Digiquette, or e-manners

There must be a word for it, somewhere out in cyberspace. Digiquette, perhaps? E-manners?
I'm referring, of course, to the proper way to conduct email and other digital communication. This is all predicated on the possibility that there is such a proper way which, of late, one would be hard-pressed to demonstrate in any tangible sense.
Perhaps you have noticed this, too, the lack of etiquette among email correspondents. Or is it just my old-fashioned, curmudgeonly spirit shining brightly through, yet again?
F'rinstance, I notice that there is a significant decline in email responses. You send off an email to a friend, asking a question or simply sharing some information. In response you get... nothing.
This always leaves me wondering if they got the doggone thing. Email is, computer technology notwithstanding, an imprecise science. So now, since they have not responded, what do you do? Email again? Assume their lack of response indicates a negative reply, or total lack of interest? What?
There is no code of cyber conduct to tell you (or them, for that matter), how to communicate effectively via email.
That's digiquette problem number one. Problem number two arises, I believe, from the increasing use of tiny little screens upon which to read less than tiny messages. Maybe, you, too, have sent an email raising two or more questions. Almost invariably, the very prompt response (which often indicates someone in the thralls of IPhone addiction) deals only with your first question.
In other words, with whatever immediate issue arose upon their tiny little screen. They read the first sentence or two, answered you, and erased the evidence, utterly unaware that you not only asked if the invitation for tonight was still on, but also where you were meeting, at what time, and should you bring a watermelon.
Crucial information, left wanting.
These are, in fact, pretty simple examples of the etiquette challenges presented by communicating in cyber space. Here are some other conundrums which have no currently agreed upon answers:
* What do you do when someone skypes you, and you don't want to talk? Their computer has already told them you are on line.
* Speaking of Skype, what do you do when that video link is indicated, and you are sitting at your computer in your underwear? Nobody wants to see that.
* How do you politely end a computer correspondence with an inveterate responder ­ you know, the folks who simply have to reply to every email. Do you just quit answering when everything important has been said? Does that put you in the category noted early in this column ­ the people who don't reply, and thus leave you in the dark?
* How do you reject a friend request on Facebook, without appearing to be unkind? But then there is the related digiquette no-no of randomly friending people.
* Diverging from etiquette to grammar for a moment, I know "befriending" is a recognized word of long-standing, but "friending"? Really? Let alone its
opposite, "unfriending". Which I did, last week, and I have felt guilty ever since.
All of this talk about proper online manners leaves me feeling confused. But that's not as bad as the way I felt last week, when our modem failed, and I could not get on line for almost 24 hours.
Speaking of addictions. Perhaps I need to seek help. I'll look it up, on line.

A perfect Canadian afternoon, eh?

Ah, the perfect Saturday. A leisurely brunch with friends. A trip to a garden centre. And a Stanley Cup playoff game.
Quintessentially Canadian, eh?
The garden centre was, of course, packed with people. This is the May 24 weekend.
May 24 has a variety of meanings, depending on your hobbies. To a fair number of people, "24" is an obvious reference to the number of bottles contained in a case of beer. Or, the number of empties in that same case, a few hours later.
What we're actually celebrating is Queen Victoria's birthday, an odd reason for a Canadian holiday, since the British know of no such thing. So we in the colonies continue to remember an occasion long forgotten by her more immediate, if less perpetually loyal, subjects.
I do find it a pleasant irony that our friend Nigel, currently back in his native Britain, gets no holiday on Monday, while we Canadians can relax in honour of the late, great monarch.
For gardeners, May "24" refers to the number of hours we will have to work, without a break, to plant all the flowers, veggies and other plants we succumbed to in the heady environment of the garden centre.
The place was as packed as a mall on Christmas Eve, but a heck of a lot friendlier. When I speak to garden groups, I always comment on the pleasant, friendly and even generous nature of gardeners, and that part of my talk, at least, is the unvarnished truth.
In a May 24th weekend garden centre, the aisles are overfull of plants, and then more plants to replace the rapidly depleted stock, and large shopping carts filled to overflowing with plants, and shoppers, and staff... well, you get the crammed, jammed picture.
Today, at Colour Paradise, not one person was rude; people yielded the aisle to others; people smiled ruefully when in the midst of a seven-cart jam, with no obvious solution in sight.
We --­ like everyone else in sight, by my reckoning --­ bought far more than we could ask or imagine. So many things look so great, and we know where we can put them in the garden.
Of course, when it comes time to actually do the planting, we invariably discover we have purchased at least three plants for each available space. No matter ­-- we have plenty of pots, and places to put them.
And so, home. But not straight into the garden this time because it is a)drizzling and much more importantly, b) time for the Montreal-Philadelphia hockey game.
This is a very congenial period in our home. During the regular season, things are not always entirely friendly ­ I am a life long Toronto Maple Leafs fan, while my spouse (and several of her closest friends) have roots in Quebec, and cheer for the Canadiens.
Normally, this causes a certain amount of friction, not to mention downright abuse. But as usual, the Leafs have solved this contention by disappearing like smoke on the breeze even before the playoffs started, leaving me free to cheer for the Habs from the get-go. (They are my second team. All hockey fans have a descending panoply of teams, at least six deep, right?)
I finish this column in hope and optimism, during the first intermission of Game Four. The score, at this moment, is 0-0.
I write it now because at the end of the game, if the Habs don't prevail, I will be too depressed to write; not that this is an outcome even to be considered.
And also because, if the game doesn't go into overtime, I may have time to get out into the garden and plant some of the new stuff, just before we fire up the barbecue.
Ah, Canada on the May 24 weekend. There's no place like it, eh?

Equal parts elation and full-blown panic

I'm thrilled. Excited, panic-stricken, elated, worried, and most of all, thrilled.
The second New Hamburg Live! Festival of the Arts is two and a half weeks away. Nancy and I started this thing... with a lot of help from our friends... last year, taking an enormous chance, financially backing the thing ourselves with no guarantees.
We broke even, which allowed me to again sleep at night.
This year, the only things that have changed are 1) we have a good reputation based on last year and 2) our budget is about 25% higher. We still have no financial guarantees, and we're still praying to break even (thus, the panicky
and worried part of the equation).
Some people assume we're nuts... for the second straight year, we've done this as volunteers, putting in an enormous number of hours for free (along with, as noted above, other volunteers who also make a big commitment).
Nuts? Maybe. Except we really believe we are building something tremendous for and in this community.
The excited and elated and downright thrilled part comes in when I look at the program we're presenting this year.
Full disclosure: I'm not the sole decision-maker ­-- Nancy and our music director and friend, Vicki St. Pierre have a huge role in deciding who we bring to the Festival. In fact, they have veto over any of my suggestions, and they have been known to use it.
None the less, one of my goals each year is to bring some acts that are, quite simply, performers I have always wanted to hear. Or, in the case of one particular guy this year, to hear again.
Nancy and Vicki proceed on the same basis, as does Kristen Hahn, who arranges the literary events, and the result is a dynamic, eclectic, wonderful menu of music, art and literature.
I cannot wait to enjoy the Toronto All Star Big Band -- and I have just learned that some swing dancers are planning to dance their socks off at the opening gala, Wednesday. That's gonna be a tonne of fun.
The professional performers involved in the Best of Gilbert and Sullivan night (Thursday) have been rehearsing assiduously -- they see our Festival as an important and high-end event, and they're preparing appropriately. On the other hand, our MC for that evening, actor Barry MacGregor, emailed to ask if he should wear a suit or a dress, so there is apparently some room for the outrageous. Hurrah.
We have one afternoon concert ­ Friday afternoon, with Capella Intima. I had the good luck to see and hear this concert performed a few months ago, and I promise that all of you who seize this unique opportunity will be very pleased.
Many long-time New Hamburg people are delighted that we're bringing the Elmer Iseler singers to town ­ I have heard from several people about their early musical connection with the late Elmer Iseler. That is going to be a special Friday evening.
Saturday, one of my long-time wishes comes true. I first heard Quartette on CBC Radio, and immediately bought a CD. They have a wonderful, authentic sound ­--
four talented women, each a star in her own right, together one of those occasional bright constellation that musical collaborations can cause. I cannot wait.
I'm just as eager to see what the amazing Ken Whiteley brings to us, this time around, in the choral workshop and the Sunday afternoon gospel/bluegrass concert at Steinmann church. As I write, we have more than three dozen local singers signed by for the workshop and the choir; all are welcome, and I hope we can double that number.
I haven't even mentioned the 17 artists (whose work I have seen on line, and I think you're gonna like the talent and the variety) or the two author events ­-- and I commend Kristen for snagging some of the hottest fiction novelists on the best-seller lists right now.
Buy your tickets, and come to the best five-day music, art and book party anywhere. Like me, you'll be thrilled. Promise.

Living in a really great neigbourhood

Just is case we forgot how puny we mortals be... came the wind, on Saturday.
It was, as Maggie Muggins used to observe sometime in a previous millennium, quite a day.
It began with an auction, just down the street, as Christine's house and most of her worldly goods were up for purchase. Christine is an old friend of mine in every sense of the word ­-- she is, I believe, 97 or so; until her knees finally failed her a few months ago, she had lived on this street since 1934. Again, until the legs went completely, she managed to work as an archivist for an insurance company, and a volunteer for the local Wilmot Family Resource Centre, several days a week.
Working, in her mid-90s. Christine knew no other way.
So it was sad, to huddle against the elements in a tent, with a collection of strangers and neighbours (in about equal parts), and see Christine's stuff be sold. It was the right thing to do, of course, but it was sad, none the less.
Piece by piece, the auctioned continued. There was plenty of good news in the midst of the sorrow. Most of the neighbours picked up something of Christine's, and carried their treasurers one, two or a few houses away to continue her presence on our street. We personally got some bookcases, some books, and a couple of lovely pieces of jewelry Nancy will treasure.
Eventually, the house itself was sold, to a young couple from Kitchener. They seemed quite surprised when, as soon as the gavel went down, eight or ten people within touching distance reached out friendly hands and welcomed them to the neighbourhood.
The weather was miserable, but the tented auction was able to finish.
Then, things got worse.
As we began to take our purchases home, bent against the wind, a neighbour's tree split in half, and the broken half crashed down on a passing car. Nancy was first to the car, and found the driver ­-- a neighbour ­-- in shock but amazingly unhurt, although the sunroof was smashed, the windshield was smashed, and the car was bashed in from stem to stern. I called the police, other neighbours appeared with chainsaws and manoeuvered the tree off the road, and all of us marvelled that the driver had escaped, unscathed.
That was before he told his wife ­-- it was her new car. I'm joking; they dropped in later, both much relieved at the outcome.
As we scurried around to deal with that crisis, someone noticed my garden shed, and its contents. This sounds like a pretty mundane sight, but what was remarkable was, the shed was upside down, the contents were distributed rather far and wide, and most of the above was no longer on our property. The wind had struck again.
I was walking back to survey that damage, when someone's patio chair cover, followed by the chair itself, blew past. Oh, wait, that was my patio chair. Some remedial stacking and covering was clearly called for.
And so it went, a day of wind and rain and sleet and snow and near disasters. By the end of the day, all those neighbours who had welcomed the young couple were back in their own homes, listening to the wind howl and... I'm guessing... wondering how the heck the tent had stayed up for the entire auction.
That would certainly have pulled the neighbourhood together... rolling about in a fallen tent!
But this neighbourhood doesn't need much encouragement to pull together. Just to see the shared sense of loss caused by Christine's departure; the friendly welcome offered the soon-to-be-new residents; and the concern and care shown to the driver of the car smashed by the tree.... well, those were great reminders of how lucky we are to live in a community like this.
Although my immediate neighbours might not agree, at least until I figure out how to get the wreck of a garden shed off their lawn.

Sometimes, expectations cannot be low enough

I finally played my first golf game of the season today.
Now the important question is, 'why?'
I have no idea.
I knew it would not be pretty. I played exactly one round of golf in the sunny south this year where it was, frankly, not at all sunny, and only south, on that particular day. No sun, no heat, plenty of howling wind, and four wrong-headed golfers determined to struggle through, no matter what nature threw our way.
Apart from that, it has been at least six months since I have played golf, so my expectations should have been low, as I hoisted the bag of clubs into the back of my friend's SUV.
And they were. Just not nearly low enough.
We play with a couple of kind, local rules. One is, on the first tee, 'hit 'til you're happy.' This allows a golfer who arrives in a rush, with the day's anxieties still sitting on his shoulder, to pound a couple of mistakes, shake off the tension, and get into the game without penalty.
What no one imagined in inventing this rule is that a) each subsequent drive might, in fact, be worse, and b) you might never, ever be happy.
I eventually went with my original drive, which at least had the happy advantage that I could find it, and actually swing a club in its vicinity.
And so, hole by hole, it went.
We were playing a course I know really well, and one that, while challenging, I have performed adequately on, from time to time. Or at least, on some of the holes. Really.
Not today.
I drove (that is way too forceful a word; truth is, there was much more squibbing, duffing, blipping and bopping than driving) the ball into the woods (several times), into the fields abutting the course, into the water (fish were taking to dry land to avoid the danger), and on one memorable hole, almost through the peak of my cap as I managed the remarkable feat of blipping the ball almost straight up.
And those were just the drives.
My other clubs were more predictable, in that I could predict with great accuracy that I had no idea what they might do next. My three-wood might produce a nice, straight, 190 yard second shot right down the fairway (which happened at least twice, I swear) or it might send the ball on a right wing arc into the woods, onto other fairways, or into parts unknown.
My pitching wedge was good for 90 yards, or three.
My sand wedge... well, when it comes to the sand wedge, I cannot bring myself even to write of these things. I dissolve into tears. I may need to seek professional, psychological help.
I finished with a miserable score, but my buddy looked back, and said, 'I don't think there's anyone playing the 17th and 18th behind us. Want to try those two holes again?'
I agreed with alacrity. The 17th had been particular gruesome in my first attempt, involving two shots in the sand trap (not into, in), and the famous Knowles double chip shot that flies completely over the green, and then (next shot), back again.
So we played it again, John. And I played the hole well, a long part five that I conquered with panache.
Who says this game is tough? I can't wait to play again.