LET THERE BE LIGHT DURING POWER CUTS

Here's a tip that can really benefit you. About five years ago, I realized that I could use my computer's uninteruptable power supply (UPS) for another purpose. Since it's essentially a storage battery and inverter, I reasoned that I could power almost anything with it. I connected a lamp to the UPS and when the power failed, I had plenty of light. The success of this experiment inspired me to try different types of light bulbs to find out which would both provide sufficient illumination and last the longest.

First I tried a 15 watt compact fluorescent (CFL) light bulb and it stayed lit for 2 hours and 10 minutes. This type of bulb gives off much more light than incandescent lamps of equivalent or similar wattage. The next day I tried a 34 watt CFL bulb. That one stayed illuminated for an hour and 1 minute before going out.

To see what would happen with various kinds and wattages of bulbs, I conducted the following experiment. I first tried using a 100 watt incandescent bulb in the lamp. It lasted for only 12 minutes. Each evening of my experiment, because I had to let the battery fully recharge, I tried lower and lower bulb wattages. Though this wasn't strictly a scientific study, here are my results.

The 60 watt incandescent bulb's light lasted for 28 minutes. The 40 watt bulb stayed lit for 56 minutes. The 25, 15, and 7 watt bulbs stayed lit for 1 hour and 24 minutes, 2 hours and 21 minutes, and 3 hours and 42 minutes respectively. I also tested a 5 watt light-emitting diode (LED) spot light bulb replacement which stayed lit for 5 hours and 3 minutes. The two lowest wattage bulbs were only a little brighter than candles but much safer.

I now have a bigger UPS on my main computer, located in a bedroom next to my kitchen. Connected to that is a 15 watt CFL bulb in a lamp and when the power fails, I place it on my fridge. The power was out for twenty-six hours on Monday, July twelfth, and that UPS, plus several others I had recently bought, came in very handy at night.

I'm giving serious thought to purchasing a UPS meant for internet servers so that I can write during power failures. Had I owned one during the most recent blackout, I could have continued editing my How I Was Razed memoir. I have two other books in print called When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) and Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School), available from the InScribe Writers Group site.

OUT AFTER CURFEW

Every once in a while, municipalities consider reinstating a curfew on children out on the streets after a certain time in the evening. It usually happens after citizens become fed up with vandalism and other crimes committed by a small-but-persistent minority of teens.

Fort Saskatchewan, my home town when I was a child, imposed a curfew back in the early sixties on all children under sixteen years old after 9:00 P.M. The air raid siren sounded each evening for about ten seconds as a warning to any youth who wasn't at home yet.

After Mom had her cataract operation, some of her friends treated her and Dad to a "welcome home" party one evening at the Fort Hotel bar. My sister Diane, my brother Roy, and I were left to wait behind the hotel in the car since children weren't allowed inside. "Don't let Roy play with the emergency brake again," Mom admonished Diane and I before she closed the car door and walked with Dad into the hotel. When we were left in the car alone behind the beer parlour one afternoon, Roy released the break and the robin's egg blue Volkswagen rolled backwards into a low fence.

The air raid siren went off as usual at nine. My frustration grew as I could hear the music drifting out from the bar and the sound of people celebrating. I felt tempted to go inside and ask that we be taken home but I was afraid of getting yelled at or spanked again. I knew better than to get Dad angry when he was drinking so I tried to pass the time as best as I could.

As that warm summer evening wore on, Diane and Roy drifted off to sleep. Dad eventually staggered through the back door of the bar and flopped down behind the steering wheel, waiting for Mom to finish socializing. Soon he too dozed and wouldn't wake up when I repeatedly shook his shoulder.

I ran out of patience with all this seemingly endless waiting and left the car in a huff. "What are you doing out so late?" , a middle-aged bar patron in the hotel front doorway demanded, "Don't you know that kids aren't allowed out after curfew?"

"I'm going home," I declared, "My dad won't wake up and drive us."
"You better come with me," the man said, "You know the curfew is at nine o'clock and it's almost midnight now."

"It's okay, I can walk home by myself," I shot back.

He impatiently grabbed my arm and hauled me into the hotel. After phoning the police, he walked me back to Dad's car and told me to wait inside.

An officer shone his flashlight in the car at the faces of my deeply slumbering brother and sister, then he and another officer pulled Dad out from the front seat. The sound of his shoes dragging through the gravel seemed loud in the silence of the night. Dad came to life, swearing and struggling as the cops restrained him. Another officer gave us and Mom a ride home in his cruiser while Dad was taken to the station.

I felt thrilled at the prospect of riding in a real police car, having never done that before. As we drove toward my home, I peppered the policeman with questions, such as how many bad guys he caught and why he wouldn't turn on the siren. I also marvelled at how big the cruiser's interior seemed compared to Dad's car. The officer left the ceiling light on for us as he drove. Roy and Diane were too exhausted to care but I was elated as I watched the passing lights of the town through the left back seat window.

Mom complained bitterly once we arrived home but I was still excited that we actually rode in a real RCMP cruiser and met the officers. I danced with glee at having such a wonderful ride. Mom carried my siblings to bed but I had a hard time drifting off to sleep.

Some days later, Mom and Dad had to go to court and my parents were fined. They didn't tell me how much they paid but Mom felt mortified by the whole situation.

My days of being a free-roaming child came to an abrupt end in September of 1964 when I was sent 500 miles away to Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind in Vancouver, British Columbia. I wrote about my adventures, misadventures, and trials in a memoir called Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) It's available from the InScribe Writers Group page.

WHY NOT HAVE A "STAYCATION?"

Many of us have been told by our teachers to write essays on what we did on our summer vacations when we returned to school. For some students, it was an easy essay to write. Others, myself included, didn't have much to tell. In my case, Dad spent much of his pay cheque on booze and Mom was too poor to travel anywhere.

Is it so wrong to stay home and enjoy two whole months of indolence? In my Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, I related stories of doing unremarkable-but enjoyable things such as listening to all the ground-breaking hits of 1966 on my new transistor radio. In fact, my father bought it for me because I wore down his Volkswagon's battery from listening to his car radio for hours at a time. I can recall the excitement I felt when distant TV stations from America came in on our set without the aid of satellite or cable. Even the thunder storms were exciting spectacles for my sisters, my brother, and me to watch. Being children, we could have fun even without technology.

Though I didn't mention much about what I did during the summers of my adulthood in my upcoming How I Was Razed memoir, I did go on what some call a "staycation" on many of my holidays from work. During my 1983 vacation, for example, I decided to visit as many local attractions in Edmonton as I could afford. One of those was the Muttart conservatory, four glass pyramid-shaped greenhouses containing plants from around the world. There was one pyramid for tropical species, one for desert plants, a third for temperate flora, and a fourth which contained various flowers. I brought my new 35mm camera and took plenty of photos while there.

Staycations are even more fun when a friend comes from another country. Mike, who lives in Oregon, visited me in July of 1994. One of the places we went to was the Space and Science Centre, as it was known then, Edmonton's planetarium. Through my connections with the venue's music composer, Donovan Reimer, Mike and I were privileged to see equipment and facilities that were off limits to the public.

West Edmonton Mall was also an excellent place that Mike and I visited. My friend especially wanted to see the dolphins and ride the submarines. Though we enjoyed the other attractions, our jaws dropped when we learned from the ticket sales lady how much it would cost to use the water park. The water slides and artificial waves enticed us but we didn't want to spend all day there.

Mike noticed a local indoor swimming pool as we passed a shopping mall near my home and we visited it the next day. I think we had just as much fun there as we would have had in the expensive water park.

Good times can even be had for no cost for both children and adults. Whether it was exploring the local creek as a child or the river valley as an adult, I have spent many hours exploring as well as appreciating nature without spending a penny.

It is a wonderful experience to visit distant lands such as Mexico, Russia, and Trinidad, which I wrote about in my upcoming How I Was Razed memoir, but there are many fascinating local attractions just waiting to be seen and enjoyed. In these times of economic hardship, it only makes sense to get the most value for the least amount of money. Since municipalities work so hard to attract out-of-town visitors, you and your family will also benefit from visiting local attractions.

Some people use books as a way to fill the long lazy days of summer. My When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) and Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoirs are filled with interesting and poignant vignettes, many of which have been posted on this blog. I have also posted them on Wordpress. Blurbs describing my books are on the InScribe Writers Group page.

FORTY YEARS OUT OF JERICHO

Did you ever hear wonderful news that you couldn't believe? For me, leaving Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind in Vancouver, British Columbia for the very last time seemed like a distant dream. Forty years ago today, June 25th, that dream came true but I didn't realize it then. Had I done so, it would have been the happiest day of my childhood.

I had heard certain administrators at the school talk of students being reintegrated into the public system but I never dreamt I'd be so fortunate. In fact, this excerpt from Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) shows how unreal that possibility seemed at the time.

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One evening, as we were leaving the Dining Hall, Mrs. Corrigan surprised us with a visit. Mr. Thynne instructed everybody to wait outside at the bottom of the steps while she announced something very important from the landing.

"I have good news for a few of you. Some of you children won't be coming back in September. Instead, you'll be attending public school near your homes."

Our principal began listing names as my attention wandered. I doubted that I would be among those privileged students. Suddenly, she mentioned my name. That jolted me back to reality. Could that honestly happen to me? Was I actually going to be in a regular school again next autumn? It seemed too good to be true. As I feared being hurt if the administrators arbitrarily changed their minds, I restrained my hopes and dismissed such an unbelievable promise.

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I would have likewise taken the minor mishaps of travel in stride had I known that I would never again set foot in that place I so passionately despised. Here's how my last day at the institution went.

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After all the tedious school activities were over, it was time to pack our belongings. Along with my suitcases, I decided I would bring a shopping bag filled with whatever would not fit in my luggage.

When we arrived at the airport, some of my possessions fell out of the bag at the precise moment when everybody was leaving the bus. As I felt around under the seats, Mr. Thynne said, "You're holding us up. Why did you have to bring so much stuff anyway?" I managed to escape the bus with my luggage intact. Behind me I could hear the rest of the boys murmuring about how my accident made them late.

Apart from that mishap, my home coming was uneventful. The hard times were behind me for the moment and I knew I could relax for two glorious months.

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I'm pleased to say that i not only was enrolled in a public school much closer to my home but I graduated high school in 1975. This proved to me that I could have gone all the way through the local school system had somebody provided me with a blackboard reader and magnifying glass. This would have saved the British Columbia taxpayers thousands of dollars too.

I'm delighted that many disabled children are now educated locally and some are even home-schooled. Very few students need to be torn from their families and sent off to distant asylums for long periods of time. Instead of tearful farewells, most of these fortunate kids know they'll be home for lunch or after classes end that day.

Please check out the InScribe Writers Group site for more information regarding my memoirs and writing.

I also publish posts each Friday on Wordpress. On the InScribe Writers Group blog, I'll post on June 28 regarding a sublime father-son moment I had in 1965. The blog owner graciously lets me post there once a month. Please check out both links.

TEN WONDERFUL YEARS OF SOLITUDE.

Living here in this tiny prairie hamlet has been like a permanent writer's retreat for me. It was an answer to my many anguished prayers for a quiet place near a small town that had a grocery store and a post office. Though I miss being able to take a city bus to any shop I desire, I wouldn't trade this three bedroom house for any in Edmonton.

Since moving from the noise-ridden metropolis, which had been my home for almost thirty years, I have written many freelance articles. My two memoirs were also "penned" here and self-published by a Calgary company called Blitzprint.

From my first book, When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies), here is a brief account of how I arrived in this writer's paradise.

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Poor Gideon had to stay in his cage for most of that eagerly anticipated day on which I moved to Radway. Pastor Doug arrived at ten o'clock that morning with his black pickup truck and we hauled about five loads of furniture and boxes into it while my little prince fumed in his prison. Gideon just couldn't understand why he suddenly wasn't allowed to roam free in his accustomed way.

My bunny, his cage and litter were taken on the last trip that evening. I worried that he'd stress in the carrier, which we had put in the truck cab, but the hour-long trip didn't bother him too badly. Maybe he'd given up being free by that time.

Doug left my place a little after midnight and I was so weary from hauling things that I put Gideon's cage in the bathroom, placed his litter box by the tub and gave him his pellets. Once again he went into his head-bobbing routine. He periscoped and put his paws on the tub and toilet, trying to get a better view of the new place.

I was about to lock Gideon in the cage again when I realized I could contain him in the room. It was about five feet by twelve and he had plenty of space. Bathrooms are great places to keep rabbits in because there aren't many things they can chew on or ruin with urine.

As I went to sleep, I marvelled at the sound of frogs croaking outside my window, instead of the rumble of traffic and the thud, thud of stereos to which I was accustomed.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt like a child at the start of summer vacation. I was free of the city racket and I actually slept without earplugs for the first time in years.

As soon as I was out of bed, I visited Gideon. He had enjoyed the night and to my delight, he used his litter box where I'd placed it. I feared he'd pee somewhere inconvenient, like in the doorway where I'd step in it.

Though I was extremely busy unpacking, I let Gideon explore the laundry room that was next to the bathroom. It was about the same shape and size, and the appliances weren't installed yet. Gideon had a great time conquering that area. In addition to his periscoping, he kept hopping between the bathroom and laundry room as if he were memorizing the route.

My little prince seemed delighted to have two new rooms to call his own and I videoed him putting his paws on things and hopping around. My bunny boy's innocent happiness gladdened my heart and made the chore of unpacking that much easier.

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When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) and Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School), my second memoir, are available at the InScribe writers group site. I hope to have my third, and most likely final, memoir called How I Was Razed published by the end of this year.

BLIND RAGE OVER GLAUCOMA DIAGNOSES

If only somebody had shown me how easy it was to make appointments with doctors, I would most likely have better vision today. Beginning in September of 1973, my left eye had periodic episodes of fogginess with rainbows appearing around lights. I warned Mum about it but she postponed making an appointment. After a year, she still hadn't sent me to a doctor.

While reading a textbook with the closed circuit TV reader in the school library one January afternoon, I had an increasingly painful headache. Using my left eye instead of my right didn't help matters either. After an hour, my patience gave out. "I know I'll get a bad grade but this reading assignment is killing me," I thought as I turned off the machine and walked out of the library..

I lay down on my bed as soon as I arrived in my room and slept for two hours. When I awoke, the vision in both eyes was foggy. The right eye cleared up the next morning but the left one didn't. When I told Mum that weekend about what happened, she promised to call the doctor.

Five months later, Mum made the appointment and I visited an ophthalmologist. "You've got glaucoma," the doctor informed me after measuring my eye pressures. "Take these drops in both eyes twice a day and see me in a month or so."

When the pharmacist at a nearby drug store filled my prescription, the price for such a tiny bottle of liquid astonished me. Even so, I carefully followed the doctor's instructions. The foggy episodes in my right eye stopped and the headaches went away but I could barely see with my left one.

"How did your doctor appointment go?" Sister R asked as I walked into her kitchen through the back door the next Wednesday afternoon.

She turned to check the supper cooking on the stove as I said, "The doctor says I've got glaucoma."

She whirled around, shook her finger in my face, and bellowed, "You lost your healing! Brother H laid his hands specially on you and prayed and you had to lose your faith!"

I was so unprepared for this verbal assault that I remained speechless throughout her five-minute tirade. "How could I know that I'd be diagnosed with glaucoma?" I thought. With all the willpower I could muster, I resisted the urge to turn and storm out the door, never to return.

Throughout the meal and the meeting afterward, I fumed inwardly at the utter unfairness of the situation. My mind was so preoccupied that I scarcely heard what Brother H taught.

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The previous paragraphs came from my How I Was Razed manuscript. They demonstrate the cruelty of the name-it-and-claim-it faith healing cults and my earnest desire to be cured of my poor vision. God willing, I hope to have this memoir in print by November. My desire is that it will comfort, edify, and encourage those who were wounded spiritually in similar aberrant churches.

In addition to this upcoming book, I've written When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies), a collection of delightful and poignant tales of my life with house rabbits. I also wrote Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School), an exposé of life in a government institution and the way being there effected me. Descriptions of both memoirs, plus a paragraph about my freelance writing work, are on my PayPal-equipped InScribe page. E-mail me for further information or if you don't have PayPal but still wish to place an order.

GARDENING THE BURKISS WAY

I wish to apologize that this blog post has nothing to do with The Burkiss Way, The humorous and satirical BBC radio program that was popular in the UK during the late seventies. In actual fact, this is the story of a teacher who taught me about how plants grow. She also played a trick on me which was in no way inspired by The Burkiss Way, being that the incident happened ten years before the program first aired. From my Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, that never once mentions The Burkiss Way, here is what happened.

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Along with the usual clothes and school work folders, Mrs. Parker allowed me to take home the plants which we grew in Mrs. Patrick's class. I cannot recall what variety they were but I fondly remember a trick which my favourite teacher played on me. Along with my seed of whatever it was we planted, Mrs. Patrick sprinkled various other seeds which all sprouted too. "I didn't think they'd all come up," she admitted to me afterwards.

I took my duties seriously, having been warned that the plants would wither and die if I failed to water them. On the first day of our education in gardening, I poured a cup of water into the wooden planter as our teacher instructed. When I touched the soil, it still felt dry. I decided maybe it needed more and poured in another glass. As the dirt still felt dry, I poured a third glass into the planter.

"Brucey, stop!" Mrs. Patrick exclaimed. "You're getting water all over the floor." I looked down at my shoes and realized I had caused a small flood. "There are holes in the bottom of the planter so the plants won't get too much water and drown."

"I'm sorry for the mess," I apologized. "Will I get in trouble for this?"

"Don't worry, the janitor will mop this up," she reassured.

When I showed Mom the plants, she was amazed by the colour of the dirt. It was brown and not black like the prairie soil she knew since childhood.

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Deliverance from Jericho contains many more vignettes of what life was like in that government-run institution. These range from poignant experiences of homesickness to hilarious incidents of mischief. This 196-page paperback, containing 6 black and white photos, is available through the PayPal-equipped and Burkiss Way-free InScribe writers group website. E-mail me for further information or if you don't have PayPal but still wish to place an order. I promise not to mention The Burkiss Way either. Of course, anybody who wishes to discuss The Burkiss Way with me is welcome to do so.