriarch of the family, who had been the last holdout in the palace, had died a while previously and had bequeathed the land, some of the most prime real estate in the city, to the city, to be made into a park for the enjoyment of all. Nice lady.

What this meant to us, though, was that the properties, big and small, were unoccupied and apparently unguarded in any way. We entered the “servants’ quarters” through the back wall, or what was left of it. Dan’s grandmother had died in the front room, resting comfortably in her La-Z-Boy lounger and simply sliding away into the next world. Standing in that so-called living room was quite poignant and we gave it a few minutes to settle in, but we had other things on our minds.

Having more or less grown up in this house, we kind of knew our way around and, while it was a nice house, other adventures perhaps awaited us. We went down the basement stairs, not knowing whether the set-up was the same as when we were kids. At the back of the basement was a passage, still open, that lead through a tunnel to the gymnasium-sized garage. This held room for a dozen or so cars but was thankfully vacant or we may have gotten into a whole different kind of trouble. Something more than the straightforward trespassing we were engaged in at that moment.

No, where we were headed was a bit further down the tunnel, closer to the main house. It was always off-limits when we were little, but of course we always sneaked in just because. And there it was. The pool was not only there, but it was full. I don’t know how big an Olympic-sized pool is, but this thing was huge. It had not been neglected for long, as the water was clean and clear, but rendered chlorine-free by time. Well, nothing for it but to doff our duds and dive right in. It was glorious. Right up until I did a spinning cannonball off the middle-height diving board and got slapped in the nuts by some extremely hard water. Damn, but that hurt. I made the standard squeaky noises once I caught my breath and squatted on the edge of the pool until I could trust my legs. Once I was mobile, we explored the various change-rooms and spas that surrounded the pool area until we found our way into the main house.

This was definitely new territory for us, but it was fairly easy to find one’s way around as it had been pretty much gutted. All the fine wood and marble, the fixtures and fittings had been removed down to the studs, so you could see from one room to the next, indeed you could see the outside world, and the sky was beginning to brighten up a bit. We went upstairs to see what wonders the upper storeys held and, indeed, it was spectacular. The roof had been mostly removed, most probably to obtain the substantial amount of copper that had been used in its construction. It was quite the place.

Standing on the joists of the third-floor roof and holding the chimney for balance, the view was astonishing. That cool, blue haze that signals the coming dawn gave the city a magical look. From this height it appeared to be a vast forest with only the occasional building thrusting up through the foliage and the mist. The river could barely be made out meandering among the trees that had survived the ravages of Dutch Elm disease.

Closer at hand, we could see down, almost straight down, to Wellington Crescent and the long sinuous drive leading from the street to the house. This drive was currently occupied by a slow-moving convoy of construction-, or in this case destruction-equipment coming to finish the demolition of the house. The house on whose third-storey roof we were standing. We were, naturally, buck-naked because our clothes were downstairs by the pool, and our bikes were back at the remains of the little house. Time to skedaddle.

We retraced our route and managed to reclaim our belongings without incident, climbing on our bikes and riding calmly past the curious crew of workers assembling in the drive. We waved jauntily and got the hell out of there. We had harmed nothing during our explorations, but we didn’t relish the prospect of explaining what we’d been up to all night, so best be on our way.

Within a few days the houses had been levelled and that piece of history was behind us. Memories.

My Questionable Sense of Humour

Anyone who knows me well will be all too familiar with the kind of jokes I throw out there. Your blank stares and pitying sighs notwithstanding, I know that y'all truly appreciate them and wish to encourage me in my quest for the perfect knee-slapper. My favourite part is the delayed reaction as what I've just said percolates through and you realize that, “Hey, he's trying to be funny.” I live for it.
I suppose it may have something to do with the gypsy existence I led for the first part of my life. Our family moved around a fair bit thanks to my dad's government job, and the longest we stayed anywhere was about four years. This meant that I was frequently the new kid in town and had to figure out ways to make contact with like-minded individuals. A good joke is sometimes an excellent ice-breaker, and I made a point of collecting a few favourites to drop into conversations. The main problem with this approach is that, after I had thrown down some of my best stuff, all too often I would be rewarded with some sort of “Little Johnny” joke; contrived, filthy, and seldom funny. Worse yet, a grossly racist and sexist “Rastus” or blonde joke. It was through repeated disappointments that I came up with a few short one-liners that were so weird that only the most discerning individual would attempt to respond. Most people would just chuckle uncomfortably and begin to sidle away.
I met a kindred spirit this way when Curt, who I had only just met, said, “I saw the Buddha running a hot-dog stand, so I said, 'Make me one with everything.'” And we were off. We pulled together some exceedingly odd “Finder” jokes and generally made nuisances of ourselves honing them carefully for maximum effect. Example: Jean-Paul Sartre sat down at a café. When the waiter asked if he'd like anything, he responded, “I think not.” Then disappeared. (I told that one wrong for an embarrassingly long time.)
Once, I said to a guy at the bar, “ You know what the white stuff is in chicken shit?... It's still chicken shit.” His response took me somewhat aback. “ Actually, it's uric acid,” he said, and explained in exquisite detail the excretory functions of birds and their differences from mammals. I knew that this was someone I could spend some time with.
So the next time I drop one of my painfully convoluted puns into the conversation, stopping it cold, I'm just on the lookout for a connection.

Over the years, the question has come up surprisingly frequently, “So, how do you size a ring? Do you, like, stretch it or something?”
No, we usually don’t stretch them, although very occasionally will stretch a plain band up by a tiny amount. It is risky and makes the ring thinner, so we’d prefer not to.
No, what we do is, generally, cut the ring and either remove enough material to size it down, or add enough material to size it up. The length of material necessary to raise or lower the size is just over 2.5mm per, or the thickness of two dimes. When asked what we do with the gold that we cut out of down-sized rings, this number will help to reassure customers that we’re not making out like bandits on each sizing; most of the cost of sizing is in the labour. It takes time to do it right.

The simplest sizing is one where the ring is being sized down, is still in good shape, and the back of the shank hasn’t been thinned out by wear. The ring is cut and filed so that there will be no obvious seam, then closed up, maintaining the original, circular shape as much as possible. It is then soldered, cleaned up, and polished. Would that it was always that simple, but that’s the basic gist.

Sizing the ring up involves opening the ring to the correct size, ensuring, once again, that the basic shape is maintained. The opening is then filed so as to present two parallel sides, a piece of gold filed to fit, and the repair soldered and finished as before. The sides of the opening need to be parallel so that the new piece will be held in place while soldering, otherwise it pops out as it’s heated and burns a hole in your shirt. Don’t ask me how I know. I am, of course grossly over-simplifying the process, but I haven’t got all day.


Where the process gets complicated, is when the back of the shank (the ring part of the ring) is so thin that, to size it up in the normal manner would render it ridiculously thin. This can be due to wear, or built in to the structure of the ring by shabby manufacturing. If the latter, little can be done to improve it, but if it’s just the back bit of the ring, then extra material can be removed, out to where the shank is a bit thicker, then a more substantial piece of new gold can be soldered in. We try to send stuff out looking better than when it came in.

If there is so much wear that the ring is thin more than half-way around the shank, then a full shank replacement will be necessary, but that’s a story for another day.
Just a note about solder. When we talk about solder in the industry, we’re not speaking of lead solder, which is the most common type that people think of. Horrible stuff used on electronics and copper plumbing. Our solder is actually karat gold (10K, 14K, 18K) that has been alloyed in such a way as to lower its melting point. Properly used, it makes an invisible joint that is as strong as the original material.
Thus endeth the lesson. For more pedantic fuckery, stay tuned.

Begats

And, lo, it came to pass that, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-five, there came into our lives a Plant. A schefflera arboricola, by name. Also known to many as the dwarf umbrella and parasol, and to the Taiwanese as the Hainan. And as a Plant, it was Good. And it was Fruitful. Well, not exactly fruitful, as it bore no fruit, but it certainly knew how to go forth and multiply.

The original plant five years ago, about seventeen years old. As it got taller, the top foot or so would be unceremoniously lopped off and disposed of.

One day I decided to try a make a new plant out of the cutting, rather than simply chucking it and, boy, did that work.

This was taken a couple years after the initial planting, when it had already been shortened several times. The root base was filling in nicely, sort of clutching the soil. The pot is quite small, so the roots need to be pruned back every couple of years.

Whether I used a cutting from this plant or the original, I don’t recall, but I wanted one for the office downtown. I didn’t have any artistic motives, at first. Just a potted whatever to bring some life into the shop. Preferably something more or less indestructible. This thing fit the bill. It’s actually so dull that I have apparently never seen fit to snap a photo of it. It looks pretty much identical to the original.

That plant thrived (throve?) in the abundant sunlight, as well as the bright fluorescents at the office, and it  was time to start chopping it back. Well, waste not, want not. I brought a nice flat pot from home and started yet another cutting. So now we’ve got the grand-child of the original. This one also took off like the proverbial bat and got chopped back repeatedly.

A few years later, when the people who looked after the plants in the hallway of our building managed to kill the one outside my office, it was time for another iteration, the great-grand-child.

This is actually the first one that I didn’t personally repot. It was done by Joan and Chris, my apprentices, while I was off on holidays. They apparently did a good job because this is what it looks like a couple years later. It’s the bushiest one of all and hasn’t been hacked back at all yet. That top section is starting to look a little, ummm… uppity. Might be time to let it know what’s what.

Back home, now, I hear tell that Kristin is moving into a new house and, as if she hasn’t got enough plants already, I figured she could use one of these puppies. Besides, the first son was, once again, getting a little gangly. This was probably the most aggressive chop-job yet, as I took the entire top of the tree off and potted it. The old base looked pretty sad for a few weeks but, hey looky. The first little leaf has popped out the side and we’re off to the races once again.

Now we come to the reason for putting this whole thing together. Kristin contacted me last night and told me that her plant was already getting too big. Now, granted, I tend to plant these things in fairly tight pots, unless they’re going to be decorative plants rather than pseudo-bonsai, but it’s only been a couple weeks. Kris has always had a way of helping plants to thrive, so this doesn’t surprise me overmuch.

It’s choppin’ time.

Cheater Specs

Born as I was with an extremely near-sighted left eye, it has always been my contention that I was predisposed to be a goldsmith or an engraver. I have been able to work at very close quarters with my right hand without my knuckles getting in the way. Check it out.
This also meant that I sucked at sports, due to the complete lack of depth-perception, which was good, since it meant that I had more time to spend in my tiny basement workshop, honing my skills.
I only wear one contact len, which is seldom a concern, but the onset of something resembling old age has brought about a new development. Upon occasion, I require reading glasses. Carrying these around in a bulky old case is not my favourite thing, and not using a case just results in crushing said specs.
A while back, my buddy Russ and I were having lunch at the Second Avenue Grill downtown and it became obvious to our server, the lovely Natalie, that we were having trouble deciphering the bill. She showed up at the table with two of the coolest pairs of reading glasses, and we got to keep them. Once again, the problem of keeping them handy and protected presented itself. These specs were so slim, however, that they fit into a cigar tube, and my friend James recently gave me a Fuentes stogie for my birthday, the container of which worked perfectly. Whipping this out in a restaurant or at the symphony raises some eyebrows at first, but soon my brilliance becomes apparent.
It will, however, make you a little bit uncomfortable if you're familiar with Papillion, the memoir of Henri Charrière.

Back in the mid-seventies, after having cut off the hippie hair and decided that I was, indeed, a goldsmith, I had reason to enter Ben Moss Jewellers in Winnipeg. This was before I had discovered the concept of profit when pricing the stuff I was making, and I was buying chains at retail and selling them, at a loss, to my customers. This is still, somewhat, the story of my life, so it is with some regret that I think back to the job offer I received from Sid Trepel.
Sid was, as I learned later, not just a salesman or store manager, but the CEO of the whole shebang. His father-in-law, Ben Moss, had started the business in Winnipeg in 1910 and Sid took over in the late 'fifties. He was in the process of expanding the business and, for some reason, had set his sights on me. Problem is, he wanted a sales person and I am most emphatically not one of those, but now I realize that I may have missed an opportunity to learn more about, you know, business.
Ben Moss, the business entity, and I parted company from there on as I pursued making jewellery for people, rather than the masses. I often wonder whether a little bit of discipline and knowledge of the inner workings of the retail industry would have changed the way I do business for the better, or to the detriment of the kind of work I do.
I've never thought of myself as competing with retail jewellers, although what they do definitely affects the way I need to work. The fashion changes over the years, from white to yellow gold and back again, the swing from practical to flashy, bulky to delicate, have meant that my people developed different needs, to which I have had to respond.
Ben Moss Jewellers tried to respond to their customers in their own way, but the great toll of competition finally beat them and they are closing their doors after a hundred and six years. I just wanted to say thanks for the chance, Sid.
I'm still standing.