Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Göta Kanal - Sweden

Rose and I had the most fantastic and satisfactory six-day event when we traversed Sweden from east to the west on Göta Kanal, first built in 1803 and fully connected in 1843, only a few years before the trains took over.





We lived in all the splendor of the 19th century with uniformed waiters serving us only Swedish food on white table cloths. 

Rose did not "love" the many varieties of pickled herring nor the crayfish, but everything else was fine.




We all had small cabins with bunk beds. The ship offered four toilets with showers for the 37 passengers, the height of comfort when the ship was commissioned in 1932.

The 74 locks, maximum elevation 92 m above sealevel, took some time to travel through. Some days we walked as much as 12,000 steps, visiting castles and forts.

The Danes had had a bad habit, for a long time, of burning down any fort or castle they came across in Sweden. That didn't stop until King Gustav Vasa put a halt on that in 1532.

We were filled with history and pleasant sights. The country side was so quiet near the canal that you could even hear the mosquitos...(!)
The many cows and sheep were unaffected by us, you could have reached out over the railing and patted their heads, had you been been so inclined. The deer we saw scampered away if you moved on deck.

There were seven nationalities on board. All services were trilingual with, sometimes, a little additional fill-in in French. I practiced the four languages I know reasonably well... Confusing.

Rose became annoyed when I spoke to her in Swedish and in another language to the other person. ... Who was confused?

We had beautiful weather, 22 - 27 C and sun every single day.

Also, not shown in the pictures, we met a plethora of my relatives and old friends who entertained us royally, both before and after our canal trip.

We travelled by train, subway, ferry, streetcar and bus, all swiftly paid for by our Swedish transit cards.

Thursday, July 12, 2018

My taxi driver who shot himself


The wrong gun.

Another event took place for me in Florida. It didn’t end well for my taxi driver, he shot himself.
-          What?
Yes, he did. I had left my daughter’s house very early to go to the Tampa airport, some 45-minute drive away. Near the end of the route, the driver, a very heavy man, moved in the seat of this, large and comfortable, Lincoln car. I, being a friendly man, had chosen to sit up-front with the driver so we could talk.
-          A gun went off.
I know what a gun sounds like and I certainly recognize the smell of cordite, the common gunpowder.
“What was that? A gun?”
The driver immediately opened all the windows to vent the gun-smoke.
“Do you have a gun?” I asked.
“Yes, right here.” Said the driver and pulled a huge pistol out from under his unbuttoned shirt.
“That one hasn’t been fired.”
“No, the night driver must have left his gun between the front seats. That gun must have gone off when I moved.”
I never saw that gun but then – the driver started to move around. He drove faster and faster. We entered the airport drop-off area on squealing tires and came to a very sudden stop. I paid. Hew grabbed my money, gave me no change, jumped out of the car, grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and threw it on the pavement.
Now I was suspicious of the series of events and put my hand on the driver’s seat as he stepped out. Sure enough, there was a good size puddle of blood that wetted my hand. The unseen gun had shot upwards from between the seats. I put my finger in the bullet hole. The trajectory was angled at the driver, not me, and he had been shot through the padded seat. The bullet was in his buttock and he was bleeding down his right leg. He said,
“I have to go home to mother to see what she can do, I have no health insurance to pay for this,”
…and jumped back into the car and took off in a cloud of burnt rubber.
It took me several hours before the series of events sunk in. I got cold chills as I sat in my aeroplane seat on the way home. What if the bullet had gone the other way? I certainly don’t have any extra 50 kg of fat to absorb a wayward bullet.
A little side note here: Home again, I summarized this unfortunate event in an email that I sent to many of my friends, including a number of Americans. The replies?
From all, except the Americans. “Lucky you.”
From the Americans: “He had his right to have his gun and you should be lucky he didn’t shoot you.” No compassion from that side…

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If you want to read my memors, "The seasons of Man", buy the book here:


Thursday, July 5, 2018

Why did I quit my last job?


I was working in a very senior sales position for a company in Canada that exported to at least 15 countries.
I had just come back from a couple of weeks overseas, seeing some of our European customers in several countries.
My boss (not born in Canada) said:
“Bengt, you have to go back to Sweden (!), I have a very important document for Mr. Johansson to sign.”
“Why? - I just had a BBQ with him and his family in his back yard in Sweden?”
“It is personal - you have to bring it yourself.”
“Can we not use DHL, the post office or Purolator?”
“Nope, you have to bring it and have it signed - then bring it back here.”
He left for lunch. I looked over the sheet and saw some more similar documents on my boss’ desk
- and -
I left his office, picked up my stuff, called HR from the parking lot and said:
“I resign, please send me my last paycheque in the mail.”
They did, I got it in a week.
My boss never called, never asked anything.
What did I see?
Agreements to pay kick-back to some of our customers.
The company went bankrupt a year later, leaving 240 employees without a job.

That day, I drove home with a sweaty forehead and clammy hands. What have I done - quit just like that?

I had no hobbies, not many friends and really not much to look forward to at that moment. I had been an all-company man for too long.

The next morning I dressed for work as usual. Then I laid back down on  my bed and continued on my book from last night.

That felt really good. I got a few ideas on what else I'd like to do with my free time.

Before lunch-time I had called my pension fund holders, found out that I had enough to retire - and - I never worked a day again in my life. That was 15 years ago.
I am still a happy retiree…and have traveled to another 22 countries since then.
(True story.)

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If you want to read my memors, "The seasons of Man", buy the book here:

Wednesday, July 4, 2018

How we danced one summer


I had just started a summer course at college, beginning in April and ending in September.

Half of the course participants were girls of various ages and attitudes.

The winter had been long for me and I was totally charged. I really wanted my own girlfriend by now, 20 years old.

What a cornucopia of girls there were, all around me.

I met some friends that I had known from before and made many new. These guys were far more experienced in the woman-department than I was.

The classes were great, the food was good and I quite enjoyed my single room, some 400 metres from the main building.



Spring led to summer and the sun set for shorter and shorter periods.

Many evenings were free, without any really hard study assignments.

I looked over the girls and went for soda-dates with some, just a short jaunt to the local café. I would talk to them, find out a bit of who they were and ultimately feel quite stupid.

I didn’t know how to approach a girl.

My friends, some who had cars, seemed to make great success and sleep with various girls. Not me. I was stuck as too timid.
I decided to change my technique. 

Focus. 

There was this girl, without a boyfriend at the time, that I really liked. I stayed close. We had tea together and sat in the park with our friends.

One night, it was still early summer and quite cold, we sat outside listening to a friend play the guitar and sing.

My hands started wandering over her body and, eventually, I caressed her netherlands. She liked that, opened her legs wider and I would use my full hand.

The music had long stopped, we were alone a bit from the main building, leaning back on a blanket. I continued massaging her on the outside of her jeans and she let out little yelps for joy. Needless to say, I ejaculated in my pants more than once that evening.
No intercourse.

We went out for a walk the next night and ended up in a sun-warmed greenhouse, all alone. Here, I took her blouse and bra off and kissed her nipples and caressed her breasts.

Gradually, as the evenings wore on, we became more and more adventurous but stayed with petting.

A long weekend was coming up and I invited her to come stay with me for a couple of days. She accepted and we left together on my scooter.


My mother welcomed my new girlfriend with open arms. Had her son finally gotten a girlfriend of substance, one who would come more than once?

For the night, Lill was offered a temporary bed in the living room. That’s where she retired. We had a deal, she would come to my room when things were quiet.

She did.

What a moment, I had a real woman in my bed for the night, not just another 15 minute romp that would end all too soon. We continued with our petting and, finally, had full intercourse. I think we did that at least four times before morning.

We were in the same class and saw quite a bit of each other as the summer course continued.

It seemed as if many new relationships were formed. No doubt, there was much sex between friends.

The funniest experience of mine was when we were on a drive. The owner of the car was in the rear seat with his latest girlfriend. I was driving with a classmate, not my girlfriend, in the passenger seat.
The couple in the rear seat started to make love, very quietly. I noticed and got a new worry, how to conceal for the front seat passenger, a confirmed virgin with zero knowledge, what was going on in the rear seat.

I played the radio, we talked about the nature and what we would do when we got to the dance palace where we were all to meet the rest of our classmates.

She never acknowledged that she registered what was going on, only a few centimetres behind her back.

A good sport or just very unobservant?

I never found out. She never told.

The summer may have started off rather chilly but soon turned warm. I always carried a blanket, wrapped in plastic, on the rear carrier of my scooter. Why?

To stop and enjoy nature, of course.

Lill and I liked to explore the neighbourhood, and often stopped to enjoy some close company. She, obviously, enjoyed impromptu sex-sessions as much as I did.

The blanket was well used by the end of the summer. You’d be surprised to know how many secluded and sunny places there are in the forest, not too far from the road.

I was invited to visit her parents and even to stay the odd night, the distance was too far to drive, in return, in one day on my scooter.
Her father took a dim view of my capabilities, both as a possible future husband to her daughter and how smart I was. Not that the subjects were ever discussed, but..

We were forced to go to bed in different rooms in separate parts of their home, but we usually converged in one bed for a few hours every night.

Oh, for their joys of having a 19-year old daughter with a boyfriend sleeping over. I think they wished really hard for me to go away but I was invited back several times.

Her father, for some reason, didn’t have a regular driver’s license, only one for a motorcycle.

He owned a three-wheel Isetta, a German made two-person car. I was, technically, not allowed to drive it but Lill, who had no license, would drive it far away from the house that we were out of sight. Then I would take over.




A small car with a heater for late night jaunts. Such joy.

The life at the college was, as you can well imagine, very fulfilling. I was part of a select group of friends and we liked being together in the evenings.

Then I got called in for a week of military reserve duty. That was to be carried out about an hour’s drive away.

I did my military daily duties from 08 – 16, then I drove to the college.

Needless to say, I didn’t get my eight hours beauty-sleep every night.

One early morning, I took off from my room at about 07 to be at the camp in time to start. I was sleepy and a little short of time so – I decided to skip a stop sign.

I felt, more than heard the horn and the brakes of the oncoming heavy truck. I was going too fast to stop and steered into the ditch. The truck disappeared in the distance.

The landing was hard, but I was in full protective clothing and all extremities stayed in place. The scooter restarted easily, but now had a new scratch on the side.

It may have taken only a few moments until I was back on the road, a bit shaken up but otherwise fine. Those moments imprinted in my mind, for life.

Yeah who ignores stop signs…

As the fall approached it had become quite clear to me that Lill was not a woman for me, she had far too many hard corners. At times, she did things without any regard for her family or friends. It wasn’t that she was overly selfish, she just had her unbendable preconceived ideas about many things.

We didn’t break up in a nice manner, I didn’t tell her to her face that our summer affair was over. I wrote a letter.

Stupid, I agree.

She became extremely angry and told me off in a brief telephone discussion. We didn’t meet or talk to each other again for the next 50 years. I learned that she had, soon after our breakup, reconnected with the boyfriend from the summer before. They soon got married.

I, on my part, considered myself single again.

Did I start looking or just see? My hormones were rushing, and having had a summer of practically unlimited sex, abstinence was hard on me.

I met a girl who I, in my well practiced manner, I would take the bra off and kiss on her naked breasts. She was, however, unwilling to have sex with me.

“Once you start, you will never stop”, she said.

She was right in that.

My next girl was also pretty, with pointed breasts, the bra-style of the time. It took me a while to get her bra off, but I succeeded.
We would visit the greenhouse after dark, now one of the few places that was warm. She liked to wear very tight and good looking jeans, but they were too tight to get a hand inside. I would rub myself against her tight jeans until I ejaculated in my pants. It felt very good, but rather strange to walk home after that. My pants were all wet on the inside of the legs.

The headmaster’s home was being renovated and was full of construction material. It was well heated and had an unlocked front door. That became our little love nest for petting.

She showed up, time after time in very tightfitting jeans, so tight that I think they were sown on. Eventually I convinced her to put on something a little more loose-fitting with buttons.

She did.

I unbuttoned the buttons and we could finally make love.

My latest girlfriend was right, once you have started, you will never stop.

I found out that she liked it and we never stopped.

Once, we went to a married friend of hers. We slept in the living room. The next morning there were six used condoms in the waste basket.

I never as much as looked at another woman again. We stayed together for the next 43 years "till death did us apart".

Now? I'm remarried...

----------------------------
If you want to read my memoirs, "The seasons of Man", buy the book here:

https://www.amazon.ca/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=bengt+lindvall+the+seasons+of+a+man

Summer sail in Toronto

We live on the 38th floor of a highrise, right in the centre of the 6 million inhabitant city of  Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Our apartment is airconditioned and has about the same inside temperature summer as winter, even as the daytime temperature swings between 34 C (yesterday) and - 25 C, not that long ago.

The sunrises over lake Ontario and the sunsets over the city are spectacular.
We live close to CN tower, 527 m tall. During one thunderstorm, a few weeks ago, I counted 17 lightning strikes in five minutes. We, only 300 m away didn’t feel a thing - but the sound.
Today, we had a light breakfast on our quite large glass enclosed balcony. The view of the lake was fantastic and we spied the sailboats for rent just below our building.
We decided to go sailing with our next door neighbours. We walked 300 m to our local city-operated marina and rented a 23 ft sailboat for a few hours. ($ 172, tax included).
We motored our way through the sound between mainland and the Toronto downtown Airport. (170 commercial flights/day.) We set sails in open water and hid from the sun in the shade of the sails, all the time with the city skyline in the background.
At lunchtime we chose to sail in a direction where the boat leaned mostly to one side.
Later we docked the boat, lowered and secured all sails and rope before our short walk home.
After a quick shower we stepped outside the door to take the streetcar about 1 km north, to Chinatown. We dined at a well known and highly rated Chinese restaurant. They have no loud music there so we enjoyed talking to each other.
After dinner, it was a bit cooler, under 30 C (84 F) and we walked home. The crowds were great and we stopped for a couple of street musicans and an icecream at a “Hole-in-the-wall” icecream store.
The traffic from the nearby highway quietens down at night and we will sleep well. The sound pressure level meter showed 47 dBA in our bedroom at bedtime, very quiet by any standard.
We love living in the centre of the large city. Dozens of theatres, concert halls and even an opera house within 20 min walk. Rogers centre for baseball and football (48,000 seats) is next door and the ice hockey rink (28,000 seats) only ten minutes walk away.
The car is hardly used at all, we ride the streetcars, subways or even a have a bus line that stops right outside our front door. ($ 1.80 per one way ride, unlimited distance, paid with Presto-card that reloads itself.)
Toronto is one of the safest cities on the globe and we often go for long walks at night, especially in the summer. - So many nice people out then.
You should visit sometime, there are lots of American tourists here now. But most of the tourists these days are Chinese, far outnumbering the Amercians. Why do so many Chinese fly half way around the globe to come here when so many Americans cannot even drive 125 km out of their own country?
The Chinese are good spenders … they have money to spare.
Tomorrow we will go for a 25 km bicycle ride along the shore of Lake Ontario - no cars there.
Here are the pictures that I took during our sailing hours:
https://photos.app.goo.gl/kYxK9DSB4AT9FtmT8

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If you want to read my memors, "The seasons of Man", find the book here:

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

A Toronto day in the cold of winter





The night was coming to an end.

I felt, more than saw, the beginning of the dawn as the light from outside become just a little more noticeable.

I resisted the urge to get up, rather staying in bed, half asleep, watching the emerging day arrive.

The sky was dark, but the ground was white with the snow from the last days of cold weather with occasional snow falls.




I looked out over the lake. It was frozen. Again, as every winter, it was criss-crossed by an ice breaker making paths for the ferries. Only two of the three were running now.

You have all heard of the man who took one million photographs of Mount Fuji, over a lifetime.

I, occasionally, take pictures of Lake Ontario from my perch high up in the high-rise apartment building. You can hardly believe how many faces of a lake and the surrounding areas you can get over a few years. They are all digital and hidden away, well categorized, in my computer. That is backed up four different ways and in different places. No electrical storm will be allowed to erase any of my, so far, 140,000 photographs.

The world is all too full of people who, somehow, lost their hard-drive and all the information on them. Is that a curse of modern life?

Most of my pictures have been taken on celluloid. They will stay good for viewing for at least 100 years. I still have some of the first photos my father took, dated 1912. They are just as good today as when they were first taken - but the people are all dead. Nobody knows them any more.




Today was a good day for weather. I took three photographs. One, using a long lens, was to pick out the details of how a lone, forgotten, sailboat had frozen into the ice. I looked at the picture, with snow on the deck, and had a quick memory flash on being on a sailboat, like that one, leisurely sailing on the lake below my window.

The most recent photographs were quickly transferred to the great big storage in the cloud. The electronic one, never seen, never quite understood, for future processing.

The day had begun.

My days were many by now. I could feel a certain resistance in my legs when walking far. The friends are many. Life in the city brings new connections, new acquaintances and, occasionally, new friends who enter your inner circle. Their lives, somehow, become part of yours.

Our children are long gone and don’t much care for the opinions of us, the oldies, any more. But, hand over heart, I wasn’t very diligent at listening to my parents either. We still party with our children and greatly enjoy their company, but the most common company is more of our age. We have many, in many walks of life.

The sun rose and broke through the clouds. Another cold and sunny winter day in Canada. Just what some, but not all, like.

The lonely widow, too rich and too intimidated was out shopping again. What could she need? After 15 years, surely there was time for you to open your heart again. “No, he may take my money.” What good is your money? You live alone in a house large enough for two families and drive one of the most expensive cars in the land?

Why?

Oh, what a terror to “have money”. Shared pleasure is double pleasure. You share, you gain. She goes
on the most fantastic first-class trips, mostly alone, to far-away places.

“How was the trip?”

“It was good.”

“Did you take any photographs?”

“Who for? My children take their own trips and don’t care for my pictures.”

At this early hour, my camera was lying with the uncovered lens looking at me from across the room. Was I born with a camera? Probably, there are many pictures of my friends that I remember taking as a little boy. I got the proverbial box-camera at age 9. It served me well. My father had had one of the early models, little newer than the 1888 version. It had a 100 exposure roll. My box camera only took eight pictures on a roll.

Every picture had to be carefully deliberated then. Was it a good moment, object, place, time and would the exposure be correct? All these calculations had to be made before you touched the release button. Pictures cost money. Then, when a little older, I learned to develop my own film.

I had a Russian made copy of a Leica camera with a terrible cassette mechanism, calling for some very careful loading, in total darkness. But, the the lens was superb and the camera took good pictures. It also travelled well.

You can only take a picture if you bring a camera. Yes, I know, everyone carries a better-than-ever camera in their mobile now. It is wonderful to see what is posted on social media today. All the drama, all the excitement, all instantly replayed on media screens everywhere.

Our friends were awake. Some had gone to work. Other, pensioners as we, were enjoying the day to the fullest.

All the things we only do when we feel like doing them. Driving in the city is one “joy” that I don’t regret giving up. My car gets dusty in the garage. I don’t have to show it off. Nobody cares about my material possessions.

We all have some.

What is far more important is to know where we are. What are our interests? What do we enjoy doing alone, or with others? Sure, I read the newspaper with great interest every day. What an old-fashioned way to get news, some say. But, you see the name of the author. That, with time, allows you to see the slant of the view or even to judge how accurate the article itself is.

As a boy I had to get up early, before 04:00, to start my newspaper deliveries in my Swedish home town.

A bonus, much appreciated, was the extra copy that invariably ended up on my mother's breakfast table. It was cold in the winter, to walk the streets long before sunrise.

I have never met my “newspaper boy” here, high up in the Toronto condo. I know it’s a person, but that’s all. Perhaps he/she is also cold in the winter and brings a free copy of The Star or Globe and Mail home to his/her family to read over breakfast.

The retired history professor has been writing into the wee hours. He’s still asleep and won’t stir much before noon. But, his writing is good and he still publishes a new book almost every year. Of course, you don’t have to hunt for a publisher much these days. Amazon will publish anything and print on demand. All that matters is that you are known and well liked. He is.




I am not well known outside my smaller circle. I did publish my memoirs recently, all of 108,000 words within almost 400 pages. The feeling is great, especially since the odd person sends me little comments on my stories now and then.

The day is maturing.

The streetcars appear a little more seldom and are not jam-packed any more.

We decide on a walk. We dress well. No umbrella needed today. It is a seldom used implement in Toronto. It rains so much less often here, compared to other world-class cities.

We live in a world-class city? Yes, life is here is comfortable and predictable. Services run well and people are, in general, easy to get along with.

We chose to retire here, a few years ago, when newly married. Life had been hard on us both for a while. We both been previously married for many years. Both of our late spouses had cancer and ultimately passed away, all too young.

My wife tells that she had met a hundred “frogs” but not “kissed any” on the way. I, being a retired project manager, was far more organized in my approach. I met 17 ladies for coffee, didn’t kiss any, and soon decided that my search was over. I had given up. There was no woman in my future. I’d remain a “grumpy old man” for the rest of my life.

My soon-to-be wife was coffee date number 18. Our searches had ended. I proposed a couple of years
after we met. We had walked up the Eiffel Tower. The wind blew hard and ther rain wetted us.




Did she have strong enough legs?

She did and she said “yes”.

The apartment in the sky was ready for our wedding a few weeks later. Life started anew. The honeymoon trip took us north of the Arctic Circle in Norway.




We hiked on the permafrost and ran a half marathon under the midnight sun.




Another trip brought us to the driest place on earth, the Atacama desert in Chile. It was - 10 C at sunrise and 46 C mid-day.

We have been aging a bit over the years. A major back operation put my wife down for a year, then a
heart attack for me.

Life goes on. We still travel, but don’t plan to climb mountains or hike any permafrost now. So far, we have been married for 11 years and visited 22 countries together. The photographs, the stories…

Don’t fear, Canada is still the greatest. Portaging with a far too heavy canoe in Algonquin park or




sleeping outside in freezing weather in Yukon territory may be behind us, but, why not plan for another trip?

The camera will come along. It can lead you into trouble. On my first, ever, trip to Turkey, I decided to take some pictures of the locals and the city around me.

When in a different place, dress as a local. Clothing is always less costly than at home. I am always painfully aware of how much I stand out as a Westerner. I often start out on my first day, buying a new shirt, pants and shoes.

My camera? It looked too expensive and too intrusive. I did dabble with a Minox camera, years ago. Sure, it was super small. It fit in the palm of the hand but used a very small film format, too small for usable enlargements.

Why a Minox? They were the “camera par choice” of the spies. They would sneak into the locked office, use a copied key to open a desk, bring out secret files and photograph them, page by page.

I never got any copied keys and never got to photograph any letters that would change the path of humanity.

This time, my camera was in a plastic bag, one with a prominent logo from a local store in Istanbul, once called Constantinople and full of spies with Minox cameras. They all lit up Gitanes cigarettes in their days, the favourite smoke of all French spies.

I had no Minox and had never smoked Gitanes. The Minox was not good enough now and the Gitanes were gone. I had tried, but I never learned to smoke.

Oh, did I ever try. My mother found a crushed cigarette in my pocket. Her punishment, now long forgiven, made me lose all interest in tobacco.

I’m a lot older now, a world traveler, as I have always been from the day I put a map of my home province on the wall, adding pins as our school outings took me around. I traveled enough as a young man to wrap a string around the globe before my 20th birthday.

Toronto beckons. Walking out we are, again, pleasantly surprised at how most, but not all, drivers give right-of-way to pedestrians. There aren’t many cities where that is done.




Our most recent trip was to Saigon, Vietnam. The only way to cross the street, with or against the traffic light, is to be part of a hundred-person group charging into the traffic. It doesn’t stop the drivers but the flow divides so pedestrians can get across.

A quiet day calls for low level experiences. The Toronto underground path with its, forever undecipherable, maps and warren of weather-controlled walkways will, with a bit of luck, lead to the Eaton Centre.

Pensioners don’t spend big but the joys of window shopping never go away.

The buzz at the Apple store never seizes to amaze. What brings all the people in? Do they buy all these expensive gadgets there? Yes, they do.

The food court is, as always, impressive with the numerous “regional” offerings. The variety is far less than meets the eye. It is really just a few large food corporations who sell factory made fast food. We stick to coffee.

We take a quick look at Dundas Square. The walls around are lit up and playing their advertising messages incessantly. The square is quiet. The man calling out “Jesus” is still on the corner, though. Doesn’t he get cold or tired, ever? I take a carefully framed and focused picture of him from behind some people.

Nathan Phillips Square is full of skaters. I take another few pictures, trying to position the skaters perfectly in front of the Toronto-letters.

We had done our 10,000 steps for the day. My wife’s back-doctor and my heart-doctor would both be pleased over how well we had followed their instructions on how to get strong again.

It doesn’t matter how well you dress, parts of you are always cold when you come home. It is a wonderful feeling, it tells you that you are alive.

On our walk home, we looked in at a couple of restaurants and checked out their menus. We are always looking for the next nice place to dine with our friends. These restaurants are more and more difficult to find. Most new restaurants have no sound attenuation and the noise level will kill all attempts at any meaningful discussion. But, hope springs eternal, there must be some, somewhere in this large city.

I dutifully took my pictures to the computer, edited a few, and filed them in their correct category. Perhaps, one day, I will publish a photobook of “Toronto” scenes. It will also contain many photos of the oodles of not so bad graffiti that we are blessed with.

For dinner, we dove into the freezer. We buy in bulk at Costco, prepare and freeze a lot of meals.

We had a stuffed pork chop, cooked sous vide, with a glass of boxed red wine.

Another pleasant winter day in Toronto had drawn to an end.

__________________

If you want to read my memors, "The seasons of Man", buy the book here:


https://www.amazon.ca/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=bengt+lindvall+the+seasons+of+a+man

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

21 - At the railroad shop



The summer of 1961 rolled in. I got a job at the SJ (Swedish State Railroad) railroad maintenance shop in Karlshamn. It was a great place with all sorts of sophisticated railroad equipment all around me.
I was exposed to a prank, by the foreman, on my first day.
“Can you fix my radio?”
“I’ll try.”
I carried it home and set to work with my soldering iron. He wanted it back the next morning. I presented the newly repaired radio, not yet tested. It was set up in the foreman's office and switched on.
There was a hum, then a slowly ascending shriek and then – an explosion. The internal transformer blew up in a good size cloud of sparks and smoke. Not a good start for my mechanic's career.
I later learned that that very same radio was booby trapped and had been “repaired” by several new employees before me. I just managed to make the best explosion of all. No harm befell me, even if it smelled a little of old fire-smoke in the office for a few days.
One of my tasks was to do regular maintenance inspections of the day liners. They were typically coupled-up in three or four car sets. The maintenance was done inside the shop. You had to dive into the interiors looking for the batteries, various dip sticks and more.
Of course, I learned to drive them too. Push the driver's handle forward – accelerate. Pull it to the rear - brakes on. Simple.

Day-liner trainset
Eventually I became trusted to drive the train in-and-out for service, I’d drive it in, then back it out after the service, change the rail-switch and drive forward to park the train next to the service building.
This is too boring, doing the same thing every day. Why not put some spice to it? Full acceleration – mmm, we are really moving now. What you don’t know you often learn the hard way. You cannot slam the brakes on a train. Then the wheels lock. I didn’t know that yet. I was going at a good clip and applied, what I thought, full braking.
What? Nothing, nothing, no breaking. The barrier at the end of the track is getting closer, now it is really close. I will hit the barrier, I will ruin a multi-million-dollar train. I will die in the crumpled driver’s cabin.
My life is over.
Then the emergency brake took over. We stopped less than 15 mm from the barrier. I had wetted my pants.
I only then learned that you cannot slam the brakes, that would only lock the wheels. The automatic brake limiter had done its job, slowing the train gradually without locking the wheels. Nobody had observed my maneuvre and my pants quickly dried that warm summer day. Lesson learned.
Don't mess with what you don't understand.
Another job of ours was to scrap some 40-year old lightweight day liners, designed for speed. These had been used in the 1920's and 1930's to run in front of the express trains, stopping at all stations and then taking off again before the slower express train caught up.



Karlsson-car, model 1933.
This one had been towed in but we started the engine and practised driving it on a little used service track. The driver sat in a bucket seat, strapped in with a wide belt over the hips to be able operate the clutch with both feet.
Now, I almost cried about what we had to do. After removing all the remaining gasoline in the tanks (which we promptly poured into our own cars) and most of what had any value, we poured gas over the interior, threw in a match and stood by. The fire department was there, looking on as well.
A day later, when it all had cooled down, we approached the remaining chassis with cutting torches. A truck came from the local scrap yard and picked up the steel, including the engine and transmission assembly.

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