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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 1992-03-18, Page 5THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18,1992. PAGE 5. 02 Arthur Black The Short Butlers are nobody’s lickspittle doormats An aristocracy ... is like a chicken with its head cut off; it may run about in a lovely way, but in fact it's dead. Nancy Mitford. Ms. Mitford is right, of course. Kings and Queens and Dukes and Duchesses would make no sense at all in a rational world. But then, when's the last time anybody mistook Earth for a rational planet? This is a place where religious leaders can solemnly order the murder of a man for writing a book. It's a place where a guy can earn $5 million U.S. a year for throwing a leather- covered sphere past another guy 66 feet away. This is a place that picked Brian Mulroney to run Canada. Twice. So perhaps it's no surprise that Ivor Spencer's enterprise is doing swimmingly well, thank yew veddy much. Mister Spencer runs a school in London, England. A school for butlers. International Scene By Raymond Canon More student exchanges would be a good idea I frequently read about stories of student exchanges in the newspapers which take my column and I am moved to comment a bit on this sort of thing in that I think it is worthy of a few remarks and positive ones at that. The ground rules may change slightly from organization to organization but basically what takes place is that a teenager from a Canadian family spends a specific period of time living with a family in another country and going to school there at the same lime. Al the end of the period the reverse takes place; a teenager from the foreign family comes to live with the Canadian family and also goes to school while in Canada. It may actually start the other way around but that is secondary. What is really important is that we have young people who are able to experience a different language and culture at an age when they can most easily adjust. Not only do they come out of this visit with fluency in a language that they might never have possessed but they leam a vital bit of truth - not all infinite wisdom comes out of southern Ontario. In the vast majority of cases these exchange visits are decidedly positive for both the Canadian and the foreign teenager. Unfortunately such arrangements are limited in scope and thus the fortunate ones arc few in number. However, there are other A person might be forgiven for thinking that butlers had gone the way of the brontosaurus, the dodo and the Edsel. Back in the 193O's there were 30,000 of the creatures in Britain alone, but World War II cost Britain mightily, and butlers -- an expensive appendage during the best of times — began to disappear. By the 1980's there were fewer than a hundred full time butlers in the United Kingdom. Now they’re coming back. Or so says Ivor Spencer -- and he's in a position to know. Mister Spencer's school grooms, hones and places “personal servants” with wealthy households ail over the world. It's not a bad gig. About $50,000 a year with free room and board, a car, a clothing allowance and the chance to serve tea to the rich and famous. But there's a downside. Rich people are not necessarily nice people — and even when the boss is a 24-carat jerk, the butler is expected to lower his eyes and take it, like a good and loyal servant. A butler is unflinchingly stiff-upper-lipped. His employer can get drunk, shout obscenities, beat the dog and swing naked from the chandeliers but nary a whisper of it will be breathed by his butler. “We never talk” says Spencer. “That is your death knell as a butler.” Which is not to say that butlers are a bunch of craven, lickspittle doormats ways to see a bit of another country or even a number of them and meet a great many people of your own age. I refer to the youth hostel system which exists in many countries and which is certainly very widespread in Europe. As its name implies the system runs a series of hostels at which young people below a certain age may stay overnight at an extremely low price. The hostels are generally relatively small in that they hold less than 100 but they are widely used and you will find that you meet other people from all over the world. Some of foe hostels are old castles, large houses or even an old mill or a similar structure. Tucked away in my scrapbooks is my old membership card to the Youth Hostel Movement. They ran out of space in which to stamp the name of the hostels at which I stayed but one of the most idyllic has to have been Bertschesgaden in the German Alps or the old mill in central England. There was hardly a day when I didn't meet someone who was going the same way that I was and so 1 constantly had company as we cycled from one hostel to the next. Indeed I frequently had people who came with me just because I spoke their native language and they wanted somebody to talk to. One boy from Spain, who spoke nothing but Spanish, followed me all over Holland. I, in turn, fell in love with a South African nurse and followed her over much of southern England. In essence, I recall those trips by bicycle as some of the most idyllic times of my life. Living with a family who has children your own age is highly recommended. Just think of the number of conversations you can have on any number of topics and all the while being able to practice a foreign language. I once calculated that five years in shuffling and cringing through life. Some of them have immense responsibilities which include everything from balancing the family budget to ironing the morning newspaper. A butler may not talk back, but he's nobody's punching bag, either. Indeed, their grace under pressure is legendary. For instance, the butler of Lord Dunsany in County Meath, Ireland. Back in the 1920's Dunsany Castle was raided and ransacked by the “Black and Tans” — troops of the British government. Lord Dunsany's butler stood unmoved as the soldiers reduced the castle interior to rubble. As they trooped out the smashed front door, the butler intoned “Who shall I say called?” Then there's the New York mansion story told by Coburg, Ontario's own Marie Dressier in her autobiography My Own Story. “I was going upstairs to leave my wrap when I noticed a beautifully carved bannister. ‘If I don't slide down that,’ I told myself, ‘I’ll die.’ There was nobody in sight. I took a deep breath and landed in a heap at the foot of the stairs. Imagine my horror when I saw bearing down upon me the butler, whose frosty hauteur had frozen me when I arrived. He picked me up and dusted me off without a flicker of expression on his correct countenance, meanwhile murmuring cordially, ‘Very good miss. Very good indeed. I've always wanted to take a go al it myself.” a classroom learning French or German or the likes would give you about the same amount of conversational time as one week in a foreign country. With that in mind, you will be nothing less than surprised how much you can tuck into your brain in three One of my most vivid memories is of my stay in Spain. Although I had studied Spanish in school, I was not very fluent in the language for reasons which I have just outlined above. I ended up living with a Spanish family in Santander and, joy of joys, they had a son and daughter about my age. Neither had any English and so it was up to me to become fluent in as short a time as possible. The mother and father took their turn in talking to me and eventually it was decided that I was fluent enough to invite a Spanish girl out for an evening. Talk about culture shock when I discovered that in this very conservative Spanish society, nice girls took mother along on the first dale. I knocked al the door in trepidation but I can report that all went well. Being so protected, the girls were not exactly setting the world afire with their conversational ability. The mother was not only charming but could carry a conversation very easily which she did. I rather enjoyed the evening and can now report that I am one of a few Canadians who has ever had a proper dale with both mother and daughter. All this, however, is all part of going to live in another linguistic society. There are so many things that are done not quite the same but are enjoyable nevertheless. If you ever get a chance to go on an exchange program, go for it. I wish the organizations doing this kind of work were only able to expand their activities. of it By Bonnie Gropp Time too precious to be taken for granted There is a man I have known for a good part of my life, a man for whom I have always had the utmost respect. And I'm not alone in these feelings. There are few who meet him who do not like him and even those who don't, can't help but admire him. He is the father of my long-time friend and represents the true essence of what I consider to be a "gentle man". He is warm and caring with a fun sense of humour. He is a man of integrity and intelligence, who worked himself up from humble beginnings at the bottom of his company to the offices of the top floor. Still attractive at 60, he is, as well, successful. He is a loving husband and devoted father, who gives his love as unselfishly as his wealth. He is, in short, a man who appears to have it all. And two weeks ago he learned he has cancer. When I heard the news, my first thought was that this man will be one of the ones to conquer this life battle. His love of life and desire to win won't let him give up even when facing such a formidable opponent. The prognosis was relatively optimistic; the disease was discovered in its early stages and in an area that is treatable. Yet, though he look the news with typical stoicism, he has begun to already look al life differently. Never keen to sit on the bleachers he has always been a participant in life. If there was something to do he would not watch. He came out of retirement to pul struggling businesses back on their feet. He has travelled the world over, is active in sports and meets new challenges head on. Yet, now, his daughter says, she has caught him silling by a window and actually looking al what is out there to see, no immersing himself into it, while he comes to terms with what may be a frightening future. For him the passage of time is acute, for each minute is a step toward an unknown he may not want to accept. It made me think again how selfish I can be when I wish for winter to pass and spring to arrive. What I trivialize and cast off, arc precious moments to others. It's not that I'm so foolish as to wish my life away - I am well aware of how quickly time is going and how I wish I could slow it down - but in blissful ignorance of what lies before me, I lake too much for granted the time that is left. I know, yet I still do it. We all know that time is dear, that we should seize each moment and not let the past overshadow or the future deplete the memories of today, but it's not always easy. Sometimes when things are going rough, we can't help but wish for them to be over, for the next phase of our life to come along. Sometimes it is just a case of eagerly anticipating an event or occasion and wishing the lime between away. From the movie Brian's Song is a song by composer Michel Legrand that is a poignant reminder of how tenuous our control is over our time here. If the hands of time were hands that I could hold I'd keep them warm and in my hand they'd not turn cold. Hand in hand we'd choose the moments that should last The lovely moments that should have no future and no past. It will do me well to remember that the brief months of the year that I would choose to skip over are months that others would prefer to freeze in time. For some winter passes much loo quickly.