Thomas Edison did not invent the light bulb. In fact he wasn’t even close. It was on July 24, 1874, at the height of the Victorian era, when University of Toronto medical student Henry Woodward patented the first practical light bulb. In partnership with his neighbor, a hotelkeeper named Mathew Evans, he worked at Morrison’s Brass Foundry on Adelaide St. West in Toronto, performing early experiments with an induction coil and battery. Observing that the spark produced by the contacts shed a steady light the pair spent long hours pursuing their research. This culminated in the development of a carbon filament light source housed in a glass globe filled with nitrogen gas. While an earlier version of the light bulb had been invented by Englishman Sir Joseph Swan, it proved short lived and impractical due to the inability to provide a good vacuum within the globe. This caused the carbon filament to burn out very quickly.

Woodward and Evans solved the problem nicely by pumping nitrogen gas into the glass tube, which housed the carbon filament. As Woodward’s original patent states:

“In the first place we use a gas engine, or other suitable motive power, for the purpose of rotating a magneto Electric machine, and at Such Velocity, as shall create electricity, sufficient to heat certain pieces of carbon to a state of incandescence… A piece of Carbon, as hereinbefore mentioned, pure in quality, and of suitable size, proportionate to the size of lamp or vessel to be used, is scraped and shaped until fitted for the purpose. One electrode is then connected with the Carbon at the top, and the other electrode is connected with the Carbon at the bottom, in the following manner. A small hole is drilled a short distance into each end of the Carbon to fit the electrodes, and when necessary they are further secured by surrounding them with a portion of plaster of Paris or other suitable substance. The electrodes not passing through the carbons, nor connecting with each other. It is then enclosed in a globe, or other vessel, either of glass or other suitable material. The air is extracted from the said globe, or vessel, after it has been hermetically sealed at the ends, and then filled with rarefied gas that will not unite chemically with the carbon when hot. Electricity is now supplied and in sufficient quantity, so as to heat the carbon within the vessel to a State of incandescence, the rarefied gas previously introduced now becomes luminous, and constitutes the light herein designated as Woodward and Evans’ Electric Light.”

Realizing the importance of their discovery the excited inventors tried to establish a company to develop and market the light bulb. To further their efforts Woodward even traveled to France and spent five hundred pounds on a special dynamo developed by the renowned French engineer, M. Gramme. For their trouble Woodward and Evans were publicly ridiculed, scorned as cranks and considered to be less than “bright” by the general public and their confreres. In spite of these setbacks Woodward went on to patent their invention in the United States in 1876.

By now you are wondering where Thomas Edison fits into the scheme of things. The American Inventor had been doing his own research on the light bulb, without much success, when he got wind of the work of the two Canadians. Despite less than “glowing” reports from the general public, Edison knew a good thing when he saw it. The same could not be said for the niggardly investors in Woodward and Evans’ new company. Strapped for cash the inventors sold half of their Canadian patent to Edison in 1876, and in 1879 the U.S. patent was also sold to Edison in its entirety. A disgusted Woodward decided to leave Canada and immigrate to England. It’s reported that Evans died in 1899 in Toronto.

Meanwhile, Edison declared his intention to invent “an inexpensive electric light” and received a fifty thousand-dollar grant to further his efforts. The result was a carbon filament bulb essentially identical to that of Woodward and Evans. Most of the practical work was actually done by Edison’s Serbian lab assistant, Nikola Tesla.

In England, Joseph Swan continued his own work and eventually produced a lamp very similar to Edison’s in the same year. These became known as Swan lamps, and by 1881 were being used to light the House of Commons. Edison and Swan eventually ended up in court to decide who had priority in the invention. They later settled out of court and in 1883 formed a joint company which dominated the electrical illumination industry in Britain for years.

Nowadays Canadians spend much of their lives depending on artificial sources of illumination. Few realize that they have fellow countrymen Henry Woodward and Mathew Evans to thank for this.

References

The First Electric Light Bulb by Bruce Ricketts

Pardon Me, My Maple Leaf is Showing by Gain Wong

Photo Credits

Home Page Feature Image -  Wikimedia Public Domain

“Electric Light.” … 1874  © Library and Archives Canada

The Bulb is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

The true story of a young girl during the most terrifying 24 hours of her life …

It was the smells that I had come to dread most of all. In fact, the thought of the smells, and what they signified, amounted to a real fear. Even today, some odors still affect me and bring back frightening memories.

I had learned to handle a lot of the different noises. I had become used to a number of them and could even tell to some degree what they were caused by, and whereabouts they were. But the awful smells that a person had to encounter under a bombing siege were something that I dreaded most of all.

The thought of being killed was an element I had not pondered. I believed in the theory that “if the bomb had your number on it, you would cop it – no matter where.” I was however, truly afraid of being horribly maimed or losing a limb. I had seen injuries and heard the cries of so many people hurt in the unending raids that I knew it was far harder to live when terribly burnt or mutilated than it was to be killed outright.

I had witnessed members of families who had lost loved ones. Their suffering was of a different and agonizing kind.

This story is about a twenty-four hour period in my life during the bombing of London in World War II. I lived with my mother in the dockland area of East London and I was 14 years old at the time. My older sister was married and lived in North London. My brother was also married and served in the Royal Navy. He had evacuated his wife and baby son to Somerset some months previously.

At one time, there was nowhere in the world so heavily bombed as the dockland area of London. There were far more casualties there amongst the civilians than were in the entire armed forces. The Forces, unless they had duties in the London area, were forbidden to take their leave (or furlough) there because of the continuous danger of air raids.

The area in which I lived was known as “the docks.” It was the target for the heaviest bombing throughout the war. There were fire bombs, land-mines, oil bombs, pilot-less planes, rocket missiles and incendiary bombs. Long after the actual docks were completely destroyed and made utterly useless, the raids still continued on the residential districts for miles surrounding the dock area. This bombardment continued in an entirely indiscriminate manner for almost five years.

As I was really only a young kid, it would have been possible for my mother and I to evacuate to a safe place but she had the kind of grim determination that said, “No one will make me leave my home”. We suffered very much because of this decision – not only in terms of danger but also in lack of food, water and heating. I virtually had no friends near my age still living close to us. But I guess it was my mother’s kind of “grit” that made the whole nation bind together in their determination to win the war.

On the day I want to tell you about, my brother Bill had telephoned our home to say he was being sent on a four-day course to a ship located at the Victoria Embankment in London. H.M.S. Chrysanthemum was a ship that in peacetime was a showplace for tourists. It had been made over as a training ship for the Royal Navy soon after war was declared.

Bill had been given permission to sleep at our home and was phoning to tell us he would be staying for three nights. We had not seen him for about nine months so it was a very joyful occasion. However, we were concerned as to how we were going to provide the extra food needed for his breakfasts and suppers. I was very excited that I was going to see my big brother again and took great pains with my appearance. I remember dampening my hair (rolling it in pipe cleaners) so that it would produce a great amount of “frizz.” This, I considered, was very attractive. I chose to wear the only dress that still fitted me properly. One needed ration coupons for clothing and these were almost as precious as were the food coupons.

Most families in our area had air-raid shelters in their tiny gardens but we did not have one. To take cover during daylight raids, we would sit beneath the stairs. Night time raids forced us to get out of warm beds, place blankets under the dining room table and lie there in the hope it would provide some protection. Windows were always covered with “black-out” materials and sticky strips. These were to help prevent glass from flying about should the windows be blown out.

Bill drove up to our home on a naval motorcycle at about noon. He told us over lunch that his wife had asked him to go to their apartment in East Ham, about five miles away. She needed him to pack up and mail some extra clothing for her and their son. I badly wanted to have a ride on his motorcycle and so asked if I could accompany him. Bill explained that this was not allowed. He suggested I travel by tram and meet him at his home. He also asked me to break my journey on the way and go to “Boyd’s – The Piano People”. He needed me to pay a further installment on a piano he had been buying for some time. I agreed and said I would walk the remaining three or four blocks to his apartment which was in the upper part of a large house. It seemed like it would be fun to help him sort and pack the clothing.

I knew the piano shop very well, having gone there to make payments for Bill a number of times. I had only been in the shop for a few minutes when the air-raid sirens began to wail. The Manager immediately told customers and staff to go down into the basement cellar. I told him I would prefer to leave because my brother was waiting for me and I only had a short way to go. By now it was obvious that the warning had not been given early enough. We could already hear the drone of the approaching bombers and the “ack-ack” of the anti-aircraft guns. There was nothing I could do but take cover.

The cellar had been very well fortified with sandbags and the only window was boarded over. There was one naked light bulb to light the room. It was also evident from the blankets, books and knitting materials laying around that the staff had tried to make life down there as comfortable as possible on the numerous occasions they had needed to use it. I was also relieved to note there was a toilet next to the shelter, and that too had been well protected.

We sat under cover for almost two hours. Every time there was an extra heavy barrage outside, the staff would chat louder – as if this would help to screen their alarm. It was one of the worst bombardments we had endured for weeks. Finally, the sirens sounded the “All Clear” signal. I was one of the first out into the street and what met me there was shocking. Everything seemed to be ablaze. Firemen, policemen, air-raid wardens and ambulance workers were rushing about in a furious frenzy. All were grime-covered and many had soaking wet clothes. As the raids were so constant, I knew these people were continually on duty and never had time for rest.

Great plumes of black smoke billowed over the area. The smell of broken gas mains was alarming and I clutched my gas mask closer to me. It was forbidden to ever go out without carrying one. I dreaded the thought of having to use it sometime for the “proper thing” and had tried to dodge going to the gas mask practices whenever possible.

I started to pick my way towards my brother’s home. Broken glass and rubble was everywhere. Again, the smell of burning, wet wood and gas turned my stomach. Each time I tried to hurry, I was stopped by an official who told me, “It is impossible to get through this way….try going around such-and-such a street”.

After what seemed an age, I got to within a block of my destination. There were several army trucks positioned right across the road. It was impossible for anyone to enter. I asked a policeman if I could go through because my brother was waiting for me. He explained there was an un-exploded land mine hanging from a tree in a garden further down the road. The order was that no one would be allowed to go near until such time as it was either detonated or made inactive.

Peering through the dirt and smoke, I tried to see which house was the one to which they were referring. It was impossible to tell. I hung around as close to my brother’s road as permitted. Any time an official rushed past me, I inquired as to which house had the land-mine. Finally I was told, “Number thirty nine.” To my horror, I realized it was Bill’s home.

Knowing there was an air-raid shelter in his garden, I agonized as to whether or not Bill was sitting in it, perhaps unaware of the land mine hanging on the tree. I began to tremble and wondered whatever I would tell my mother. I knew his house had been empty for several months and that the shelter would not have been maintained properly.

The acrid smell of the smoke was nauseating. An ambulance man who was struggling to carry a stretcher told me to move away. It seemed there was a large earth removal truck being brought into the road to help dig for an entire family who were buried beneath a house there. So far, all attempts to free them had failed. I moved further away but as soon as the machine began to dig and I caught a whiff of the stench that came from the hole it made, I knew I had to leave.

I wondered how badly the raid had hit the part of London that my sister lived in. I decided to telephone her as soon as I could. I thought again of my mother alone all this time and I decided it was better if I returned to her. I knew she would be worried sick about me and my brother because she could probably tell in which area the bombs had dropped. One became accustomed to the scream of the bombs and able to judge, roughly, where they would land. Knowing there was nothing I could do to help Bill, I made my way to a telephone box to call my mother. I tried for a long time to get through to her and finally decided that the lines must all be down.

After making my way back to the main road for the tram ride home, I was relieved to see the trams were still running. When I boarded one, the driver refused my fare. He told me he could only take me part of the way because further down the road, the track had been bombed. As we rode along I could see nothing but utter chaos everywhere. Many buildings I knew well were completely missing – they were now just piles of steaming rubble. Some buildings were still ablaze. I was particularly upset to see Trinity Church also on fire. My parents had been married there. Firemen were still trying desperately to cope with the flames but lack of water defeated them.

I saw families dragging pieces of furniture and personal belongings from their homes – a hopeless attempt to save something. Outside some blitzed houses, there were the familiar tarpaulin-covered bodies. Ambulance drivers were striving to block hysterical family members who wanted to ride in the already over-crowded ambulances. They were told to make their own way to the hospitals to see their injured relatives. One woman was screaming, “Which hospital? Which hospital?”…..but I don’t think the driver even knew the answer to that question.

Foul air filled my lungs. Burning wet wood smelled like death. The bells and sirens of the various fire trucks, ambulances and bomb disposal squads were almost deafening. My head ached, I was hungry and cold. By this time it must have been around 7 p.m.

On leaving the tram, I made my way as quickly as possible towards my home. A number of times I was redirected on a much longer detour because some roads were completely impassable. By 8:30 p.m. it was getting dusk. This did not bother me as I only had about ten more minutes’ walk to reach home. I was very tired by now. Picking my way between holes in the pavement and piles of debris, I stumbled over a fire hose. The pain that shot through my ankle was almost unbearable. At first I thought I had broken a bone but on examining it, I decided it was a bad sprain. There was nothing I could do but go on.

As I turned a corner from the main road I saw a Women’s Voluntary Service Van standing a few feet away. I hobbled up to the lady on duty and offered her the 2 ½ pence I had saved on my tram fare. She took one look at my appearance and handed me a tea-bun, adding, “Go on Missy, that’s okay.” I thanked her gratefully and ate the bun so fast that I caused myself to have a pain in the chest. On leaving her van, she called after me asking what I had done to my ankle. Looking down, I saw with dismay that it was now very badly swollen and I wondered how much further I could manage to walk.

Much more slowly, I then proceeded to carefully make my way towards my home. Suddenly there was the sound of aircraft and almost at once the whole sky was lit up by flares dropped from the planes. The noise of the aircraft flying so low was terrorizing. I knew when planes came over, to light up a whole area, before the wave of bombers, that it was the forerunner of a very heavy air attack. I hopped along faster and as best I could, trying to ignore the pain in my foot.

My heart almost stood still as once again the sirens wailed their warning. Knowing how important it was to reach my road quickly, I hurried along and tried to keep out of sight. The last thing I wanted was to be placed in another shelter. I jumped out of my skin when an air-raid warden bellowed at me.

“Take cover! Take cover!” In my concentration not to stumble again, I had not seen him. Ignoring him, I limped my way onwards but he quickly overtook me. I can still remember his haggard face. His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot. He quite likely had not had time to take his clothes off for days. We argued about my going on in the raid and I tried to explain why it was so necessary for me to continue. However, the “ack-ack” of the anti-aircraft guns made it almost impossible to communicate. In a momentary lull, the warden bawled at me that the bombers were almost overhead. He pushed me towards a building that I knew to be almost a shell of what had previously been a school. This building had received a direct hit some months before. Desperately, I pleaded with him not to make me go inside but he was adamant and he hustled me back the way I had so recently and painfully come.

We had hardly reached the shelter when the first stream of bombs started to shriek their way downwards. One, two, three, four – then a lull, and suddenly another one was on its way. I knew that the missing sound of an explosion meant another un-exploded bomb and how vicious and terrible they could be. The shelter was a very small one. It had obviously been part of a basement in the school. The sandbags smelled of damp canvas and some were burst. The wood used to shore up the walls stank as if they had already been in a grave. I knew I would hate it in there and wished miserably that I could have managed to take my chances outside.

When my eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, I saw to my disappointment that there were no amenities at all. It was cold and damp. Being the last person to enter the shelter, I was huddled between the warden and an old man. It was obvious he was employed at the Gas Works at Becton for his clothes reeked of gas. Older men had been pressured to return to work from which they had previously retired to replace the young men who had gone to the war.

The plain wooden bench on which we sat was very uncomfortable. I peered down the shelter to look at the other occupants. It seemed they used the shelter regularly because they had blankets and little packages of food with them. There were a mixture of ages, shapes and sizes as best as I could tell in the dim light. How I wished I had been allowed to run through the rain of shrapnel and flying glass rather than sit in this cramped, poorly equipped cover. Each time a bomb exploded a little too close for comfort I heard an Irish voice increase in volume another string of “Hail Mary’s.” I squinted to get a better look at a woman sitting quietly at the far end. She was a very weird shape. Her bust line was unusually large. Next to her sat a young man who shouted “there you go!” every time the shelter was violently shaken. After some hours of this I felt I wanted to strangle him!

Some time later, there was a quiet spell in the pandemonium outside. Everyone started to speculate on what was happening. The “ack-ack” of the anti-aircraft guns had also ceased yet it was still possible to hear the drone of the planes. Every so often there was a kind of swishing noise followed by a small thud.

After the disturbing quiet had lasted for awhile, the air-raid warden stood up, rubbed his stiff legs and went outside. He might have been checking on what was happening there but on the other hand, I knew that men sometimes slipped out for a moment to relieve themselves. “Lucky thing!” I thought. A few minutes later he returned. We all waited expectantly to hear what he had to tell us.

“It’s hell out there,” he said. “Whole world seems to be on fire. They’re using a new kind of fire bomb. It’s called an incendiary and they are coming down in thousands!”

We continued to wait in the dank shelter in a numbed, miserable silence. My thoughts returned again and again to my family. I wondered how my sister was faring in her area of London. She had already been bombed out once from her home and was still mourning the loss of her beloved cat. What agonies of mind must my mother be suffering on her own? I tried not to think of whether she might be injured or killed. In my heart I truly believed we would survive this dreadful time. It was these thoughts that helped me to get through that night.

The hours dragged on and on and I dozed from time to time. In one quiet period, a tired, dirt-covered policeman entered the shelter. His tin hat had a large dent in it and his gas mask case was broken. He had come in to count how many people were sheltering there. The warden gave him a drink of water from a flask. I asked him the time. It was almost 4 o’clock a.m.

As we continued to wait, thoughts still flew around in my head. Was my brother safe from the hanging land mine? Was my own home intact? How about my cat Tim? He had a way of sensing trouble and would vanish long before the alarms sounded. Was my sister at home or at work? It did make a difference. I imagined my mother lying alone on the floor beneath the table listening to the world shattering around her.

I dozed again and a sudden increase in the bombardment above woke me in alarm. On opening my eyes I saw two tiny lights shining across the shelter from me. “Oh God!” I thought. “It’s a rat!” My heart thumped in my throat and the constrictive feeling made me feel faint. I tried to breathe deeply. I was far more frightened that a rat was among us than I was of the havoc outside. The woman opposite me moved her head slightly and I saw the dim light shine on her spectacles. I knew then that my imagination had tricked me.

After a while I dozed some more and must have leaned against the man next to me. As I gradually awoke I became acutely aware of the sour, pungent smell of stale cigarette smoke on his clothes. This made me more conscious of the closeness and dank odor in the air. I longed even more for the “All Clear” to sound.

It was around 5:30 a.m. when there began a particularly ear splitting and furious bombardment of guns and exploding bombs. This caused everyone in the shelter to start talking hurriedly and excitedly. It was almost as if we were trying to put a protective shell around us. A small pale man sitting opposite me began to explain in much detail how his neighbours had been burned to death in their home. Apparently an oil bomb had landed in their garden. On exploding, the fire had run directly into their house. “They didn’t stand a chance,” he said, adding, “even if they had been in their garden shelter it would have got them.” This story led to other persons telling equally gruesome accounts of what had happened to their families and friends.

One woman said that after one very bad night of intense bombing, she and her family had decided to travel up to the centre of London to look for shelter and a place to sleep on one of the underground station platforms, as many thousands of bombed-out people had to do. “What was it like?” asked a voice from the far end of the gloomy room. “Orrible!” the Cockney voice replied. “Ain’t goin’ agin – take our chance ‘ere. At least we can soon git ‘ome and see if there’s anyfin’ standin’.” She said this in an almost joking tone. I felt it was to cover her feelings.

I asked again, “What is the time?” and was told about 6:30 a.m. My legs were numb with cold and the hours of sitting on the hard wooden bench. I longed to stretch but there was not enough room.

Without the screaming warning of a falling bomb, the shelter suddenly seemed to quake. We felt as if we had been lifted upwards and then violently dumped down again. We had all automatically ducked towards the floor. “My Gawd”, said a different Cockney voice nearby. “That was bleedin’ near!” The noise and sensation of movement was something unfathomable. The air became thick with dirt and smoke. Everyone coughed a lot and tried to clear their throats. My ear drums felt as if they would burst and my chest seemed to be pressed by a heavy weight. The shelter suddenly seemed to be a lot colder. Whatever it was that had exploded was obviously very close, if not right on top of us.

By the time the air had cleared a bit we found that the tiny light we had sat under for so many hours was shattered. The utter blackness was terrifying. Each time I felt someone move near to me, I froze. We sat in a very uneasy silence, broken only by a voice trying to pray and someone quietly crying.

A new wave of bombers passed over and again we counted the bombs as they fell. “For God’s sake, how much longer?” enquired a voice in the sooty gloom. The nerves in my teeth jumped every time an explosion boomed. The pain was agonizing and frightening. I prayed that it would stop for I had fears of becoming entirely toothless if it didn’t!

I could hear that the woman opposite me was making unusual sounds. I couldn’t determine what was happening to her. Gradually I became aware that the man next to me was very silent. The air was fetid. I listened to some poor soul retching in the darkness and dreaded the thought we might have to sit near a pool of vomit for some time. We sat on and on in the total darkness. I had a lump in my throat and began to feel panicky. The waiting seemed like an eternity.

Some time later, we heard the “All Clear” sounding. A cheer of relief went up from us all. We heard the warden rise from his seat and feel his way in the darkness. “I’ll soon have us out of here”, he said. He started pulling the sacking covers away from the metal door of the shelter. His breathing was loud as he strained to open it. He tried over and over again but it would not budge. We all sat listening intently in the darkness until at last he exclaimed, “Christ! It won’t move!” Another man clambered over feet and knees in an attempt to help the warden. The door refused to move and quickly there was a feeling of panic in the shelter.

My breathing seemed to be affected and I really thought I was going to die. The warden quickly took charge of the situation. He shouted over the noise of the voices asking questions and he convinced us that very soon there would be rescuers to get us out. The woman sitting across from me finally spoke up about her problem. Apparently she had a very violent nose bleed a while before and she was, by her description, “entirely covered in blood”.

I told the warden that I could no longer feel the man next to me. We all scrambled about on the floor feeling with our hands and after a minute or two we located him. The warden had a small flashlight and we saw the man was unconscious and had a very large gash beneath his right ear. It appeared that a piece of shattered wood, blown from a wooden bean, had entered his head when the ‘hit’ had partly collapsed the shelter. There was nothing we could do in the darkness to help him except that the warden took the man into his arms to help keep him warm. We placed his legs and feet across our laps and tried to rub them in an attempt to keep his circulation going.

An old man’s weak voice asked if we wanted to sing. No one answered him. I guess that everyone’s throats were as parched as mine. The Irish voice still droned on in fervent prayer. After a while, we heard sounds above us. Voices shouted to ask if anyone was injured. We shrieked back in chorus, “Yes, get us out!” Much noise went on above us. A thumping and banging sound made me think there was a truck moving back and forth. I wanted, above all, for the light to come on. I felt that if only I could see and there was some amount of light, everything would be okay.

As we waited, I thought about what would happen to my family without me. Thankfully I took comfort from the fact that there were people outside who were aware of our imprisonment. We all knew they would never stop in their labours to release us. My mind seemed to wander. I almost felt like laughing. I thought, “What a funny situation!” I wrote in my mind’s eye glowing epitaphs about myself. These, of course, would be printed after my removal from the “bowels of the earth.” This was a line I was sure I had read in the Bible. Thoughts of my mother again soon sobered me. The feeling of being outside of myself and looking in, had vanished. I was very conscious of being extremely cold and hungry and that my ankle and teeth hurt badly.

I bent over to feel if the swelling in my ankle had gone down at all. To my horror I realized there was about three inches of water around my feet. Someone else discovered this at the same time and shouted, “Water’s coming in!” Alarmed voiced queried, “How?” and “Where?” The warden sensed this was a situation that could get out of control. He bawled above the uproar, “I guess it’s a broken water main. Don’t worry. The rescue squad knows we’re here. They’ll have us out in no time.” I felt the bitter taste of bile rise in my mouth. I fought the feeling of wanting to vomit and bit my lips until I realized I could taste blood.

Anxious mutterings and questions broke the intense concentration of everyone in that underground prison. We waited in huddled misery and listened to the hurried labours of our rescuers. Slowly the water continued to trickle in. It crept higher and higher as the moments dragged by. I couldn’t stop myself from continually putting my hand down to see how quickly it was rising. It was now up to my mid-calf and my frozen feet felt as if they did not belong to me.

It was comforting to listen to the shouted orders and banging going on over us. However, with each thrust of their tools, more of the shelter and debris collapsed around us. Breathing became more difficult as the dirty atmosphere choked us. But we remained hopeful. We knew that they, whoever “they” were, toiling away above us, would never give in until we were reached.

The water rose higher. There was continuous coughing. We realized that with each effort to help us the shelter disintegrated more and more, causing extra danger every minute. The water level was now near our knees and it was terribly cold. I felt light headed and thought, “It’s alright, I can swim.” And then reality dawned on me – there was nowhere to swim. Resignation was very close to hand. My head throbbed violently and my ears felt as if they were on fire. I began to feel that it didn’t matter if I ever got out. All I wanted to do was sleep.

There was a deafening noise above and unexpectedly a sudden rush of air and light. Pieces of broken wood and debris fell with a loud splash into the water around us. I peered towards the light, unable to see. Very firm hands grabbed me and I was hauled unceremoniously upwards. The cold air hit my face like a whip. I couldn’t open my eyes as it was too bright. I could still hear the shovels and other tools striking the metal cover of the shelter. The voices were warm and assuring as the rescue party encouraged those who waited below.

Being almost the last person to enter the shelter, I was one of the first to come out. The warden followed with the unconscious man. He looked terrible. A fireman with a black-streaked face and sore, red eyes pulled me through the soil and rubble. His mouth had caked crescents of dirt around it. I just stared at him, unable to move on my own. He quickly handed me over to a waiting ambulance man. Although he looked completely exhausted, he had to almost carry me away from the now rapidly collapsing shelter. I could only stumble as my feet and legs were numb. He asked me if I needed a stretcher and I told him no.

As we moved away from the digging party, I heard voices saying things like, “It’s a miracle they got out!” and, “That was a close shave!” I turned to see how the others were faring just as the woman with the huge bosom was pulled from the hole. As she was released, a large, terrified tabby cat sprang from inside her coat. The woman screamed, “Don’t let him go, don’t let him go. He’s all I’ve got now!” Willing hands grabbed towards the cat but he was already gone. I felt as if I was apart from all that I was looking at. It did not seem to be real. But the smells were very real. Dried blood, sweat, urine, burning flesh, dampness – they were too real not to believe. Once again I felt the bile burning in my throat and I thought I would be sick. But nothing came.

The ambulance man asked if I was injured. I told him I was fine and then felt completely surprised at my reply. He quickly ran his hands over me and when he saw my ankle, he told me to get off it as soon as possible. I stared at him in a detached manner and far in the back of my mind I thought, “He looks dreadful – as if he has been going for a hundred years.” I sensed he wanted to get back to the other so I thanked him and again said I was okay.

A policeman approached me and wanted my name and address. He was trying to account for the number of people who had been in the shelter. He then asked if I could get home on my own. I told him I could manage and did not have far to go. He looked relieved and advised me to start as soon as I was able. Smiling, he added, “I don’t suppose you’ll be able to have a hot bath dearie. The water mains were all blown up yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” I thought. “What a funny word! When was yesterday?” It seemed like eons ago. My only thought now was to get back to my mother. Shakily, I picked my way across the mess. It was a very slow and painful process. My shoes were covered with mud and slime. I could feel water squeezing between my toes each time I took a step. My dress clung wetly to my legs and felt very uncomfortable. I knew I looked awful. My hair was covered in dirt and hung in long, straight lumps. I hoped I could reach home without being made to take any more detours.

After a dozen or so steps I realized there was a middle aged woman standing in front of me. She was holding a large enamel cup of hot tea. Without a word she thrust it into my frozen hand and waited for me to drink it. The sudden heat of the cup in my hand acted like an electric shock. I stared with terrified eyes into her face as I felt the hot urine running down the insides of my thighs. Her eyes travelled to my feet and the steaming puddle around them. She gently took the cup from my hand and said, “Oh Gawd! You poor little sod!” This sympathy was more than I could bare and a dry sound, something like a gunshot came from my parched throat. She put a comforting arm around my shoulders and said in her Cockney twang, “Cummin dearie, I’ll fix yer up”.

We proceeded very slowly past houses entirely devoid of windows. Some had no roofs. Rubble, hoses, wood, bricks and pools of water were everywhere. I asked if she knew if the road I lived on had been hit. She replied she was not sure but that she felt it was alright. When we finally reached her house, I saw that it was nothing more than a shell of its former self. Part of the roof was intact and the rest covered by a tarpaulin. None of the windows remained but they had been boarded up with slats of broken wood. She took me through the house into the garden where there was an outside toilet. Placing me on the toilet seat, she left me sitting there with the door open. Returning with a towel, she explained she was unable to wet it as there was no water but she had moistened it with some tea from her flask. I cleaned my face and legs as bet I could but I knew that I must have looked a pretty awful sight.

Having drunk the tea, I thanked her gratefully and started on my way again. What was I to find? I had been away from my home for almost twenty four hours. I imagined the anxiety my mother had gone through worrying about her children. I wondered if my sister was safe in her part of London. Above all, what was I to tell my mother about Bill?

As I turned out of the road of the woman who had helped me so kindly, I looked back and saw she was once again carrying her flask and cup – going out again to nurture some other unknown soul with her own precious ration of tea. I wished fiercely that such a brave person might be spared further torments of uncalled-for hostilities. I recalled her high-pitched Cockney whine and my answering “Ta”, unconsciously in her own kind, to thank her for her generosity.

At last I arrived at my own street. What had been a green-grocer’s shop on the corner was now only a steaming crater. A neighbour I knew well was standing as if rooted to the spot, staring blankly at the rubble. I asked him if the family who lived over the shop was alright. He lifted his shoulders, unable to answer me. His grey face quivered and I knew what his silence meant.

With my shoulders heaving, I stumbled on down my street. It was difficult to see through the smoke and grit. Carefully picking my way between piles of someone’s roof tiles and glass, I could see my own home and it appeared to be stable. I hobbled along, feeling very apprehensive and frightened at what I might find. It was almost as if in a dream that I noticed the Victoria gates and fences that had been the decoration outside the homes had all gone. I stared at the black stubbles of iron left in the concrete and then remembered that they had been taken away for making munitions a long while ago.

At last I was in front of my own home. With my heart in my mouth, I saw that the windows had been blown out and a number of roof tiles were strewn around the front of the house. There was no sign that anyone had tried to cover the gaping holes in the window frames. Again, I felt that tight restriction in my throat as I wondered what had happened to my mother.

What would she say when she saw me? I looked filthy and exhausted. I attempted to brush some of the grime from my dress. I was surprised to see streaks of blood all over the skirt. With shaking hands I feebly tried to brush my hair back from my face but I knew my efforts were worthless. My head ached and it seemed that my brain was nothing more than a blank weight in my head. The pain in my foot made it hard for me to concentrate.

My mother had never been a demonstrative person. I think life had dealt too many unfair blows for her to completely let her guard down. I did not expect her to shriek in delight at my safe homecoming. But I longed that, just once, she would put her arms around me and say, “Thank God, you are safe.”

I stared at our front door as if willing it to open. I leaned against the porch to ease the pain in my ankle. Finally, I decided that if I knocked on the door in my usual manner, she would realize I was alright.

It seemed an eternity before I heard the latch turn. The door opened only slightly and finally, my mother stood there. Silver curls lay on her forehead. The rest of her silver and red-gold hair hung down her back in complete disarray. I had never seen her look like that before. I felt as if I were staring at someone I did not know.

There was complete silence between us and I squirmed in anguish on my one good foot. I asked, “Mum, are you alright?” She did not answer. I stared at her feet and saw to my relief that my cat was brushing against her shins. Through his coat of fur, I could see the sores that were the sign of the malnutrition he suffered. We had tried so hard to keep him fit but it was impossible with the food that we could offer.

Again, I looked into my mother’s face. It was like a piece of grey marble. Her eyes seemed to be staring right behind me. Panic filled me and I was startled to feel a sense of guilt flood through me. Did she have news of Bill that I did not know? I thought again of the hell she must have suffered and I repeated, “Mum?” There was still no movement from her. Hurriedly I rushed on to explain how I had tried to telephone her but that the lines were all down. She still did not move. “I really did try,” I said weakly.

Unable to bear the silence any longer and filled with terror at what her news might be, I asked again. “Mum? Is Bill…..?” Her eyes moved slightly to just above my head. They reminded me of two pieces of grey stone. My ankle was aching so badly that I had to lean against the doorway. The pain was making me feel faint again. Once more, I burst out, “Mum? Are you…..?” The blank eyes turned to look straight at me and she made a small movement behind the door. As she turned back and walked down the passageway all I heard her say as I entered the house was “Come in”.

~ The End ~

Photo Credits

Firemen – Public Domain

Thumbnail Dornier 17 Bomber – Creative Commons

London Blitz – Public Domain

Dornier 17 Bombers Over London – Public Domain

Blitz Bomb Damage – Creative Commons

Blitz Fire – Public Domain

Guest Author Bio

Mary Piggott
Mary was born in London, England, the youngest of four children. Her Mother was widowed when Mary was only one year old. This led to her Mother working long, hard hours at whatever she had the opportunity to do. A lifetime of “making do” and scraping was the only life the family knew and this also resulted in each child having to leave school early to find work. Mary always had the ambition to travel and has visited over fifty countries. In 1967 Mary and her husband Colin immigrated to Canada with their little daughter. Mary is a talented artist who enjoys painting, writing and the challenge of crossword puzzles.

Take Cover! Take Cover! is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

On February 22, 2012, officials from all three levels of government gathered in a little church in Birchtown – a tiny village in Nova Scotia – to help Elizabeth Cromwell make a very big announcement. She’s waited decades for this moment. More accurately, she and the other members of the Black Loyalist Heritage Society (BLHS) have worked hard for decades toward this day when they could announce that a $4.6 million interpretive centre would be built to tell the story of the Black Loyalist experience and their contribution to Canadian life, an important chapter in the epic of the African North American journey from slavery to freedom.

This is the story of those freed and escaped from slavery in the American south in the late 18th century to start new lives on the shores of what was then a British colony. “It’s fitting that we stand in this church to say thank-you,” said an emotional Cromwell in her speech to those gathered for the announcement. “Our ancestors, other people from this community of Birchtown – Black and white – started in 1888 to collect money to build this church. They didn’t open it until 1906. We’re used to long journeys. But we’re not used to giving up. We’ll never give up.”

Long journeys indeed. The announcement that the federal government will contribute $2.5 million, the Province of Nova Scotia a further $2.5 million over the first ten years of the project and the Municipality of Shelburne $50,000 – the BLHS has raised over $1 million in donations, and needs more – is a funding puzzle it’s taken Cromwell and her fellows years of effort and persistence to put together. The BLHS Capital Campaign continues, headed up by a cabinet of noteworthy Canadian figures and supported by a Council of Patrons that includes the bestselling author of The Book of Negroes, Lawrence Hill – a book partially set in Birchtown and nearby Shelburne – and opera star Measha Brueggergosman whose roots are Black Loyalist. By the way, the title of Lawrence’s book comes from an historical document of the same name that includes the names and descriptions of 3000 Black refugees who sailed from New York to Nova Scotia in 1783, many of them landing in Birchtown.

It is in fact this very spirit of determination that the Centre itself will commemorate and celebrate. This isn’t an easy, feel-good story to tell, as Cromwell explained in her remarks about Birchtown itself. “We have a place here established by those settlers who came here all those years ago, voting with their feet to leave the United States, those 13 colonies, to leave that situation of slavery and to say never again. They were lied to, they were cheated, they were used, they were beaten. They lost their memory of where they came from and who they were.”

Yes, even after securing their own freedom from slavery, the Africans who fled to Birchtown in 1783 to form what was then the largest free Black settlement in British North America were sorely abused by those who’d freed them. The land they’d been granted was forested and unsuitable for farming. Many had to live in holes dug in the ground that first winter. Local governments passed laws preventing freed Blacks from setting up businesses or even living within town limits and even keeping them from fishing in the harbour. Some ended up back in servitude as the only way to survive. Within a decade, so many were so desperate and so poor, they signed on for a return trip to Africa where they helped found Freetown in Sierra Leone.

Perhaps this legacy is why Cromwell’s remarks hinted at mistrust when she said, “It just doesn’t ring true until I see the Minister standing up here.” But such a powerful, dignified woman would never dwell on such things. Instead, she remembered those who were no longer part of the struggle, then went on to speak of the hope for the future the Centre will symbolize.

“It’s our time and our turn to tell the story of our people,” said Cromwell in an even, confident voice. “When you walk in that centre when it’s open in 2013, one of the things we want people to understand is the strength of the people who came here and endured. And we want people to be inspired so when they leave here, they’ll want to return to look at other aspects of the journey, to bring their children and their grandchildren, and to leave with a feeling of hope.”

The Centre will be all that, but it’s persistent, enduring people dedicated to the accurate telling of Black history behind the project, people like Elizabeth Cromwell herself who are the real hope for a future guided by justice, inclined toward dignity and secured by mutual respect and cooperation.

Photo Credits

Photo and Illustration used by permission of the Black Loyalist Heritage Society.

Elizabeth Cromwell, President of the Black Loyalist Heritage Society.

An artist’s conception of the new interpretive centre in Birchtown to be completed by July 2013 that will tell the story of the Black Loyalists.

Between Slavery and Freedom is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Our recent trip to Tunisia was not an outstanding success for us. True there was a small but pleasant group of people and as a quick all round insight into Tunisian life, the trip was quite satisfactory but the guide, not being an archaeologist, was not knowledgeable about Tunisian history especially the Roman/Phoenician sites.

We left Tunis early in the morning and headed south to Testour a small settlement founded by Muslims fleeing Spain after the reconquest (La Reconquista) of the country by the Catholic Kings. It is famous for its blue doors which give a festive air to an otherwise impoverished and dust filled little town.

We next rollicked along in our tiny bus to the hilltop site of Dougga. Its size, its well-preserved monuments and its rich Numidian-Berber, Punic, ancient Roman and Byzantine heritage make it exceptional. Dougga was an important rallying point for various tribal kings who allied with Rome against the Carthaginians and it became a strategic centre too for the Romans who spared this town after sacking Carthage in 146 BC. It was annexed to Rome by Caesar in 46 and as a Roman town it grew prosperous but from the third century onwards, with the fall of Rome, Dougga started to decline. It was abandoned and deserted with the Vandal invasion, and since then there has only been a small village on the other side of the hills. This probably explains why it is so rich in monuments: it wasn’t near enough to other settlements for its stones and masonry to be re-used.

We stayed the night at the small town of El Kef known for its Kasbah which the French reconstructed and used as a military barracks during their colonial days. It is an important holy site for Sufi Muslims and has a shrine to a well known Sufi Saint – Sidi Bou Makhlouf. The guide forgot to mention that the Algerians used it as a command centre during the Algerian War of Independence in the 1950’s and it was also the provisional capital of Tunisia during World War Two.

Later, we drove on to Makthar to visit the ruins of this extremely ancient pre-Roman fortress which the Numidians used to control the comings and goings of the nomads (mainly Berbers, the original inhabitants of Tunisia). It became even more important after Caesar annexed it in 46BC but suffered the same fate as Dougga under the Vandals and was abandoned in the 11th Century. There were enough remaining ruins for us to get a picture of how idyllic these places were for retired Roman soldiers and well-off colonisers.

After lunch, our destination was Kairouan, the spiritual capital of Tunisia and foremost holy town of North Africa for Sunni Muslims after Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem. It was the first city to convert to Islam and was called the city of 300 mosques. 120,000 pilgrims come here each year.

We stayed the night in Sufetula (Sbeitla) and explored the Roman remains of this superb site the next day. This region was populated in 67-68 AD after various conquests of local tribes under the emperor Vespasian – he who invented the famous ‘pissoir’ still called in French ‘la Vespasienne’, a malodorous example of which existed in my local Lisieux Farmers’ Market for many years next to the Fish Market where it was relatively undetectable. Most remarkable of the few constructions still standing were the three temples dedicated to Juno, Jupiter and Minerva – a Roman equivalent of the three tenors perhaps, for they each have a temple here instead of sharing one huge one as in most Roman sites.

Obviously, the inhabitants were richer and more thankful for their good life which depended on the trade in olives and olive oil, attested to by the Roman grinding stones so similar to our apple grinding stones (pressoirs en granit). Life here was obviously prosperous, peaceful and harmonious, attested to by the existence of seven Christian churches, a baptismal font and a ‘pleasure dome’ in the form of a well-advertised brothel.

More interesting for British tourists was the plaque over one of the town gates dedicated to Antoninus Pius and his two adopted sons, Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius. It was Antoninus who built the Antonine Wall across the north of Britain above Hadrian’s Wall when the invading horde of Picts came down like a wolf from the fold. The Vandals did the same to Sbeitla but occupied the town until the Byzantines re-took it then it was sacked by the Arabs in 647 and fell into oblivion.

The afternoon was dedicated to Tozeur, one of the most famous oases in the world on the fringe of the desert surrounded by 7000 acres of date palms and other astounding greenery.

Decoratively built of narrow white bricks, hand crafted in local brickworks which sit in a lunar landscape, Tozeur mainly caters to desert trekking groups and this is where we met the desert fox, as we set forth on our camels like Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia.

 Photo Credits

All Photos By Julia McLean – All Rights Reserved

The Desert Fox – Part One is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Kids the world over should get down on their knees and give thanks to Dr. Frederick Tisdall, former director of the nutritional research laboratories for Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children. Thanks to his introduction of vitamin D supplementation in flour and milk in the 1930’s, children no longer have to choke down daily drams of putrid tasting cod liver oil to get their allotment of the “sunshine vitamin.”

Tisdall along with two other pediatricians, Dr. Alan Brown and Dr. Theodore Drake are more famous, however, as the inventors of pablum, a scientifically designed and nutritious cereal created in the 1930’s to provide for the nutritional needs of infants. Prior to this many small children died of diseases such as rickets – directly related to nutrient deficiencies – and of others such as tuberculosis and diphtheria to which they were more susceptible due to poor nutrition.

An earlier attempt at producing a nutritional alternative food for children resulted in Sunwheat biscuits, nutrient loaded cookies concocted from a combination of alfalfa, wheat meal, oatmeal and corn meal, wheat germ, yeast, bone meal and honey for sweetening. These proved to be best sellers, not only improving the nutritional health of thousands of children but also adding much needed royalties to the coffers of the Hospital for Sick Children. Unfortunately the Sunwheat biscuit could not be ingested by small infants and another supplement was required to fill this gap.

Pablum, which derives its name from the Latin pabulum or food, first became available in Canada in 1931. Pablum was made from alfalfa, yeast, wheat germ, corn, oats, bone meal and yeast and contained massive amounts of vitamins A, B2, B2, D and E. In order to overcome the problem of perishability the product was sprayed onto heated, rotating drums and the dried residue was scraped off to make easily reconstitutable flakes which would form a mushy foodstuff that could easily be consumed by small babies. Evidently, the kids loved it – though the fact that adults found the product so insipid provided a nice synonym for the words tasteless and bland.

More royalties rolled in, allowing the founding of the Hospital for Sick Children Research Foundation. This meant that pablum supported not only the physical health of its diminutive consumers but the fiscal health of an institution specifically designed to care for the little ones.

As such it is another example of a much under-heralded success story in Canada’s continuing medical saga.

Photo Credit:

“Pablum: Get it while it’s luke warm”  CriticalMass 

“Pablum 1930″ SickKids

Pablum and the History of Children’s Health is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

In 1938, Canadian Physicist, Dr. Eli FranklinBurton, made a big discovery when he really only wanted to look at something tiny.

Most people set out to accomplish ‘big’ things in their lives. Canadian physicist Dr. Eli Franklin Burton was not one of these people.  A former director of the physics department at the University of Toronto and the inventor of the first practical electron microscope, his discovery was instead designed to demystify the tiniest of objects. Developed with assistance from graduate students James Hillier and Albert Prebus, Burton first tested his invention in 1938 on a keen razor blade, which proved to be as craggy and pock marked as the surface of the moon when viewed with sufficient magnification.

Scientists had found the light microscope limited in its ability to magnify objects by the wave lengths of visible light. Beyond a certain point, resolution would be lost and objects became blurry. Not so with electrons which produced wave lengths about 100,000 tinier than the photons of visible light, allowing for magnifications of up to 2 million times or about a thousand times the resolution of the best optical microscopes.

Rather than the traditional glass lenses of the light microscope, the electron microscope uses electromagnetic and electrostatic fields to focus electrons shot from a high voltage electron gun with which to produce an image.  This revolutionary device opened up a whole new world to scientists who could now see viruses which caused diseases such as polio and smallpox, as well as observe minute cellular processes and the chromosomes and DNA which make up the genome of humans and other living creatures. In addition, the electron microscope proved to have many industrial applications, for example in fiber, plastics and textiles manufacturing and the examination of metallic and crystalline structures.

Besides the original Transmission Electron Microscope (TEM), other variations of the device were developed including the Scanning Electron Microscope (SEM), the Reflection Electron Microscope (REM), the Scanning Transmission Electron Microscope (STEM) and the Low Voltage Electron Microscope (LVEM). Each has its own advantages and disadvantages.

Though Burton will remain most famous for his electron microscope he made other contributions to various fields of science. He studied colloids (particulate suspensions of which Jello (R) is a familiar example) early in his career at Cambridge University in England. He also did research in the early 30′s, tracking down and liquefying helium.

During World War II Burton trained radar operators for the war effort and also became a director of Research Enterprises Ltd., an Ontario firm which manufactured radar sets and other electronics for the military.  He was an entertaining speaker who shared his knowledge with great gusto, and came to be in demand as a speaker at prestigious universities and medical centers the world over. Burton was a sort of latter day ‘science guy’ with an uncanny ability to simplify complex scientific subjects.

He received the Order of the British Empire in 1943 for his contributions and the new physics wing of the University of Toronto was also named for him to honor his contributions. He also became a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada and recipient of the Henry Marshall Tory Medal in 1947. Burton passed away in 1948 at the age of 69.

Further Reading:

Canadian Scientists and Inventors

The Canadian Encyclopedia

Photo Credits:

Wikipedia:  Electron Microscope

Dr. Eli Franklin Burton And The Electron Microscope is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Though most Canadians have heard of Thomas Edison few are familiar with Canada’s own Thomas Edison, design engineer George J. Klein.

Born in Hamilton, Ontario in 1904, Klein could count to his credit such inventions as the first electric wheelchair, the first micro-surgical staple gun, Canada’s first nuclear reactor, the ZEEP, a pre-cursor to the internationally famed CANDU reactor, the Weasel all-terrain vehicle, the STEM antenna, crucial to the American space program, and the Canadarm device used in the space shuttle for remote manipulation. He was even summoned out of retirement at the age of 72 to work on the latter device due to his incomparable knowledge of gears.

Klein was indisputably the most prolific Canadian inventor of the twentieth century. He graduated from the University of Toronto with a Bachelors Degree in Applied Science in 1928, but never did a postgraduate degree.

While working with the National Research Council in the 1950′s he developed the first practical electric wheelchair for veterans of the Second World War. Few spinal cord injured soldiers of World War I survived, but due to medical advances 90% of those so-injured in World War II did survive, hence the need for a device which would enhance their mobility and independence.

Klein donated his prototype electric wheelchair to the United States as a gesture of good will in 1955, but it was repatriated exactly 50 years later and now rests in the Canadian Science and Technology Museum in Ottawa. The device proved a godsend for paraplegics, quadriplegics and other whose injuries would formerly have kept them confined to beds or dependent on others for transportation. The joystick control which Klein also invented is still seen in common use today.

Klein’s micro-surgical staple gun was the first to successfully suture blood vessels. Outside of the medical field his STEM (storable tubular extendible member) used in the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs effectively allowed compact antennas to be extended to up to 40 meters in length. His Weasel tracked ATV was used by the U.S. military in venues as different as the Arctic and the tropics.

The Canadarm has been used since 1981 aboard the space shuttle for such diverse tasks as repairs to the Hubble Telescope, launching new satellites and retrieving old ones. An updated version of the Canadarm was used on the International Space Station for numerous tasks.

In his spare time Klein played violin for the Ottawa and Hamilton symphony orchestras. He was also an expert woodworker.

A true polymath, Dr. Klein was initiated as an Officer of the Order of Canada in 1968 and was also a member of the Order of the British Empire. He died in 1992 at the age of 88 and was posthumously named to the Canadian Science and Engineering Hall of Fame in 1995.

What was the motivation that drove Klein to such heights of creativity and inventiveness?

In his own words: “It was wonderful to have been at the lab because it was fun. Serious fun.”

Additional Reading:

George Johann Klein – From hivemind.net

Canada Science And Technology Museum

National Research Council Canada

Photo Credits

George J. Klein – Public Domain From ookaboo.com

Canadarm – Public Domain From Wikipedia

George J. Klein, Canada’s Own Thomas Edison is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Charlottetown, P.E.I. – the historic Canadian city where a nation was born, where politicians became drinking buddies, and where you can now enjoy ice cream, funnel cake, great shopping and a wonderful arts culture.

On a recent tour of Province House in Charlottetown, P.E.I. I discovered the secret of Canadian Confederation. In time honoured political tradition John A. Macdonald, George-Etienne Cartier and representatives from various parts of Canada arrived in Charlottetown on September 1, 1864 aboard the S.S. Victoria. Since the Olympic Circus was in town almost all government functionaries, dock workers etc.were congregated at the Big Top with the sole exception of politician William Henry Pope, who had to row out himself to greet the functionaries. What followed was the Charlottetown Conference an eight day, somewhat drunken round of balls, private drinking sessions and general male bonding between erstwhile strangers. This resulted in no written documents, but most importantly the Fathers of Confederation became “drinking buddies,” an unofficial but profoundly important part of our national political apparatus to this day. On a somewhat shaky handshake our nation was born.

Exactly 147 years after the original Charlottetown Conference ended, I found myself ensconced in the Holman Grand Hotel, a new boutique inn just across the street from Province House. While the funky decor and comfy rooms were a far cry from Victorian era P.E.I., I was right on the door-step of Canada’s place of birth. Charlottetown, a little gem of a town with a population of about 30,000 nevertheless supports a vibrant arts community. Cheek-by-jowl with province house is the Confederation Centre of the Arts covering a city block, which formerly was the site of the city market. It comprises several theatres, an art gallery as well as a restaurant and gift shop.

For the non-culture vultures, just across the street is the COWS ice cream shop – recently voted by Tauck Tour Reviews as serving the world’s best ice cream.

Charlottetown’s Georgian heritage is clearly visible in its architecture, place names and perhaps most of all in its name, called after Queen Charlotte, George the Third’s beloved wife. Not far from the city centre is Victoria Park and adjacent the elegant colonnaded mansion of the province’s Lieutenant Governor, the Queens representative for Prince Edward Island. Visitors are free to wander the mansion’s elegant gardens but please don’t knock on the Lt. Governor’s door unless you have an invitation!

Be sure to take a walk down to Peake’s Quay and its waterfront stores. After you’ve had your fill of shopping try the funnel cake and/or the handcut fries at Taters. Or you can treat yourself to a decadent and reasonably priced facial or massage at Pure Spa, also on the water front, just down from Founders Hall. Founders Hall houses an extensive tourism bureau where visitors can familiarize themselves with the island’s attractions or book tours. It also has an interesting exhibition on P.E.I.’s history.

Even getting to Prince Edward Island is an adventure. You can still take the ferry from Nova Scotia, but more recently with the completion of the Confederation Bridge, you can drive all the way. The largest such span ever built in ice-covered waters, it is an engineering feat designed to deflect huge masses of winter ice with no structural damage. Eight miles in length it was opened to traffic in 1997 after much controversy and a plebiscite which saw 59.4% in favor of the link.

For further information on Charlottetown and Prince Edward Island go to:

Tourism Prince Edward Island 
City of Charlottetown 
Tourism Charlottetown 

Photo Credits

 © George Burden.  All rights reserved.

Charlottetown Sojourn is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Julia McLean writes about a cheese – the soft, smooth texture and the rich, creamy taste.  Camembert, the history, the legend and a bit of advice on how to enjoy it.

The countryside is full of legends – the best one in Normandy was always ‘Queen Mathilda’s Tapestry’ which is, of course, the Bayeux Tapestry. Legend had it that it was woven by Queen Mathilda when her husband was away conquering the known world. It made the tapestry hard to locate for those of us who called it the Bayeux Tapestry because our enquiries would produce a Gallic shrug of non-comprehension.

Equally difficult to find 20 years ago was the village of Camembert because there were no road signs. In those days there were only two houses there and a church – very discreet. However, in Vimoutiers, the local market town there is a statue to Marie Harel, the farmer’s wife who ‘invented’ Camembert cheese. People say the production method was given her by a priest who came from Brie.

For most soft paste cheeses the method is the same. The milk, warm from the cow and unpasteurised (only unpasteurised milk -lait cru- is allowed in AOC cheese ) is mixed with the requisite quantity of rennet and is stirred and left to coagulate. In older farmhouses, the micro-organisms needed to start the cheese were often present on the lime-washed walls of the cellars which would be on different levels. These were divided into a series of small temperature controlled rooms (caves a affinage) into which the cheeses were transferred at the differing stages of the production. Nowadays the cheese is made by inoculating warmed milk with mesophilic bacteria (same micro-organisms as for beer – they live at blood temperature).

Once the curd has set, it is roughly chopped, sprinkled with salt and ladled into Camembert moulds (marked on the label as ‘moulé à la louche’) then the moulds are turned every six to twelve hours to allow the whey to drain away evenly. After two days, each mould contains a flat, cylindrical, solid cheese mass weighing approximately 350 grams (about 12 oz).
The cheeses were left on tightly packed wooden shelves for three weeks to ripen and acquire the distinctive rind and creamy interior texture characteristic of the cheese. The rind of the cheese was always a matter of chance and it was often blue-grey with brown spots. The farmers would often wash and salt the cheese but nowadays the cheese is sprayed with a penicillin fungus which keeps it pure white. The cheese is finally wrapped in waxed paper and placed into its distinctive little wooden box for transport and sale.

The village of Camembert is now clearly signposted and actually has a Camembert Museum and shop where you can do little tastings. Unfortunately, it closes between 12 and 2pm and there is no eatery really close. If it is a fine day, come armed with a bottle of red wine and a ‘crusty baguette’, buy your Camembert and have your little feast under the trees.  Camembert is still very popular and now is often served hot as a dip. My potter friend sells huge quantities of little Camembert sized ramekins especially for the purpose.

Try some of these recipes.

MELTED CAMEMBERT WITH GARLIC DIPS
Place a whole Camembert in a ramekin to fit, in a medium hot oven for 10-20 minutes.
While it is heating through, prepare some garlic toast with really crusty bread cut into strips
When the cheese is bubbling remove the top lid with a sharp knife.
Serve immediately with a green salad and the garlic bread dips.

CHEESE PURSES WITH CHUTNEY
Cut prepared puff pastry into rounds the size of Canadian pancakes and place on baking tray.
Cut the Camembert into small triangles.
Place one on your pastry leaving space around the edge.
Brush the edge with beaten egg and cover with another round of pastry.
Put the baking tray in the fridge for 30 minutes while you prepare a chutney.
CHUTNEY
Peel and cut up two medium Granny apples into small chunks and place in a saucepan with a handful of fresh cranberries, three or four dried apricots in chunks and a handful of dates stoned and chopped, and a medium onion chopped small. Cover with wine vinegar. Heat up and when on the boil, stir in 300grams (8 ozs) brown sugar, spices to taste (ginger/chilli/cloves/cinnamon) and keep stirring until the mixture becomes jam-like (30-40 mins). When cool, add some chopped walnuts.

Pop the cheese purses into a hot oven (200C/Gas Mark 5) and bake for 10-15 minutes.
Serve the purses immediately with the chutney and a green salad.  You can serve Camembert hot on Canadian pancakes or inside crepes (French pancakes) or wrap it in filo pastry. These recipes make a very good brunch although my husband’s favourite is a sandwich made of good crunchy ‘baguette’ (those thin French sticks), lavishly slathered with salted butter, packed with thinly sliced red onions and creamy slivers of just runny Camembert and munched contentedly

Photo Credit

“Camembert”  Flickr Creative Commons.  ©All rights reserved by friendlydrag0n

Camembert: A Legend is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Some years after the experiences which created the story See The Light, NakSanSa Temple was destroyed by fire.

An inferno in 2005, which began in the pine forest surrounding the temple, was so intense that the bronze temple bell, which I had been privileged to sound, a national treasure which dated back to the 15th Century, was melted.

It wasn’t the first time NakSanSa had been destroyed.

The temple had previously been razed by fire in the 13th Century by the Mongolian hordes. From 1392, during the Joseon Dynasty, the temple was reconstructed. It was expanded by royal order in 1467, 1469, 1631 and 1643.

It was again burnt down in the 1950-53 Korean War.

Since the fire of 2005, NakSanSa Temple has again been rebuilt.

The consecutive painstaking rebuilding of the temple is a testament to the dedication of the Korean people and successive national and provincial governments.

No nails are used in the traditional wooden construction of Buddhist temples in South Korea.

The present-day temple museum displays a wooden violin and cello built from structural wood that survived the fire.

NakSanSa Temple is as perennial as Buddhism itself.

Photo Credits

All Images Courtesy Of Wikipedia

Built On Faith is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN