GMOs or Genetically Modified Organisms.

For today’s episode I’ve decided to leave the “Old Time Stories” and concentrate on the latest addition to my family, who must surely be included in this Covey by way of his genes.  After all, we are all GMO so he has to have a few Cockney genes.

Especially when you consider the work of Gregor Mendel; not to bore you with his principles of inheritance but to bring it down to its lowest common denominator it seems that a gene can skip a generation then appear later with all its bells and whistles intact. And those cockney genes all have lots of bells and whistles attached.

Yes, I now have a great-grandson – what a hoot!

I’m sure he has arrived with all his own characteristics and he will be loved for every one of them, but if we pay a little homage to Mendel, it’s possible he will also have a few personality traits for which he can thank his forebears.  So, heeding the Boy Scouts motto to “Be Prepared” I thought it might be useful to mention a few of those traits that may or may not appear, and since none of us can recall with accuracy what we were like as a child, it is left to me to mention a few of the traits of his lineages: my offspring.

Well, progeny number one has to be my first born.  He was the delight of my life; strong, healthy and full of vigor. He bellowed for his food and insisted on being the centre of everyone’s attention. He was as smart as could be and soon learned to do all manner of physical activities. I’m sure he was only two or three years old when his father had him out on ice skates!  He was inquisitive and willing to attempt anything.  So, it was a sad day when he came home from kindergarten crying.  

It seems that the class was learning to skip (you know the kind without a rope, just kind of hopping along) and it was the one thing that beat him – no matter how hard he tried: he couldn’t skip. 

I don’t know if he can skip today (I’ve never asked him) but it might be a gene worth looking out for!

Progeny number two was daughter number one.  She was a very special, special child for many reasons. Not the least of which were her linguistic skills.  I can remember, when she was a toddler, walking around the grocery store with her sitting in the buggy-cart-seat as she was merrily chatting away with me.  Nothing unusual about that you may say!  True. Except that she was using long three syllable words and complicated sentences.  Personally, I didn’t notice it – but other shoppers did, they would stop and remark on it. 

It was a bit like the nurses who a couple of years later would think it cute that this little child who still sucked a soother, had brought an analog watch with her to the hospital 

– that was until they realised she used it to tell the time. 

Oh yes, she also had a pack of playing cards so that she could play solitaire!  My guess is that no one would turn down a few of those “smart genes”.

The third entrant into this gene pool is daughter number two.  The calmest most happy baby anyone could wish for. 

Any mother who gets a baby with these genes has won the lottery.  These genes come with a bit of a warning though.  At the age of two years, those calm-laid-back-nothing-bothers-me genes suddenly burst out of the starting gate like a whirling dervish on steroids.  

Nothing, I mean nothing, is going to hold this child back.  Run away from home at the age of three, hitch a ride on a bus – no problem!  Listen to me, do as she was told – not a chance.  However, things weren’t all strife and trouble, there were some absolutely delightful moments, especially when her logical genes came to the fore.  I remember the time when I was bathing her and I asked her big brother to “bring up the towels” from downstairs. 

She adamantly refused to be dried on towels that she reasoned had been regurgitated!  Obviously, who could blame her! 

There was another time when she had a very nasty cold that this logical thinking came roaring out.  When told to avoid giving these germs to anyone else she immediately went against all instructions.  Her attempts at cuddling up to and kissing anyone who would allow her near were clearly obvious.  Those logical genes had rightly of wrongly figured out that if she had a toy then gave it away, she would no longer have it. Certainly, it was worth a try with this cold she did not want.

To be honest it was a tremendous relief when she was old enough for kindergarten, so perhaps I can be forgiven for my answer to her teacher’s inquiry: “Give me one word to describe your daughter”.  My reply was “stubborn”, it should have been “determined” a trait that has stood her well throughout her life. So, for a logical, determined go-getter, these genes are prime.

Therefore, the future for my latest descendant looks pretty marvelous as far as the gene pool is concerned.  Welcome to the tribe.

STAY in TOUCH

STAY IN TOUCH

What did we do before automated telephone answering?  Before call waiting?  Before voice messaging and texting?

I’m really ancient so I remember life before those times.  After all, I did most of my living in the modern age, in the 20^th century. Everything was so “up-to-date” that a film studio took it as part of its name. It was, as Dickens might have said: “The best and the worst of times”.

The worst times were the two World Wars, and even though our little Covey did not have a personal telephone   I’m pretty sure that telephones can be included in the best of times. Very few people had receivers in their homes.  Urgent calls were made from those darling red boxes that were on every street corner.

Today, children all come equipped with the mandatory smart phone Velcro strip on the palm of their hands.  Then, our hands only contained balls or skipping ropes and the occasional jam sandwich.  When we left the house, we were free.  Free from parental interference, free from contact of any kind.  If parents needed to contact their children they used the tried and true method that had worked for epochs: open the front door and yell! Our dad was a little different. He was not going to strain his voice.  If he needed us, he’d whistle. And believe me, if we heard that whistle we’d run as fast as we could to get home before he needed to whistle again.

My own children experienced similarly freedom they just had to be home by the time the street lights went out or when they were hungry – whichever came first.

As a teenage I had a short tenure (actually I lasted a day!) as a telephone receptionist for a lawyer’s office in the very esteemed Lincoln’s Inn Fields in London England. Why only a day you may ask?  Well, the telephone I was charged with operating was one of those wire and plug contraptions that you’ve only seen pictures of.  Actually, I was quite bright and intelligent, but, after I’d connected and disconnected all the wrong people, it was obvious to all that my future did not lie in this direction.

Overall, it was a solid learning experience; I now knew that while telephones would be fine for personal interactions, I should avoid them as a career choice.  So I did.

Eventually, I made my way to Canada which was a much more up-to-date environment for telephone communication.  Telephones were one size fits all, they were black and they were boring, but everyone had one. 

If you’ve ever wondered why telephones have letters as well as numbers there was a period when the alphabet was needed and it certainly wasn’t for texting. At that time, a telephone number in Toronto consisted of three letters which corresponded to the area, plus three numbers.  So, if you were in the WALNUT area your number might be WAL230.  All accessed with the handy dandy rotary dial.

If you had a direct line you paid more for the service than if you had a party line but it was worth it because you didn’t have to worry about a chitty, chatty neighbour tying up the line when you needed it.

Time marched on the way it always does.  Populations grew larger and telephone numbers grew longer. Rotary dials gave way to push buttons.  Colours became ubiquitous, (pink being the favourite of teenage girls).  And through it all, when you made a call a human voice answered.

If you called a friend who was engaged in a conversation with another friend, then you’d get a busy signal.  That was your signal to put the phone down, go about your life, then call your friend later.  Calling a business number was a similar experience.  If the answerer was busy with someone else on the line, you would be told so and asked to “hold on one moment please”.  Either way, you did not need to spend endless time holding on to phone that is either playing useless messages or dreadful music.

That was a time when telephones were a good thing for me, because they enabled me to make some extra money which, we badly needed to survive.  We had been in Canada long enough to have a telephone and for me to become completely comfortable with making and receiving calls.  I had a nine to five job every day in an office with no chance of earning more money, so what was I to do. 

The answer was to get an additional job. So, I became a telephone solicitor.  Yes, I left work at five o’clock grabbed a sandwich and a drink, took a streetcar to become one of those very annoying, uninvited, life interrupters. 

In case you’re thinking this was anything like today’s telephone soliciting – think again.  It wasn’t.  This was no big marketing company domiciled in a far-off land.  No.  This was a room on the second floor of a downtown building, run by a woman who was on the forefront of telephone advertising.  The room, known as a ‘Boiler Room’ had space for about six women all armed with a page from the local telephone directory, a pen and paper, a rotary telephone, and a script that I still remember today: “Good evening.  You have just won a free dancing lesson to the Arthur Murray dance studios.  Isn’t that wonderful!”

Not everyone who received that greeting, thought it was wonderful.  Many, many thought it best to slam the receiver down with a thud.  Then there were the erstwhile comedians who described the dreadful injuries they had to their extremities that prevented them from dancing.  Generally, though, I learned a great skill and although I was appreciative of the bonus I received for selling the highest dollar value dancing lessons to one poor guy, I never felt right about it and had to keep telling myself: “That’s the name of the game”!

In due course, husband got employment, and I was able to find a higher paying job, so telephone soliciting became a long-ago memory.  So why is it poking around in my brain today?  Well it could be that I’m required to enter the 21^st century.  I need to learn the vagaries of today’s telephone.  My landline will soon be a thing of the past, and that tiny little computer that I can hold in the palm of my hand will be my only (albeit constant) contact with the world.

Parenting 101

ADVENTURES OUTSIDE

Or, who needs "play dates"?

If you’re reading this blog then you probably know that I’m aging not so much like fine wine but more like that left-over soup at the back of your fridge.  Nevertheless, there was a time when I was a young mother with young children to care for and this little story is a memory of that time.

When I look around me I see how mothers today care for their children and it makes me wonder how mine survived.   I’m not referring to the extreme “helicopter” parents who garner a fair amount of newsprint but rather the ones I see driving their children to school, the ones who make sure by arranging “play dates” that their offspring do not play in the dangerous outside.  They are no doubt convinced that the world is a much more perilous place than when they themselves were young.

I don’t know how true those beliefs are I only know how I acted as a parent in the “good ‘ole days”.  Let me tell you.

Immigrant travel in the 1960s

The time frame was the 1960’s.  LS along with her husband and child had just immigrated to Canada.  On the day I’m remembering they were visiting us at our third floor apartment situated on a busy North York street.  My family then consisted of two children.  The eldest was a boisterous 3 year old who, had I known about ADHD, I might have said was afflicted with every letter of the alphabet.  Whereas, LS’s daughter was a 6 year old calm-well-behaved English young lady.

The apartment building where we lived.

Both children were tired of the constraints of the apartment.  They wanted to go outside to play! No problem.  It was a fine spring day and a little fresh air would do them good.  In case you’re thinking that either LS or I would accompany them - let me set the record straight.  We didn’t!   

Instead, the mature 6 year old was given that responsibility, and responsible she was.  She knew she was charged with keeping her small cousin safe and sound.  She kept her eye out for any potential danger.  She surveyed her surroundings and carefully forewarned her young cousin if anything came to light.

It did!  “Whatever you do” she directed, “do not put your finger in that hole, it is dangerous”.

Had I been there, as the mother of this child I would have rather slit my throat than have called attention to something of this nature, especially when it was made even more appealing with the admonition to not go near it.  But I wasn’t there.

Need I say more.

Should you mention this story to the now grown man he will gladly show you the scar on his finger.  Glass makes a nasty cut!

Perhaps today’s parents do know a thing or two.