Desperately Seeking a Specimen

Years ago, when you returned from a third-world posting, the government would generally agree to let you undergo a tropical medical examination. This was to make sure you weren’t harbouring anything sinister in your system; that you presented no danger to your friends, family or the public at large; and probably so you couldn’t sue anyone when, twenty years later, you discovered something unfortunate hiding in your liver. 

We’d been living in Lagos, Nigeria for three years. Our daughters, Elizabeth and Katherine, were tiny and vulnerable; we’d had amoebas a number of times (something caused by a microscopic creature that leaves you feeling as though you’d had a bicycle pump applied to your intestines); and John and I had travelled all over the country under dubious hygienic conditions.  We therefore thought it wise to take advantage of this entitlement and the government’s generosity.

At the time, the Toronto General Hospital was the only place in Eastern Canada able to run these tests.  Appointments were generally arranged for the morning, presumably because patients were more likely to produce the required specimens at that time of day.  

We arrived for our appointment at 8 a.m.  The waiting room -- essentially a long narrow hall with wooden chairs arranged in a row on the left, and two doors leading to the all-important toilets on the right – was already full.  There were only two unoccupied seats and John and I each took one, perching a small daughter apiece on our laps.  Within an instant of sitting down we heard our names booming out the length of the hall.

“MR. SCHRAM!  MRS. SCHRAM!  COME HERE FOR YOUR VESSELS!”   

Nonplussed and with considerable embarrassment, we headed in the direction of the voice.  There, at the end of the long hall, behind a desk, sat a grim looking nurse, an array of what looked like Chinese restaurant take-out boxes arranged before her.

“TAKE ONE OF THESE VESSELS EACH AND GIVE ME A URINE SPECIMEN,” she announced to everyone in the room, her voice echoing off the walls.  Thirty pairs of eyes seemed to follow us as we made our way back to our seats.

No problem.  The girls and I walked through the door marked “Ladies”, did as we were told, and walked out again triumphantly, lids on our little boxes.  We handed in our specimens and sat down again. 

Then we waited.   And we waited.  And we waited, as John sat quietly with his own lidless box on his lap.  Five minutes passed.  Ten minutes.  The box stayed put.  We were prepared to sit there all day if need be, but clearly the nurse wasn’t.

“MR. SCHRAM!  MR. SCHRAM!  IF YOU CAN’T GIVE ME A SPECIMEN, I’M GOING TO HAVE TO SEND YOU TO THE COKE MACHINE!” she bellowed, accusingly. 

Heads turned.  John’s ears went pink.  A sense of failure seemed to surround him.  And another five minutes passed.

“ALRIGHT, MR. SCHRAM!  THAT’S LONG ENOUGH.  YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO GO TO THE COKE MACHINE NOW!”

John got up, walked miserably the length of the hall, past the nurse who seemed to be smirking, and off to the soft drinks machine.  He returned a few minutes later, presumably better prepared for the task.

In some seven minutes the Coke had worked its magic and John too was able to produce a small, lidded container for the insufferable nurse.  Even Elizabeth and Katherine looked relieved.

Next the crucial stool specimen.  Don’t ask me how, but the girls and I were somehow –inexplicably -- able to produce something on demand.   Once again, within moments, we emerged from the ladies’ room victoriously, our boxes sealed.   You could see the pride in our steps as we marched towards the desk and plunked our boxes down.

But John was neither so fortunate, nor so glib, and again we sat there, expectantly and supportively, together.  Once again long minutes passed.  And then the inevitable reproach:

“MR. SCHRAM!  MR. SCHRAM!  IF YOU CAN’T PRODUCE SOMETHING FOR ME IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES, I’M GOING TO HAVE TO GIVE YOU A SUPPOSITORY AND A RUBBER GLOVE!”

Now if there’s anything that’s going to produce constriction of sphincters in a patient it’s this ultimate and public humiliation.  Unable to endure another, John submitted immediately and, like a schoolboy going for a failed test paper, he approached the gorgon in starchy white, wordlessly took the two items she seemed to be waving about, and with his box and lid, entered the Gents’.  The waiting room seemed to go silent.  An air of expectation hung heavily.

Let me just say that he eventually appeared looking mortified, furious, but noticeably pleased.  The girls and I waited for the round of applause we were sure would follow. With something of a swagger, John carried his contribution to the desk, set it down resolutely, and strode out of the room.  In fact, he strode right out of the hospital.   

When I eventually managed to catch up with him, he turned and snapped, “Alena, you and I eat together, drink together, and travel together.  Whatever I’ve got, you’ve probably got too.  So next time we need one of these things, YOU go alone and bring me back all the same medicine!”  And, of course, we’ve never been back.

Coming soon:  "The Opinionated Old Cow:  Ruminations from the Field".  It will be published in paperback the end of October and available simultaneously as an eBook from Amazon.

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.

 

Throwing Off the Kitchen Shackles

After a lifetime of preparing meals, I've reached my threshold. John is going to take over in the kitchen.

"I am?" he said, startled, when I told him.

Actually, when we started dating I couldn't cook at all-- unless you consider Jell-O with fruit cocktail floaters a repertoire. It didn't take John long to notice what a useless culinary wretch I was. One afternoon several months into our courtship, he passed through the kitchen of his flat where I was struggling to prepare corn on the cob – the centrepiece of my gourmet dinner – and spied four ears bobbing about upright, in a small pan of boiling water.

"What on earth is that?" he asked.

"What does it look like?" I answered, wondering what he could possibly be referring to.

And with those five ill-chosen words, our wedding was put on hold until I could get a grip. Fortunately, I had a couple of redeeming features, like big hair and legs that looked good in a mini-skirt -- important attributes for a girl in the '60s.

Once married, I quickly made up for lost time. Wine sauces were my deliverance: I smothered meat dishes in red wine sauces; poultry and vegetables in white; and poured brandy or rum over desserts. Some evenings I served all three. I was so soignée.

In those days, it was easy to appear sophisticated. If you brought out artichokes, the room fell silent. A friend who concocted a vile little first course – a mound of jellied consommé topped with a globule of sour cream and a spoonful of black caviar – was the talk of the town for weeks. Even gazpacho was considered urbane.

"Jeepers, what is this stuff ? It's got the consistency of a marsh floor!" exclaimed my friend Sally the first time I served it. But after that initial gagging incident, she was charmed by its pungency.

To be safe, I always began cooking supper at three in the afternoon. This gave me enough time to prepare a second meal if the first didn't turn out, with an hour left over to shower, change and tie a velvet ribbon in my hair before John came home.

There were disadvantages to this system. For one thing, the meat would turn to porridge if left simmering for four hours; for another, the sauces would dwindle away, requiring extra lashings of wine to perk them up. Often, by the time John got home at 7:30, the food was wine-logged and so, of course, was I. There I'd be, my little hair ribbon all askew, blowing welcome-home-honey kisses up at him, horizontally, from the couch.

Naturally, there were regrettable episodes in that first year. Here are three of the lessons I learned from them: First, cayenne and paprika are similar only in colour. Second, if you've never poached fish before, you'd better like gumbo.  And, finally, it's better to be known for your salmon than your salmonella. This I discovered the evening John's epicurean boss, Frank, came to dinner and our oven would only preheat.

"What exquisite salmon!" gushed Frank extravagantly, drawing a mouthful over his famed palate. "Scottish or Norwegian? Baked, right?"

There was an audible suck-in sound from John's end of the table. His promotion seemed in jeopardy.

"Close," I burbled. "Chicken. Half-baked."

But that was 13,000 meals ago. Now I was about to be liberated.

Over coffee the other day, I told my friend Lesley about John taking over in the kitchen.

"Wow," she declared, "you're brave. When I let Rob have the run of the kitchen, the first thing he served was barbecued calf’s tongue with a mustard sauce. It made me heave. The next day I was back in the kitchen."

"Sounds like a ploy to get out of cooking," I replied. "John loves a challenge. I'll probably walk in tonight and find beef tenderloin with mixed peppercorns, and something spectacular for dessert."

Pumped with anticipation, I headed home. John was in the kitchen, surrounded by every possible pot, pan and utensil, his debut meal nestled nearby on a warming platter.

"You'll love it," he enthused, grabbing some plates. "It's barbecued calf’s tongue with mustard sauce..."

Personally, I think something that's been in a calf’s mouth for a year has no business being in mine. It took me an hour and a litre of water to get the thing down. Then, I explained to John -- admittedly 18 decibels above my normal range -- that if he truly loved me, he'd prove it by learning to cook good things. He agreed.

But later in the evening something happened that gave me pause: John was sitting in an armchair quietly studying the salad section in The Joy of Cooking. Suddenly and without any warning, he jumped up and yelled, "Arugula!? Holy cow, all this time I thought it was something you blew into a handkerchief!"

Can I really entrust the next 13,000 meals to someone so daft? 

© Alena Schram

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.

Oh To Be a Susan!

I am an Alena who wasted an entire girlhood longing to be a Susan.

Susans – when I was growing up in 1950s Toronto – were enchanting creatures, with perfect pony tails that bobbed saucily when they walked.

In school at lunch time, Susans took dainty bunny bites out of Saran-Wrapped crustless egg salad triangles. At night they slept in beds with chenille bedspreads, dreaming their sweet Susan dreams under crisp top sheets that folded neatly back over their blankets. And their mothers made casseroles and understood the complexities of roast beef and lump-free gravy.

Alenas, on the other hand, had straight hair parted on one side and held back with a clip.

Alenas ate ham or salami on rye bread, cut haphazardly in two,and bundled up in wax paper. Alenas slept under massive eiderdowns that looked obscene to the casual observer. And Alena mothers thought that casseroles were pernicious concoctions made from decomposing leftovers, and that roast beef lacked brio.

The mothers of Susans were pretty. And modern. They had seductive pageboy hairdos that were spit-curled at night. They smoked cigarettes, and drank cocktails before dinner.

Alena mothers wore their hair pinned up in chignons, and drank wine with their Wiener Schnitzel (“It’s called a wiener what?”), or their goulash (“Gooo-lash!? You’re lying!”).

The parents of Susans didn’t speak a foreign language at home. They didn’t have funny accents either. And when they asked strangers perfectly straightforward simple questions in English, like “Where is the bathroom please?” no one ever replied, frowning, “I’m sorry but I don’t speak French.”

Susans were not Alenas. And Alenas definitely were not Susans.

But hang on. What am I thinking? There were no Alenas, plural, when I was growing up. There was just one. Me.

“Mary, Diane, Janice, Carol, Kathy, Susan, ALENA,” went our class roll call. Lah-di-dah-di-lah-di-THUNK.

“Ewwww, what kind of a name is THAT?” other children would often ask.

Indeed.

Alena and Vera, I knew from endless telling, were my father’s best friend’s twin daughters, killed in wartime. And since my father had once been engaged to a vamp called Vera, Alena had seemed the far less contentious choice when I came along.

Properly pronounced in Czech, it sounded quite reasonable:Ah-le-na, with the accent on the first “a” and a short “e”. But skimmed over a1950s English-only palate, it became Aleeeeena.

I hated it. Why oh why could I not have been born a Susan, I wondered wretchedly --and never more than on gummy summer evenings when neighbourhood parents would call their offspring in from twilight games of hide-and-go-seek.

“Time to come in now!”

Then, one after another in a chorus up the street:

“Mary!”

“Diane!”

“Susan!”

Just as the last grown-up had finished barking, “I MEAN IT! NOW! OR ELSE!” and that silent moment when kids assess the seriousness of parental threats had passed, my father would put his lips to some invisible megaphone and bellow, “AlenKO! Ve are vaiting!”

AlenKO. The hideous diminutive vocative. Wasn’t Aleeeeena bad enough?

It didn’t matter to me that he was a respected member of the legal department of a large corporation; or that my mother had been raised by a nanny and tootled around by a chauffeur. What mattered was that I didn’t fit in, the way Susans did.

My Susan aspirations, such an affliction in childhood, are purely vestigial now. Canadian society has become less rigid and more international: white bread – which my parents regarded as truly deviant – has been overtaken in pre-eminence by whole-wheat and chichi artisanal; bedspreads, covers, and top sheets have given way to low-maintenance duvets; mothers – and even fathers –take pride in their global recipe repertoires; and everyone agrees that if little androgynous Madison or Taylor or Hunter is to succeed in life, she/he must learn to speak a second language. It’s all so belatedly comforting.

One afternoon last summer in Prague, the magnificent Baroque capital of the Czech Republic – home to 95% of the world’s Alenas – I sat in lambent sunshine near the 10^th century Vysehrad Castle and watched a small girl suddenly escape her mother’s clutches and race after a puppy.

“Alena! Alena!” the mother shouted, in alarm.

And I finally had to admit that Alena was, on balance, a pretty swell name.

(c) Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com
alenaschram@gmail.com

This appeared in Canada's Globe & Mail newspaper, Facts & Arguments page, 10 August 2012.

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 Glamour is Gone

In the summer of 1971, my husband, John, was posted to the Canadian High Commission in Lagos, Nigeria, and I prepared to go with him, as foreign service spouses (read: wives) were expected to do back then.

Posting confirmation in hand, John rushed straight to the finance section of then-External Affairs and took out a posting loan to top up our meagre outfitting allowance; I grabbed the money and headed to Ogilvy's, where I used it to buy 12 sets of crystal, china, cutlery and table linens. It didn't matter that we were hopelessly in debt: We could set a beautiful table in hot, humid, post-Biafran War, Nigeria.

"How come you're buying all this stuff?" asked the bewildered young sales assistant, as she rang up my cache.

"My husband's being sent to Africa," I replied loftily, "as a diplomat."

"Oh," she exclaimed, no doubt wondering what a diplomat was, "so what're you going to do?"

Stumped, I answered, "Entertain."

"Wow! Singer or dancer?"

Loyal appendage would have been closer to the truth. I'd read the official handbook and knew my role would be strictly supportive. But I was anxious to do well. In those days, wives figured prominently in their husbands' annual appraisals, and we were in this career together.

According to the handbook, my first task was to send a note to the wife of the high commissioner, declaring our delight at having been selected for Lagos. Composing the message took me half a day and writing it ate up six of my expensive new Birks "informals." Like the calling cards issued to me, these fold-over white note-cards with my official name — Mrs. John R. Schram — prominently embossed on the front, were part of the diplomatic kit.

Once at the post, it was my duty, within three days of our arrival, to call on the high commissioner's spouse, and in full regalia: afternoon dress, nylons, high-heeled shoes. I clearly remember the green and white linen suit that clung to me like a dry-cleaning bag, the white shoes into which I had horned my little sausage feet, and the droplets of perspiration that ran off my nose and trickled down the backs of my pantyhosed thighs.  I knew how important it was to make a good first impression and, sitting nervously on the chintz couch, my teacup and saucer rat-tat-a-tat-ing loudly in my slippery, quivering hand, I just hoped I was succeeding.
 
In those days we all knew that an invitation from our high commissioner — or ambassador — and his wife was a command performance. The diplomatic handbook was quite succinct on the subject: attendance at the Official Residence (O.R.) was mandatory, except in cases of personal ill health or if the officer himself was hosting a function at home; we were there as co-hosts, not as guests; our job was to engage official visitors in conversation, not to stand around talking to our friends.

An invitation to the O.R. also meant arriving 15 minutes ahead of the first guest, and leaving 15 minutes after the last one had gone home. And if, occasionally, it looked as if one or two invitees might not show up, it meant virtually springing out of the hall closet at the last moment, appropriately attired, to fill the vacant chairs at the dinner table.

In return, we were given suitable accommodation (for which we paid a substantial rent, compared to our pathetic salary), a tiny entertainment allowance that was minutely scrutinized, and the promise of a fascinating — and glamorous, too, we hoped — life.

But all that's changed now. These expectations and responsibilities no longer exist. Ask an officer today to attend a dinner in honour of a visiting cabinet minister or a local VIP and chances are the response will be, "Thanks for the invite but I think we'll pass. Taylor's got soccer practice that night."

Suggest that he/she might consider hosting a dinner at home, and you're likely to hear, "Sorry, my spouse isn't interested. And besides, we don't have matching dishes."

Spouses, with busy and fulfilling careers of their own, no longer see themselves as unpaid handmaidens — or the male equivalent — of the now-Department of Foreign Affairs Trade and Development Canada (DFATD). And chatting up a bunch of locals at a formal dinner or attending a charity bazaar with the ambassador's wife have little appeal.

Nor should they. The days of the adoring little wife, lower lip aquiver with pride, working assiduously to support her husband, are over.

No one, we're told, is entertaining at home any longer anyway, so the expectation of lovely accommodation is gone too. Many of the graceful flats and houses in Paris and London, that we used to be put in so that we could host elegant lunches and dinners and get to know -- and influence -- people that mattered to Canada's foreign policy objectives, are about to go on the block, and the profits used to open new missions in emerging economies.  Or pay down the deficit.

Unlike our European and Asian and African and Latin American colleagues who still see value in hosting events at home, Canadian diplomats — at least in London and Paris — will soon be billeted in small apartments, and officers will be encouraged to meet officials, counterparts and contacts in expensive restaurants, the only kind that exist in these particular capitals.

Of course, it doesn't matter a hoot really where the socializing takes place, provided it serves its purpose and gives Canadian taxpayers value for money. But as Canada's former ambassador to the U.S., Allan Gotlieb, points out, inviting someone out for a meal is not the same as having them home: the personal touch is gone, along with the possibility of a more nuanced — and ultimately fruitful — relationship.

Personally, I regret the change: entertaining at home meant I got a vastly expanded world view, complete immersion in an unfamiliar culture, and even the opportunity to exert some influence. There was a sense of purpose, an esprit de corps and, dare I say it without sounding too naive, pride in what we were accomplishing. And if it meant preparing a meal for 10 or 12 after a long day at work, it was — usually, but not always — worth it.

In my opinion, the regalia, the calling cards, the candelabra and the effort that went with them provided Canada with a grown-up, international-standard backdrop to the serious business of diplomacy. But then I'm just a wistful old bag with a cupboard full of crystal, china, and cutlery. And a box of informals with my husband's name on them.

(c) Alena Schram
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, GO TO 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.