An African Moment

My husband John and I were standing dispiritedly on a streetcar platform on Spadina in downtown Toronto. We had just returned from a succession of African postings – first to Ghana, then Ethiopia, and finally Zimbabwe – and the light overcoats we were wearing, so fashionable when we’d put them into storage 11 years earlier, were now hopelessly dated, their waterproofing and insulation long gone.

We were bone-cold.

It was one of those dim, late-November evenings, the kind that strum the mind, evoking memories of burning leaves and dank soil, and the baleful onset of a Canadian winter. Children were safely indoors, tucked up behind the comfort of curtains, waiting for their suppers. Shops were beginning to close. And the homeward-bound were pulling on their woolly toques and padded gloves, and rushing to catch their buses and subways.

John was shuffling the large shopping bags I’d weighed him down with, trying to rebalance the load.

“Remind me again,” he said, “what were our reasons for moving back to Canada and not to the French Riviera?”

He sounded a little exasperated. Carrying two new winter coats can do that to you, especially if you’re also lugging two pairs of boots and seven sets of long underwear, both uppers and lowers.

“I think it had something to do with money. Like not having enough of it,” I said, my bone marrow starting to congeal.  Where, I wondered, was Africa’s lambent sunshine when I needed it? And where was that darned streetcar?

“Did we fully explore possibilities in Greece?” I asked, returning to the subject of temperate climates, “Or Cyprus? Egypt? Algeria? What’s a little upheaval when you’re not shivering …”

But we both knew the truth: It was family and friends that had lured us back. And the promise of a good life in a great country. Thirty-six years in the Foreign Service had ratcheted up our pride and, dare I say it, our patriotism.

The platform was starting to congest. People from everywhere on Earth: Canada’s legendary cultural mosaic made flesh. All of them jammed in with us on that long chilly concrete islet, looking into the distance for their transport home.

Just as my eyeballs were beginning to gather rime from the misty night air, I spotted a dazzling and familiar streak of kente – Ghana’s iconic woven cloth. A man nearby was wearing it tightly corkscrewed around his neck. He had on a bobble hat, its ear flaps pulled fiercely down, and a pair of red knitted gloves, adorned with white maple leafs. His jacket – the kind I imagine a lineman would want if he planned to work on hydro poles in the high Arctic – was zipped up tightly. He was taking no chances with the weather.

To us, so recently back from Africa, he appeared to be Ghanaian. He was older, quite tall, with a kindly face and a stature that was effortlessly erect.  Nearby in the crowd stood a young girl – possibly Ethiopian, I thought.

 

I saw him glance down at her, then heard him click his tongue loudly and disapprovingly.

“Your coat is not heavy enough,” he declared, pointing unabashedly. In most parts of Africa, elders offer advice without prompting, and younger people accept it.

But the girl stared back at him, lips defiantly pursed.

He was right in his assessment: She had on a distressingly thin pink jacket, more suited to late spring than late autumn; her spindly legs, jutting out from beneath a summer dress, were bare; and she wore flip-flops with rubber daisies on the toe-straps.

What was her mother thinking, I wondered, letting her out dressed like that?

The answer was immediately and trenchantly clear: Standing directly behind the girl was a tall, beautiful woman, her hair plaited with beads in traditional northern Ethiopian – Tigrayan – fashion, tight against her head in front, full and fluffy in back. She was clad in Ethiopian national attire: a short-sleeved white dress made of gauze-like cotton, embroidered with coloured crosses along the neckline and the edge of the skirt. Every finely woven thread of it was hopelessly inadequate against the cold. Even the natela she had elegantly arrayed over her slender shoulders offered little in the way of protection.

“You need a much heavier coat in Canada,” the man with the kente scarf repeated more forcefully this time, turning slightly to include the woman in his admonition.

The young girl glared at him, still silent.

This was a standoff of deep cultural proportions.

Suddenly and without warning, she blurted, “Where are you from?”

“What?”

The man seemed taken aback with her directness and curiosity.

“What do you mean?” he snapped, frowning.

“Well, are you African?” she asked.

He looked down at her, utterly speechless.

“I said, are you African?” she reiterated, somewhat boldly.

I watched his face turn from disapproving to disbelief, and from disbelief to frank offence.

It was a tense moment.Then he pulled up his shoulders, and waving his maple-leaf-gloved hands in the air, declared with gravitas and visible pride: “I am Canadian!”

Now I’d like to be able to say that at that very moment a marching band appeared out of the darkness and struck up the national anthem. And that the entire platform erupted into song: our home and native land … true patriot love … with glowing hearts … we stand on guard.

But that, of course, didn’t happen.

What did happen though was that for John and me, Canada just got a whole lot warmer.

Alena Schram lives in Amherst Island, Ont.

AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
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ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK, FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

Mandela, South Africa, and Canada

As Nelson Mandela’s long and noble life ebbs inexorably to a close, everyone that ever spied him from a distance or watched him on TV — or, in solidarity with him, gave up Paarl wines, Granny Smith apples, Outspan oranges, Marlboro cigarettes — feels a special relationship with this iconic South African. His effect on people the world over has been unusually personal, intimate even.

Predictably these days, it’s hard to find any white South Africans that were in favour of apartheid — the iniquitous codified system based on race that predetermined the future of every child born there.

 

Indeed, many now imply they were “in the struggle”, “banned”, “nearly banned” or “restricted”, while others insist they emigrated, not for economic reasons, but because they were involved in anti-apartheid activities, and threatened with reprisals by the fearsome South African security services.
 

If you believe that, you probably also believe there were never any Communists in the Soviet Union or Nazis in Hitler’s Germany.

Those of us in Pretoria in the late 1980s, posted to the Canadian Embassy — as it then was — knew well the shamefully small band of white saints and heroes that, with no guarantee of an equitable resolution to the intractable problems facing that nation, and at great danger to themselves, stood up to the authorities and did what was right, alongside their black compatriots.

Successful professionals all, they had nothing to gain from their moral and vocal engagement, and everything to lose.

Some, like young Keith Coleman, were sent to prison — into solitary confinement — as punishment for their activism.

Well-known jurist Albie Sachs, working against the apartheid regime from nearby Mozambique, had his arm blown off by a parcel bomb.

However, many more benefitted happily from a system where the odds were stacked in their favour from birth.

It wasn’t that they were particularly in favour of apartheid, but their silent compliance helped to maintain it.

They weren’t especially racist either; they simply edited blacks from sight.

An elegant, educated industrialist, seated beside me at an all-white luncheon in Johannesburg the year before Mandela’s release, boasted of the efficiency of his large production company.

“And it’s all run by just seven people,” he announced proudly.

“Seven!?” I asked, amazed.

“Oh, and 300 blacks,” he added, absent-mindedly.

What most Canadians are unaware of is the pivotal role that Canada — along with Sweden, Australia, and The Netherlands — played in the battle to dismantle South Africa’s system of legalized racism.

Our embassy in Pretoria took a lead in the South African struggle for a just, multi-racial society — the ‘rainbow nation’ that Mandela envisaged throughout his 27 years on Robben Island.

And our efforts were unstintingly supported by ordinary Canadians who understood the issue and the righteousness of the stand we were taking together.

In those dark days before Mandela’s release, Canadian diplomats joined black and white South Africans at blacks-only bus stops and outside black hospital wards, to press for their desegregation.

Some officers, while observing protests, were tear-gassed, while others — or their spouses — were water cannoned, rounded up, and thrown into police vehicles.

Meanwhile, the embassy’s $1.2 million Dialogue Fund, established by Brian Mulroney’s government, supported human rights groups and anti-apartheid initiatives.

Our brief: to represent the voiceless; to be a persistent, unrelenting presence, watching, listening, bearing witness.

And to press for change.

In 1990, soon after he emerged from prison, Nelson Mandela publicly credited Canadians for the critical part they played in that change. But as everyone knows, it was the towering Mandela himself, whose leadership made the seemingly impossible, possible. Who inspired South Africans to make this modern-day miracle work.

His death is sure to unleash a flood of first-person stories: What Madiba Confided In Me; How I Advised Mandela on South Africa; My Moment with Nelson.

But his eloquent handwritten letter to my husband John and me, as we prepared to leave South Africa, was in fact a first-person story about all Canadians that shared his vision:

“Dear John and Alena, During your stay in South Africa, we have come to know and respect you as people who care about South Africa, about our trials and tribulations, our setbacks and victories. Through your warmth and understanding and positive contributions you have won many friends not only for yourself, but also for Canada.

You have touched our hearts and will be sorely missed.”

Mandela’s legacy will, in some measure, be Canada’s. We have every right to be proud.

Alena Schram and her husband John served in the Canadian Embassy, Pretoria from 1988 to 1992. John was Minister-Counsellor and Alena administered the Dialogue Fund.

© Copyright (c) The Ottawa Citizen

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

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A Loo With a View

We were heading to a project opening near Debre Zeit, about an hour’s drive from Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia. John, then the Canadian ambassador, was going to examine the spanking new water pump Canada had donated, meet the local dignitaries, and demonstrate that Canadians were, in fact, their brothers’ keepers. I was going as loyal consort. And because it was an official trip, we had a driver and a four-wheel drive vehicle to get us over the almost non-existent roads.

It was Sunday and I had had two cups of coffee after church that morning at the Meet & Greet. This was a mistake, and I knew it ten minutes out of town, because the Ethiopian countryside, unlike some more highly developed countries, offers nothing in the way of public amenities. There are no service stations with locked bathrooms, no McDonald’s to sneak into, no roadside cafes, no port-a-poos. And worst of all, on this particular stretch of road, and in the middle of the dry season, no foliage. Not a tree, not a bush, not a shrub, no cactus or even long grass.

But I am accustomed to managing. Indeed, over the years I have lost a good deal of my middle-class bashfulness and am willing to make do under almost any circumstances. Generally on road trips I carry along a large golf umbrella that I take with me when I leave the car and head for a bush. It’s useful for mashing down twigs and spearing the occasional unsightly bits of …. well …. debris. Furthermore, trial and many errors have proven that with some dexterous manoeuvring and a bit of practice, I can artfully twirl this tool in almost any direction to get some privacy. Umbrellas have worked for me on many occasions: in the north of Ghana when, out of nowhere, two trucks loaded with standing, staring workmen suddenly bore down on me; and once, in Nigeria, when a camel train from north Africa suddenly hove into view.

But on this particular afternoon, on the road to Debre Zeit, there was nothing even remotely camouflaging to hide the bits the umbrella wouldn’t cover. I was in trouble. Desperate. Eventually, as I knew we would, we hit one pothole too many and I could stand it no longer.

“STOP!” I shrieked.

Now John’s official driver, Abraha, always knew what this cry meant: that within the next half minute he was to find me a congenial spot, in the shade, near a running stream, where no puff adders or cobras were likely to be lurking. But this was not Abraha, this was Gedamu the office driver, and he did as asked. He simply pulled over and stopped.

Grabbing my umbrella I scrambled frantically out of the car, prepared to make my Ethiopian debut if I had to. But to my utter amazement, there right in front of me were four gigantic and quite uncharacteristic boulders. Delighted, I tore off into a gap between the rocks and there found myself in a magnificent meadow. No tall foliage to protect me, but no livestock and best of all, no people either. Quickly, and out of habit, I snapped my umbrella into place, and made myself comfortable.

Not thirty seconds into my performance I was aware of a somewhat familiar but distant rumble. The sound quickly increased and from my vulnerable vantage point I could suddenly see the train from the small neighbouring country, Djibouti, moving quickly over my horizon. Faster and faster it came, with people and animals pouring out of the windows. I was in no position to move. My red and white striped umbrella was like a flashing beacon, and with the ambassadorial flag waving from the front of our parked car we were virtually advertising ownership of the bare bottom.

Feeling utterly disgraced, I eventually slunk back to the vehicle. The driver, who must surely have known I was heading onto the railway right-of-way and that the Addis-bound Djibouti train would be passing through momentarily, tried hard to stifle any visible emotion. John didn’t dare look even mildly amused, not while I had my umbrella up.

The following day, at lunch with European Union colleagues, I told them my shocking story. By evening, everyone in the diplomatic corps had heard it, along with various embellishments (“…. and the train actually slowed down when they saw her!”, “…. Imagine -- she was in trousers and not a skirt!”, “John tried to drag her back!” “…. Apparently she could hear the laughing for miles!”).

Three days later at a large reception with most of the diplomatic corps in attendance, Father Donald, the young American Catholic priest attached to the Vatican embassy, approached me looking distressed.

“Can I have a private word with you, Alena?” he asked.

“Sure, Donald,” I immediately replied, thinking he needed advice with a moral dilemma, “is something worrying you?”

“Well,” he drawled, lips trembling in a barely suppressed giggle, “I was on the train from Djibouti last Sunday.” Pause. “And I think I may have seen you.”

© Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com
alenaschram@gmail.com

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);  
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM.
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

TTFN (or Ta-Ta for Now)

Dear Readers

The opinionated old cow is moving on. No, not to the slaughterhouse, but to the greener pastures she’s been eyeing recently.

The cow has already had quite a run, circling the globe each week and – according to the blogspot tracker – winding up with a readership of over 17,000 in 58 countries (though neither she nor I knows a soul in 31 of them!). Such is the remarkable power of the internet.

She’s also appeared in the print version of the International Herald Tribune and the web version of the New York Times and the International Herald Tribune.

We’ve thoroughly enjoyed having a weekly platform for our rants, and been delighted with the hundreds of messages we’ve received in return.

Now new adventures beckon. Watch this space for less frequent – and shorter – moos.

Alena S.

P.S. Since nothing in cyberspace ever dies or disappears, you can still always click on www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com to re-read back columns.

Alena Schram

www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com

alenaschram@gmail.com

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX)
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

Staying on My Good Side

When my provocative cousin, Ron, boorishly blurted out at a family Labour Day reunion, “I’d like to re-open the issue of Grandma’s pearl earrings”, he had no way of knowing he’d just kissed several thousand dollars goodbye.

That was the amount of money I’d notionally set aside for him from my future lottery winnings.

“But you’ve never won a thing in your life!” protested John, quite tactlessly, as I was hiding the disputed earrings in the dresser drawer, later that evening.

John was not, strictly speaking, right. In July 1983, at a village fete in England, I won a cake of dubious provenance: It was made entirely of industrial margarine, manufactured from the spittle off a North Sea oil rig. Its glistening icing – rigidly bonded overtop – had the viscosity of latex and the scent of Vaseline.

I looked for a tag with a list of its more practical applications, like: “Useful for greasing door hinges and car springs. Also a moderately-effective spermicidal agent and hair-straightening pomade”.

But the only slip of paper I could find with this so-called Citron Gateau, read: “Prepared in Olive T’s spotless kitchen.”

I’ve never won anything else.

Every week John asks me, rhetorically and exasperatingly, when I hand over $5 for a try at the Lotto Max jackpot, “Do you have any idea how small your chances of winning are when you buy a ticket?”

And every week, with equally tiresome monotony, I lob back, “And do you have any idea how much smaller my chances would be if I DIDN’T buy one?”

I don’t get it: whenever I’m in the queue at the local lottery kiosk, I seem to be behind some cardiganed gentleman who scuffles up to the counter with his walker, hands over a wad of tickets, listens as each one merits a winner’s bell, and then with pleasure crinkled on his face and money crumpled in his hand, scuffles off again.

So far that’s never happened to me. My ticket always elicits a mechanical voice, filled with joyful Schadenfreude, that blasts out “NO PRIZE, YOU NAÏVE MORON” in both of Canada’s official languages.

Nevertheless, on sleepless nights, when gambolling sheep fail to relax me, I count imaginary lottery jackpot wins instead, and mentally dole out the proceeds.

Moving 40 million virtual dollars around in the dark when you flunked Grade 10 Maths and still can’t reconcile a bank account, is harder than it sounds.

Yesterday morning around 3 a.m. after several gruelling hours spent dividing the fictional winnings equitably among offspring, charities, and other assorted worthies, I suddenly began to fret about the broader tax and legal implications.

I needed to get this right, and to do that I needed a calculator.

Leaning over noiselessly, I slid the iPad towards me and peeled back its flexi-cover.

“What the devil are you doing?” John slurred groggily, as the iPad’s light hit him squarely in the eyes.

“Looking after one or two last bequests,” I whispered, hoping to soothe him back to sleep.

“Last bequests?” he cried, and sat bolt upright in bed. “You mean you’re dying, and not just playing Solitaire?”

At 8 a.m. when the alarm went off, I was predictably cranky.

“Make that radioactive,” said John.

Cousin Ron couldn’t have chosen a worse time to call.

John lunged for the phone.

“She was up much of the night,” I heard him tell Ron, “and I think it’s safe to say she’s not her best this morning. Why not leave a message?”

“…………..No, no, she’s fine. Just busy sorting out $40 million in lottery winnings, and arguing about it with lawyers, accountants, money managers.”

Ron’s sudden piercing squawk bounced off the kitchen walls.

I snatched the receiver out of John’s hand.

Ron couldn’t have been sweeter. The earrings were, of course, mine. In fact, he added in a voice oozing slime, that was precisely what he’d meant when he’d raised the subject at the Labour Day event.

I was dubious.

“No, really,” he assured me, “Diana insists they stay with you. That’s what Grandma wanted.” Diana is Ron’s cello-shaped avaricious wife.

“You and I really need to talk, Ron,” I told him, suggestively.

“Oh yes,” he burbled, “and you’ll have to tell me about your fabulous good fortune!”

As I put down the phone, I couldn’t resist looking pointedly at John.

“So who says I never win anything?" I asked.


© Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);

OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM. 

ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

The Medium Really Is the Message

My neighbour, Dinah, doesn’t like to waste a centimetre of critical brain space on such banal details as names. She’s so busy solving the great mysteries of life – even when she’s rolling out pie pastry – that a poorly-timed and inconsiderate phone call can totally derail the profound thought she was having, thus robbing the world of something…..well…..just something, I guess.

Last week, boldly ignoring the potential loss to mankind, I phoned her, and began slowly and crisply with, “It’s Alena Schram.”

And she answered insufferably as always, “Oh……Eileen Schubert?” (or Eleanor Southam or even Ellen Swine).

This was one befuddlement too many for me. “For goodness’ sake!” I snapped, “You know perfectly well who I am!”

And guess what? She did.

Should have communicated by email, I thought belatedly. So much less contentious and annoying.

Emails are the best invention since the tampon, and they don’t clog up the septic system.

Right now I have 1014 resting in my Inbox and 3839 sweetly nestled in my Sent file. And before you ask, the answer is: yes, I do delete. Great gobs of messages every month. But the little fiends just keep re-colonizing.

I’m addicted to the medium: I love to crank up my computer in the morning and find 10 or 15 delicious emails waiting for me. And I love to pull the blanket up at night, perch the iPad on my knees, and send electronic hugs to friends that have been on my mind all day.

“Did you manage to get the chocolate finger painting out of the velvet chair?” I write. “Today’s grandchildren are so much more creative than their parents ever were.”

Or, “Remember the afternoon we found your parents’ sex manual behind the liquor cabinet and vowed never to marry if it meant having to deal with a man’s you-know-what?”

Or even, “I’m thinking about you and your problem with Janette. Dump her! No one needs a friend that’s gone toxic!”

These emails are my way of staying connected without actually having to hear every detail of a home renovation or a hip replacement or even a catastrophic holiday in Sardinia.

But there are some people that believe the email is a modern communications upstart that has lamentably replaced the handwritten letter. They write long, carefully constructed messages beginning with “My dear” and ending with “Yours affectionately” which they expect to be savoured and digested slowly and sacredly. They certainly don’t want an answer back in less time than it takes to power down their computers.

Yesterday I got the following email from a friend who adheres to the Jane Austen School of Letter Writing: “I just managed to get a long letter off to you,” it groused, “and there’s a reply already back in my Inbox. Why can’t you do the decent thing and wait six months before answering?”

As I lay in bed last night, iPad resting on my knees again, I pondered her retort. And I came up with a short protocol to deal with this sort of message. I call it Alena’s Short Protocol for Dealing with Such Messages:

1. Resist the temptation to write back and call her a bad name (examples of which I can’t actually spell out here in case this falls into the hands of minors). Do not enquire about her recent hysterectomy either. Leave the question of hormone deficiencies to her husband, whom she describes – in her email, at least – in very unflattering terms, bordering on the profane (examples likewise omitted: see above).

2. Do not, under any circumstances, point out that she has too much time on her hands, and that playing Bridge five times a week does not constitute living a full life. Do not indicate that Full Life Status also requires a few hands of Canasta, an evening of Euchre, and – and if she's a Canadian – two rounds of Crokinole, and one of Rummoli (non-Canadians please consult Google) added to her repertoire.

3. Wait three weeks and then write back. Instead of text, insert brief comments into the body of her letter, in red. Where she has described her surgery, write OH DEAR! And after the paragraph on her horrible husband, type WHAT A CAD! Add YOU MUST BE EXHAUSTED! NO WONDER YOU CAN’T BEAR THE THOUGHT OF MORE INCOMING MESSAGES! following the section on the stresses of Bridge.

4. Send an email immediately with a subject line that reads: IGNORE PREVIOUS EMAIL WITH IMPORTANT NEWS just to upset her.

5. Then click on Address Book and delete her details. Empty the trash.


Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.