All For the Want of a (Rusty) Nail

About a decade ago, I bought a large bottle of Drambuie at the airport duty-free shop while coming back from a work conference. It was too good a deal to pass up, I liked liqueurs, and I had fond childhood memories of Dad wrapping up many a nice meal out with a cup of coffee and a shot of Drambuie on the side. 

And Drambuie, a whisky-based liqueur made with herbs and heather honey, is a darned fine sip on its own, but I began to wonder what else it could be used in and upon researching, discovered it was a key ingredient to one of Frank Sinatra's favourite cocktails, the Rusty Nail.

Like a lot of classic cocktails, it is pretty simple: two parts blended scotch to one part Drambuie, stirred and served over the rocks or crushed ice with a lemon peel garnish. It is a potent drink, since even the liqueur portion is 40% ABV, but as a post-dinner sipper or nightcap it is a genuine treat, with just enough head-loosening properties to engage an appropriate amount of relaxation, reflection or conviviality, as a situation might require.

When I mentioned my (at the time) recent pivot to this beverage to Mum back in 2014, I was elated to discover that it had also been a favourite of my father's, a revelation that delighted me to no end.

I don't always have Drambuie in the house, and sometimes when I do, I don't want to mix it with the whiskeys on hand that are meant for sipping on their own. But I picked up a handle of Dewar's the last time I was at Costco and used an accumulation of Scene points to facilitate the purchase of a bottle of Drambuie shortly thereafter, once I realized hopw long it had been since I had sipped or served a Rusy Nail.

We had company last weekend and I put one together for one of our guests, and they quite liked it, which I have found to be a pretty common reaction from just about anyone who will take their spirits neat on occasion.

Despite the fact they are served cold and over ice, the Rusty Nail is by no means a drink for a warm, sunny day - quenching one's thirst with a Rusty Nail is ill-advised to say the least! But on a cool winter's night, with the majority of the weekend behind you and a full work week only hours ahead, taking one's sweet time unwinding with sips of a vintage cocktail is an experience to be savoured... and shared, if one is lucky enough.

Writing-on-Stone: Sandstone Cliffs and Petroglyphs

I had known since probably elementary school that there were indigenous carvings in the rocks in Southern Alberta. But I had no idea just how culturally significant these petroglyphs were until we visited Writing-on-Stone/Áísínaiʼpi.

The Sweetgrass Hills just over the border in Montana are a sacred place to the Blackfoot people, and they also believe that spirits inhabit the hoodoos and rock formations in the coulees of Writing-on-Stone. Because of this, not just anyone was allowed to write on the rocks - these are not just jottings or musings or recollections (although some are biographic in nature), but the products of visions, sometimes obtained under trying circumstances.

You can hike on your own to see the Battle Scene petroglyph I mentioned in my previous post, but to see the majority of the most significant carvings, you need to take a guided tour into a restricted area of the park -an archaeological preserve. At $19 a person, this is a bargain, and I heartily recommend anyone visiting the park for even a day to take advantage of it.

Thanks to COVID we couldn't take a bus down from the Visitor's Centre. Instead, we and the eight other participants formed a mini-convoy in our own vehicles and followed our interpreter, Laura, past the gate and descending down to a gravel parking area close to the Writing-on-Stone Rodeo Grounds (fun fact - Alberta singer/songwriter Corb Lund competed there in his youth).

After a short briefing on rattlesnake safety in which we were assured that no one in Alberta has ever died of a snakebite (and that there is actually more danger due to bacteria from their dirty fangs than their venom - ick), we set off. It was a short walk up some stairs to a plateau with benches facing the canyon walls, and Laura stood below the first panel, pointing out details with her walking stick.

We were lucky to have Laura - she has degrees in both archaeology and geography as I recall, but more importantly, she possesses a genuine passion and respect for indigenous culture and history which she was eager to share with us.

Over the next hour, she pointed out many details to us about the elements of the various panels we were viewing. A little of this I already knew, like how the horses brought here by the Spaniards predated the arrival of Europeans to the plains and had a tremendous impact on the lives of people living here in the 1700s. In some of the petroglyphs, you can see figures behind large discs which we now know are full-body shields that stretched from shoulder to ankle. These were abandoned once warriors and hunters took to riding horses instead. (Fun fact - the Blackfoot language had no word for horse, so their name for them means "elk-dog.")

These pictures do a poor job of conveying the content, but you might recognize some elements - v-necked people, a buffalo, a beaver. 

Much of what we learned was new to me though, like the idea that the spiritual nature of the carvings meant that Blackfoot Medicine Men stated they could change overnight. They sought wisdom and augury from them, believing they could warn of nearby enemies or dire outcomes of battles.

Just below and to the right of the centre of the picture above is something that looks like an axe (or a hockey stick, as is often volunteered to Laura) and something that looks like a broom. Archaeologists puzzled over these until a Blackfoot elder explained that the first item was in fact a medicine pipe and the second a type of offering pole topped with feathers and stuck in the ground at a ceremony called an All-Night Smoke, variations of which are still done today.

The round impact marks are in fact bullet holes, presumably from the North West Mounted Police outpost located directly across the river. A replica of the outpost was recreated at the mouth of Police Coulee in 1975, making the view far more similar to what it had been over a century ago.

There is settler content on the rocks as well, as NWMP officers, ranchers landowners and travellers felt compelled to add their marks to the writings. Work is being done to remove more modern graffiti, but anything inscribed prior to 1957 (the founding of the park) is considered historical and allowed to remain.

Looking at more panels, we learned how only spiritual beings are given eyes in these carvings, and how the interpretation of one of the carvings has moved from depicting a creature like a fish or fox to perhaps being a landscape, specifically the Sweetgrass Hills to the south of us.

The oldest of the petroglyphs are estimated to be 3500-5000 years old, but one of the most intriguing is actually the most recent. It clearly depicts wheeled vehicles and passengers but its precise date and origin was a mystery until a chance discovery of a photo less than 15 years ago. At an academic conference, the picture, which showed an indigenous man in a headdress carving the sandstone, was shown to a scholar who had worked at Writing-on-Stone and who immediately recognized the panel.

In his work as a road engineer on a Blackfoot reserve in Montana in the early 1920s, Roland Willcomb met several elders and became fascinated by tales of this spiritual place, a place where the spirits spoke through stone and where ghosts lived. He fought for permission for two of the elders, Bird Rattle and Split Ears, to leave the reservation and guide him there. After multiple denials and a persistent nagging of the federal officials, a pass was finally granted, and the three of them, plus an interpreter, made their way to Áísínaiʼpi in September of 1924.

The two elders had visited there as boys in the 1860s, and provided great insights into many of the petroglyphs, including naming one of the combat scenes as the Retreating-Up-the-Hill Battle. A second car containing some of Willcomb's friends joined them at the site as well.

As they prepared to leave, the two elders were grateful to have had the opportunity to return, but saddened at the thought they would likely never have the chance to return. Bird Rattle felt moved to depict their visit, and used a piece of quartz to depict the two Model-T Fords that had brought the group to Áísínaiʼpi. As he did, Willcomb took the picture that answered so many questions.

Bird Rattle's name features prominently in many of the exhibits in the park's visitors centre, and apparently, he was able to return to Writing-on-Stone twice more prior to his death in 1937.

This tale really resonated with us -  a strange connection linking a white engineer to a Peigan elder in the early 20th century, involving a Blackfoot sacred site with petroglyphs dating back further than three millennia, and only discovered in modern times because of the random discovery of a photo at an estate sale. Why hasn't anyone made this into a movie yet? Or at least a Heritage Minute?

On our way back to camp, we took a moment to survey the landscape from a viewpoint overlooking Police Coulee. It is compelling in a way that is difficult for me to articulate. It is not difficult to imagine being here in the late 1800s, when the NWMP maintained a presence here to maintain the border while battling boredom, and while Blackfoot warriors made their way back and forth across a mystical "medicine line" that appeared to confound their pursuers (but which was actually the 49th parallel).

Or you can cast your mind back even further, to pre-colonial times, when indigenous peoples came here to rest, to hunt, and to commune with the spirits. Truly an amazing place that we are privileged to have here in Alberta - very few sites have the ability to convey visitors through time as well as space in the way that Writing-on-Stone does.

Surviving Your 18th Birthday at Home, With Your Family

Of all of us in this household, COVID-19 prevention measures have probably had their greatest impact on Glory.

Schooling from home seems to have caught many educators flat-footed. Diploma exams have been cancelled for this year, and since delivering tests remotely is kind of a non-starter, it is presumed that her remaining marks will be based solely on assignments. In one of her classes, she had only received one mark prior to isolating at home, and her first assignment was fairly "fluffy" by pretty much any measure. She needs good marks if she wants to get into nursing, a very competitive program, and has been exerting very decent discipline while studying at home.

But being at home has also meant trying to do her dance classes over Zoom and may have also jeopardized her plans to spend part of her gap year working in Churchill, as Fenya did. And meanwhile, there is a very real possibility that this year's graduation ceremonies will be cancelled or postponed, a very major milestone that might happen later or not at all.

And speaking of milestones - she just turned 18 years old on Friday.

She's been a champ, honestly, far better than I would have been under the same circumstances, but her celebration planning has gone from a night out with friends, to a party at the house, to a cocktail gathering of less than a half-dozen to... the four of us, at home.

I am happy to report that a good time was had by all!

Changing out of the pyjamas, sweats and hoodies that have characterized our wardrobes in isolation, we dressed in clothes befitting a casual, but significant, night out. Glory picked out a tropical shirt for me, and made sure her hair and makeup were sorted out before dinner. Choosing the meal on your birthday is a tradition I am sure we share with many households, and Glory's request was for "Pub Grub." Audrey made sure that we had chicken wings, mozza sticks and a veggie tray on hand for dinner, and her first highball of drinking age.

After dinner, she opened her gifts - a pair of sunglasses, a lovely blanket depicting a pair of dance shoes, a huge bag of candy that her best friend delivered to our step that afternoon, along with a six-foot hug. And other gifts, of greater or lesser appropriateness.

After the gifts, we made our way downstairs for games and cake. We got in a couple of games of Drinking Jenga and then Glory taught the rest of us how to play beer pong, a divertimento she had learned at a birthday party of her cousin's.

As part of her gift, Fenya had baked a decorated a simple yet beautiful cake that we adorned with a sparkler. and sang "Happy Birthday" as it sizzled away.

Following the cake, we lured Glory outside. Audrey had dropped a note in our neighbours' mailboxes earlier in the week, asking if they could turn on their Christmas lights Friday night, in order to “brighten Glory's day." Delightfully, they did, as documented in this blurry phone video.

Singing, drinking, laughter, and even some dancing rounded out the evening, which our beloved offspring took into the wee hours.

The next morning, we extended the festivities by packing a light lunch and some snacks into the Flex, and hitting the open road. Our destination: the mountains!

Once out of the city, the highways were sparsely attended, and we nearly had them to ourselves once we left the Yellowhead. We stopped for a bathroom break just south of Lodgepole, and refuelled at Nordegg. 

The previous night's revelries had taken their toll on all of us, especially Audrey and Glory in the back seat, but we proceeded on nonetheless.

Unsure if the non-commercial Icefields Parkway would even be accessible, we were delighted to find the gates open and highway 93 almost devoid of moving vehicles. We saw a few parked at some of the hiking trailheads, however. After several unsuccessful attempts, we also found an open outhouse, much to our collective relief.

We stopped several times to stretch our legs, take pictures, and draw deep lungfuls of crisp mountain air. Most of all though, we enjoyed being out of the house, and together.

It made for a long but lovely day, prolonged by our stopping to watch a pair of coyotes stroll across a frozen lake as we approached the park gates.

It was by no means the 18th birthday that Glory had hoped for, but given the constraints of our current situation, I can't help but feel it went unreasonably well.

What a privilege to live in proximity to such wonders, and with people of such an accommodating nature!

Made Over

Despite my near-constant proclamations that she is, in fact, gorgeous, my wife does not typically enjoy having her photo taken or her looks fussed about. As a result, we sometimes end up with additional copies of her annual staff photo laying about the house, with Audrey wanting to recycle them immediately. This year Glory offered to give Audrey a virtual makeover. "Knock yourself out," Audrey replied, and so Glory got her markers out and got to work. 

The initial results were subtle enough that the picture hung on our fridge for a while and hardly anyone mentioned the brighter lipstick, the nose ring that replaced her existing stud, the new necklaces or the significant 'make-up' work around the eyes.

I thought it was kind of a neat experiment, actually. I was also a little thrilled that Glory, a child of the digital age, would be compelled to work her artistry within a physical medium, when a similar but far less satisfying effect could have been achieved with any number of Snapchat filters or Photoshop tools.

There were two of these superfluous photos on hand, and Glory's second effort was a bit more...expressive and experimental.

The subtlety of the eye makeup (and even the new frames) are somewhat lost amongst the bedazzling, but the overall effect is still pretty cool, I think.

To be fair, the inspiration here had less to do with an artistic vision and more to do with the stickers left over from Glory's 2017 Hallowe'en get-up:

In both cases though, the crystallization makes for an intriguing look, although, perhaps not for every day.

Picture of a Man at Work

It's an old picture, torn from the pages of the September 1995 issue of Premiere magazine (remember that one? It's been off the newsstands since 2007) and tucked into a three-ring page protector. I rediscovered across it in the bookshelf cupboard in the Batcave while tidying up the other day.

It's a picture of Robert Rodriguez, one of my favourite directors. He's made a lot of movies I've really enjoyed over the years, most notably Desperado with Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek, probably the sexiest action pic ever made. He made his first movie, El Mariachi, for a reported budget of $7,000, on mostly borrowed equipment, which he financed by being a paid subject of medical experiments (and where he met the man he cast as the villain!).

His repertoire has a ridiculous range, second only to George Miller in my estimation, directing violent affairs like Machete and Planet Terror right alongside the family-friendly Spy Kids franchise. But while all of these facets make him cool, they aren't what make him one of my favourite directors.

It's his character.

Comic creator Frank Miller has a well-deserved reputation as a bit of a difficult crank to work with, and had expressed disbelief that anyone could adapt his own works in a satisfying manner. Rodriguez again used his own money and a volunteer cast to create a short based on Miller's brutal but brilliant noir crime story, Sin City. Miller loved it and agreed to co-direct a feature film with Rodriguez.

But the Director's Guild of America does not permit co-directing, so Rodriguez quit the DGA in order to make the movie in a manner that satisfied both himself and the property's creator. Although he did subsequently rejoin, it was a poignant statement about creative independence.

As evidenced in the Black Mamba commercial he shot for Nike with Kobe Bryant, Robert Rodriguez is someone who takes his work seriously, but doesn't take himself seriously.

But neither that anecdote nor a funny, self-aware shoe commercial is  what makes him  one of my favourite directors. And the picture always reminds of just what it is that distinguishes him in my eyes.

It was taken by Brian Smith during the filming of Desperado. Rodriguez looks just impossibly badass despite the fact that it is a staged shot. He wears cargo shorts and a grey t-shirt, accessorized by a fisherman's vest full of lenses, and a red bandana tied around his head kerchief-style to keep the hair out of his eyes. He has a bandage on his nose (covering the two stitches he got from an altercation with a viewfinder), but the most notable feature is the steadicam he is holding, attached to the harness on his chest. The dramatic backdrop, a flaming Lincoln situated mere feet behind him, completes the effect.

The accompanying article talks about his difficulty in moving from an indie film like El Mariachi to a big-budget actioner from a major studio. How he annoyed some reps from Columbia because he claimed he didn't know what an AD (Assistant Director) was. How he kept even this larger budget under control by casting a cameraman as a cancer patient. How he took a three day course in steadicam operation so he could take the shots himself to save both time and money.

The bulk of my admiration, though, comes from a single anecdote: with rapidly diminishing light, Rodriguez determined a superior angle to shoot a scene. His production assistant said there was no time to move the dolly tracks that would allow the camera to move laterally in a smooth enough fashion to capture the pan the director wanted, and said they would simply have to keep the shot they already have.

Rodriguez surveyed the ground, framed up what he wanted in his mind's eye and said, "Nah, get me a shopping cart and a steadicam, and I'll do it myself."

I don't know what I like more about this tiny tale, this microscopic Tinseltown fable; the fact that Rodriguez had such a clear picture of the shot he desired, or that he was able to come up with such a creative and unconventional way to get it.

Sometimes I struggle to determine what the heck it is I want, as I am sure many of us do from time to time, and when I do know, I will often take the path of least resistance to get it. Not every time, to be sure, but enough to annoy myself in retrospect.

Looking at that picture of a man who not only has a clear vision, but has equipped himself in a way that removes as many obstacles between him and it as possible is, to me at least, inspirational. That's why I tore it it from a magazine that I bought in Edmonton so I could have it in view on my desk in Mississauga while working in sales for Games Workshop.

This overly dramatic image of a man I have so little in common with is a great reminder of the importance of vision, the value of persuasion and persistence, and the notion that there are nearly an infinite number of ways to accomplish most things. Important ideas, these, and timeless.

So much so, in fact, that I think I will bring it to work tomorrow.

England Visit 2005 - London

Twenty-one years ago, I took a job with Games Workshop, purveyors of fine metal miniatures and tabletop wargames, which means eleven years ago they flew Audrey and I to the company HQ in Nottingham for the Veterans Dinner. (Honestly, why didn't I write this post last year? Well, better late than never, I guess...)

It was a pretty compelling perk: after ten years with the company, they not only flew you and your wife to the U.K.. but they also rented you a tuxedo for the big night, and presented you with a Burberry leather jacket with your name and start date on the label.

I'd been to England a few times previous for company conferences and the like, but going with Audrey was a treat, and after getting the girls situated with Oma and Opa,we arranged to spend a few extra days in London before heading up to Nottingham.

London is an amazing city, and I would love to return and spend more time there, especially with the girls. We never made it to the Imperial War Museum, or to a show in the East West End, or any number of other not-to-be-missed experiences, but we still managed to have a good time.

We rode the London Eye to get a bird's-eye-view of the city.

Afterwards, Audrey successfully defended her $9 hot dog against a voracious pigeon.

A double-decker bus took us to see the rest of the sights from ground level, and we drove by Tom Hanks shooting The DaVinci Code (too slow to get a camera on him though).

Great name for a pub, don't you think?

Walking about, we saw a member of the Life Guards on horseback. I can only imagine what level of upkeep those boots require!

We made our way to the gates of Buckingham Palace, but too late to see the changing of the guards, unfortunately.

Audrey chatted up the only Bobby we could find who was not totting around a submachine gun, due to a member of the Royal Family being on the move, and he kindly agreed to have his picture taken.

Later that day police motorcycle stopped the traffic in the roundabout by Trafalgar Square shortly after the dedication of the new Battle of Britain memorial, and I somehow managed to put two-and-two together and realize a motorcade must be coming. Sure enough, a moment later HRH The Prince of Wales and Camilla came racing around the corner. Not long enough for me to get a good picture, but sufficient to capture his distinctive silhouette.

Trafalgar itself is dominated by Nelson's column, the same height as the mast on his flagship, HMS Victory.

The lions at the base are powerful symbols of a once-mighty empire, but alas, deceitful.

We only found out later that real lions are actually incapable of sitting with their rear legs posed in such a manner; pressed for time, the story goes, the sculptor had used his housecat as a model.

The next day we got to see the (then) only recently unveiled memorial for the Battle of Britain, financed solely with private funds.

As a sculpture, it is an awesome piece, full of dynamism, character, and amazing detail.

As a history buff, seeing the names of every single one  of 'The Few' inscribed on the plaques, as well as all the participating squadron insignias was an even greater treat.

A boat tour on the Thames gave us a different perspective on the city, and showed us us how a clever bouillon company managed to dodge the ban on riverside advertising.

And we made it to the Tower of London, a visit which I recommend to everyone, but perhaps not for the reason you think. Yes, there is a tremendous amount of history on the site, and granted, the Crown Jewels are very impressive, but the best part of the tour is that it is given by Yeomen Warders, sometimes know as the Beefeaters.

To become a Yeoman Warder is very difficult as I recall being told: they must have 22 years of service in Her Royal Majesty's Armed Forces, and attained a rank of Sergeant. There is a rigorous interview process for both the candidates and their wives, as these men (no women at the time, and I don't knwo if that has changed as of yet) not only represent the face of the Tower to thousands of visitors every year, but they must also live on the premises.

Our guide said it's a great job, not unlike life in the army: marching around, shouting at people, telling them where to go, but at the end of the day, having a mailing address of "#7 Tower Green, Tower of London, England" is in many ways the best part of it. He was friendly, knowledgeable, and had both a great delivery and wicked sense of humour.

Yeoman: As you might imagine, the cellars underneath the White Tower are very damp, and quite cold, creating the ideal conditions for...what?
Tourist 1: Torture!
Tourist 2: Executions!
Yeoman: (Disgusted) Wine, you savages, wine! It's where they kept the wine!

Or as evidenced in this brief excerpt of his description of Traitor's Gate:

He also provided a brief rhyming shorthand for remembering the fates of the wives of Henry VIII which I still remember clearly a decade later: "No, it's like this, see - Divorced, Beheaded, Died; Divorced, Beheaded, Survived. Easy, ennit?"

Of course, there are two other famous denizens of the Tower worth noting; first, the Royal Guard, who, though ceremoniously and archaically dressed, still carry modern and fully functioning bullpup-style IW assault weapons...

And of course, the ravens.

It turns out these ominous corvids are looked after by a Yeoman called the Raven Master (how cool would that look on your resume?) and have their wings clipped to prevent their flying off. I don't recall getting a direct answer when I inquired if this was related to the infamous prophecy that if the ravens of the tower depart, the Crown will fall and take Britain with it, but now I find myself wondering if anyone has checked on them since the Brexit vote...