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Listen in as George Chiappa teaches me to toss a caber. Listen to the whole interview with Chiappa at www.cbc.ca/intownandout
Unlikely Pairing
George Chiappa is not Scottish. He’s a friendly-faced, stocky Italian. The tartan he wears has no family relevance, and though barrel-chested, he’s not really that big either. But George has been a highland games competitor for 31 years. He’s thrown more than a thousand cabers in competition.
Because I asked, George wrapped his kilt around his waist, packed a well-worn pole log into his SUV and met me in an east-end Ottawa field — a last stop before he and hundreds of other athletes, dancers and musicians arrive in Maxville for the Glengarry Highland Games.
Throwback
52 year old Denis Dagenais has been windsurfing since 1981. Back then, he rented a board, and knew little about technique. But he, like so many other outdoor water enthusiasts at the time, was easily lured to the sport by the trendy windsurfing magazines and industry hype. A year later Denis bought his first board for 1,325 dollars; a year after that he became a windsurfer instructor. He was hooked.
Today, Denis is nostalgic: he’s carefully preserved a stack of 1980s era windsurfing magazines. The glossy pages are filled with athletic men and women performing tricks on neon boards. (This is worth a look: http://www.originalwindsurfer.com/site/main_1967.html)
By the late 80s, though, people lost interest in the the sport. Manufacturers made changes to boards, organizers cut races and even Denis gave up racing altogether.
But 30 years after Denis first stepped on his first board, he’s back and is racing again. He’s got new equipment and he’s found a windsurfing community at the Britannia Yacht Club. This weekend, he hopes to top the field at the Canadian Masters Windsurfing Championships right here in Ottawa. And he’s hopeful windsurfing will make a return to its heyday of the 80s. Denis says it’s already catching on again in Europe.
Seven Cats
At one time, there were 35 cats on Parliament Hill. Today, there are seven. Those left are all fixed and don’t take well to newcomers anyway. They’re getting on in years too. Most arrived unwanted by their owners, dumped, patted on the head, and wished well.
Cats have lived here since the late 1970s. They’ve been cared for by volunteers who amble up the hill each morning, hop the wrought iron fence and pour deep bowls full of kibble. The cats are fond of the volunteers. I remember visiting the cats years ago and finding Rene Chartrand, a squirrel perched on his shoulder, cats meowing on his feet. The volunteers are also unfalteringly fond of the cats.
The cats are, of course, soaked in folklore. Today, a group of white-haired senior citizens trailed a woman of the same age behind the Parliament buildings. The woman, dressed in a peculiar purple satin skirt and holding a parasol, spoke proudly of the cats. The seniors gathered around, snapped photos, and wondered aloud about Fluffy’s markings.
Apparently, the cat condo is the second most popular site on the Hill, after the Peace Tower.
Today, though, the cat population here is dwindling. New drop-offs are taken to the humane society, and volunteers urge people to reroute their unwanted kitties there themselves.
Volunteers tell me eventually, crews will be working on the knee-high stone wall lining the cat complex. And that will mean the cats will have to go. And with a dozen volunteers, it’ll be easy to divvy up the now very loved, though somewhat mangy, cats among them.
