Project Planning

Squirrel Pie

It never pays to rush into things- well almost never- the outhouse during sweet corn season being one notable exception. Proper planning is essential. It’s simply amazing how long you can postpone an investment in cash and elbow grease, if you properly plan and then- only then- execute most any project, particularly one proposed by your spouse.

For example, my wife, the Pearl of the Orient, has been proposing to me for several years, that I reorganize and clean up my office. So far this project is, in my estimation, less than half way through the planning process. I am currently waiting on a government grant to carry out the necessary feasibility study. From there a plan of action may become clear. Sorry, Dear.

My approach to this issue was not my own inspiration, but rather the expert way Drizzle Creek’s own planning sage, Pickle repeatedly demonstrates how to stretch a project out. Take shingling his roof for example. Normally this is a day, day and half, proposition. Pickle managed to extend it over, spring, summer, and into the fall- just for one side of the roof.

In all fairness though, he was interrupted by repeated visits to the coffee klatch at the Bakery, and the necessity of heading off to the road to play with his trains. He did receive substantial supervisory advice, not from his wife (she’s given up on him) but from his neighbour Dot. Pickle had made the mistake of pointing out the smoking health risks Dot was taking puffing away out on her porch. Dot figured tit-for-tat, making a point of emerging out the side door every time Pickle mounted the ladder to tackle another row.

“You know if you were any good, you’d have that job finished long ago. Foolishness, all that time you spend at the coffee shop. You just plain lazy? Bet you don’t even leave a tip!” was the general gist of her comments.

The end result was the project took even longer as Pickle refused to step on the ladder if Dot was around, and his usual thirty-minute coffee breaks extended to well over the hour mark.

“Well at least you have an excuse, you’re not retired yet,” commented Dave. Recently pensioned-off, Dave has been noted out in his yard leaning on a spade wistfully watching the trains roll by. Seems he now has no excuse for putting off items on his ‘honey do list’.

A strange look crossed Pickle’s face as he realized in just a few short years he would face the same problem. Turning to Moose, he asked, “ How do you get away with it. You never do anything?”

“I hide. That shack out in the country, and some part-time guiding are the perfect escape,” counseled Moose wisely, quickly glancing around the Bakery to insure there were no spies about.

“It works for Rene too,” he added holding out his cup for his fourth ‘free’ refill.

“Bet you don’t see him in from the Owl Ranch more than once or twice during the summer. Seems to agree with both him and his wife,” Moose advised sagely.

So there you have it. ‘If you fail to plan, you plan to fail’. Let’s not rush into any of those spring projects, after all it’s only July.

Of course it’s my fault

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

© Copyright

It started out as a normal Sunday afternoon drive down to the Bailiwick for dinner at Em and Norm’s.

“Do we have to stop and pick up Carolyn?” I inquired of my wife, the Pearl of the Orient, after a second false start having forgotten both my keys and my hat- an unacceptable delay.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Elliott. If she needed a ride she would have mentioned it yesterday,” shot back the Pearl, already flustered, having been unreasonably delayed at Customs on her return from the pool.

“But…” I started remembering Carolyn’s car was reported as dead the previous day.

“No buts! We’re already late and Emily said dinner was at four sharp,” stated the Pearl who insists on being on time.

“Besides, I’m hungry,” she added as we stowed the pie and the cake in the van. The trip was uneventful with the aroma of the baking making focusing on driving rather than on the upcoming dinner, difficult.

Halfway there the Pearl slapped her head and snorted in disgust, “I forgot Carolyn’s present. How could you be so stupid to let me forget?”

“Yes Dear,” I replied automatically, keeping my attention on the road.

We arrived right on the dot of the appointed hour and pies in hand were ushered in. The aroma of the roast drifting in from the barbecue absolutely set my taste buds aquiver,

“Where’s Carolyn? Didn’t you pick her up?” asked Emily, her face suddenly aghast.

“I asked, but the Pearl said no,” I replied. Both Emily and the Pearl shot me stony glances. I could see immediately it was my fault, and headed for the door to make the ten-minute back track.

“No! No! I’ll go. I insist!” stated Emily as she raced out the door and jumped in Norm’s truck. The roar of the engine and the spray of gravel from the rear tires as the truck negotiated the turn at the end of the lane in a four-wheel drift clearly demonstrated the urgency with which this passenger pick up would be accomplished.

Norm and I settled down on the patio downwind of the barbecue with a couple of beers to wash away the drool. A half hour later, with no sign of Emily, we were forced to open more beer. Forty-five minutes later with the second beer down to dregs, slamming doors announced the return of driver and guest.

“She wasn’t home and I had to go running all over town to find her. I was sure she was lying dead in a ditch somewhere,” explained a totally flustered Emily, of the delayed return.

“Well, I didn’t know I was invited to dinner,” added a still puzzled Carolyn. “Nobody told me. Besides my car is dead. Remember?”

“See Elliott, I told you,” chided the Pearl. Wise beyond my years, I simply shut up and opened another beer.

Norm, however of lesser experience and perhaps wisdom asked, “Do you want me to cut this meat now? It’s done. Is the other stuff ready yet?”

“How can it be ready yet? I JUST GOT IN THE DOOR!” snapped Emily.

Norm’s head toppled from his shoulders and bounced twice as it rolled across the patio and down the steps, smirking and giggling all the way.

“You two just shut up!” ordered the Pearl as Norm picked up his head and I opened him another beer.

The meal was delicious.

On a more serious note

They are all orphans.

Mother and father probably died of HIV.

Or they were perhaps raped and murdered in front of the now orphans.

Maybe they are not orphans, but simply abandoned, by parents hopelessly impoverished or by elderly grandparents who could no longer cope.

They may have been living on the streets, a six-year old brother trying to care for a four-year old sister.

Maybe they were left as infants in a dumpster or on a garbage heap. If they were lucky they might have been left at a hospital or a church.

Perhaps they are veteran child soldiers. Abducted at under eight years of age, had an AK-47 put in their hands and forced to commit unspeakable atrocities against their own families and society.

Today they are Watoto, the ophans of Uganda.

They are jubilant, smiling children singing and dancing to our and their delight. Overjoyed to have a home, a meal, and the opportunity to gain an education.

All in spite of scars that must surely torture them for life.

How lucky and thankful are we Canadians for our lot in life?

Thankful enough that a 12-year old girl in a Canadian court sued her father for grounding her from attending a school trip, after she repeatedly disobeyed the parent by posting “inappropriate pictures of herself” on the internet.

She wasn’t raped, or beaten, or physically abused- just grounded

The judge- a presumably intelligent person- found for the child. Dad is guilty. The punishment was ‘excessive and inappropriate.’

Why would we, a country like Canada, allow its legal system to fritter away its resources so foolishly?

When do we start labeling such ‘politically correct’ actions for what they really are- stupid?

This little tale of two extremes like all Squirrel Pie’s must be, of course, high fiction. Don’t believe a word of it.

The Grandpa Factor

It’s summer and the kids are out of school. It’s time for the annual migration of the gene pool to the grandparents for a few weeks or a few days. Parents consider this an event of mixed blessings.

On the plus side, those little angels will be out of their hair for a while, the ‘there’s nothing to do’ whine is silenced, ‘can I have twenty bucks to go to the mall, will not be setting their parental teeth a grating, plus Mom and Dad can get back to their childless days, when passions could run wild on the spur of the moment without an audience commenting, ‘Dad what are you doing to my Mom?’

On the negative side, there’s only one thing: the Grandpa Factor.

Parents who live shoulder to shoulder with their parents, don’t have to worry about this too much as the process is more insidious and Grandpa is always on hand to care for the angels, as well as those house repair projects, and a lifetime of familiarity has inured a level of tolerance. The Grandpa Factor is an accepted blessing.

When Elmer and Curly Sue amble into the Bakery in Rainy River, Grandpa’s wallet is lightened, but he gets tableside service for whatever donuts Curly Sue selects and carries over. The rest of the Grandpas with absentee grandchildren are green with envy. But with summer upon us it’s now our turn, particularly if you have a grandson.

Take Moose for example. When four-year old Moose III arrives, the Grandpa Factor really breaks loose.

“Let’s go to the Bakery. They sure got good stuff there,” enthuses Moose III on his first morning. Moose stops by the bank, cracking open a few bonds to make sure he has lots of ready cash. This is unusual as many consider Moose somewhat thrifty, but in truth, he’s just plain cheap.

Dressed alike, hats at the same angle they stride in the door and snuggle up to the debating table. Introductions are made all round.

“Now Junior, remember what I said, ‘What’s discussed in the coffee shop, stays in the coffee shop’. Nothing said here is for Mom’s or Grandma’s ears,” cautions Grandpa and then he starts up a lively discussion on the things every boy should know if he’s to become a proper man.

Moose lays it all out, things like insights into the female mind (high fiction), political rants (higher fiction), the finer points of fishing lies (expert advice), and close to the top of the list, how and when to pass gas properly.

“Go ahead pull my finger,” invites the Runt extending a giant hand. The Runt’s own grandchildren are fast approaching the age when they will need instruction in that area, so he’s practicing to make sure he’s an expert on all the proper nuances.

“ I already know that,” states Moose III as he rolls to one side of his chair and demonstrates his prowess, chuckling, “See, there’s a mouse in the couch.”

Moose beams and his chest swells with pride.

And so it went, four years of hard-learned manners and decorum destroyed by the Grandpa Factor in a few short visits to the coffee shop.

Uncle Fester checked his watch and suddenly gulped his coffee, and lurched out of his chair.

“Gotta go. It’s my turn to hold the baby and if I’m late, Blossom says I lose my turn,” he declared in a panic to get out the door. Obviously not enough experience to be much of a ‘Grandpa Factor’ yet.

Next week it’s my turn, so everyone on his or her best behaviour, please. Corrupting my grandkids is my sole responsibility. I take it very seriously.

Squirrel Pie

Friday, May 30, 2008

A recent road trip to visit the gene pool in Southern Ontario revealed that the economy at the “Centre of the Universe” is simply booming. An increased level of frenetic ripping up and down the roads- which are really ripped up and being rebuilt to handle the increased traffic- was very evident.

The ‘Centre of the Universe’ can roughly be described as the 905 area code and the GTA- Goofy Trawna Area-, its epicentre of course being Queen’s Park. The total focus of Queen’s Park’s is simply the scurrying rats… er voters, who control the makeup of the Ontario Parliament, and to a lesser, but still substantial extent, the Canadian Parliament in Hootawa. Woe betide any politician who pays not homage to their every whim and fancy, as our own local hero Howie Hampster of the NDP (Nearly Dinosaur Party) found out better than a decade back and in every election since.

But back to that booming economy. Not the auto manufacturing industry. Oh no, it’s deader than a duck, except for the Toyota plants at Cambridge and Woodstock (those communities are GTA wannabees). The booming industry to which I refer is the garbage transport cartel. Hundreds and hundreds of trucks, everyday rolling down the 401, headed for Michigan with another big load of not potatoes- just GTA garbage. Michigan, which was a have, state at the height of the auto industry back in the sixties, is regaining that status again by being garbage dump to the world or more specifically the GTA.

All those garbage trucks are a real advertising opportunity missed. Instead of the plain green paint jobs, they could advertise a “Come on Over” campaign for Ontario Tourism, with a big picture of Shania Twain. The attendant electronic technology should be able to resonate the appropriate theme song at a decibel level that would shatter the paint jobs on the thumping boom boxes on wheels, the de rigueur symbol of coolness that pollute every urban street.

Now we can’t blame the garbage convoy on poor old Howie and cohorts’ failure to solve waste disposal. After all during the reign of Mikey Harrass of the PCs (Politically Crass) we saw the recycle programs gutted and a generation of committed recyclers re-educated to simply pitch it in the dump. Mikey successors, Ernie Inept, and John Torpid- a really cold fish- haven’t managed to inspire those GTA voters either.

That gives us Dolt McFlinty of the Lipservice Party to lead the GTA out of the garbage disposal morass. Doesn’t seem to be working.

So as long as Michigan is prepared to accept our leavings- for a price- you can be sure garbage will continue to flow down the 401, and no real solutions to the problem being resolved locally will emerge. Recycle- nah; incinerate – nah. As for that other liquid pollution problem: the GTA solution, ‘flush the toilets, Montreal needs the water.’

Up here in the Great Northwest, we are taking a different tack, as the MOE (Ministry of Everything) dictates the closing of more landfills. We’ll follow Rat Portage’s lead, buy more fuel and truck it to Manitoba. After all the Red River Valley needs a few more hills in it.

Garden Hold’em

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

With the end of the planting season upon us, and the monsoon underway, can the mosquito season be far behind? Each has of course, its own dangers and preparation. As I walked cautiously into the Bakery in Drizzle Creek, I was greeted by the usual insults from the debating table. Dripping water from the latest ‘light shower’, a real frog-drowner, I slowly pulled up a chair and dripped on both my neighbours who quickly ‘hopped’ their chairs away a few inches.

“What’s the matter with you? Not enough brains to hurry up and get in outta the rain?” commented Pickle, whose varied exploits with torched fishing shacks, charred deer jerky, and flaming gas tanks, amply demonstrated his experience with brain deficiency. But that’s a topic for another column- or five.

“Yer movin’ slow. Back botherin’ you again?” quizzed Moose his own experience with falling off multiple ladders, and quick descents during roof shingling projects, having left him with a trick knee, a score of compressed vertebrae and a permanent hump in his back.

“No. It’s just the tonic. The Pearl stewed me up a big pot of fresh rhubarb yesterday and I kinda overdosed on it. Sudden movements could well…, result in sudden movements,” I explained making an extra effort to control all sphincters.

My neighbours immediately moved their chairs another 12 inches away from me.

“Crikey, dddd- don’t anybody crack any jokes. We don’t want him losing control! And don’t give him any of that flaxseed toast. Sounds like things might already be over-lubricated” stammered Moose still eyeing me suspiciously.

The table settled down quickly enough and the round of ‘Garden Hold’em’ continued.

“I’ll trade a packet of peaches and cream for some wax beans,” offered Herman, fanning out his surplus seed packets.

“ I’ll see your peaches and cream and raise you a half packet of beets and swiss chard,” replied Moose peeking at his hole packet.

“How about some straight-eight cucs for some scarlet runner beans,” asked Pickle hopefully.

“Go fish!” said Murray, “How about a bag of Norlunds? Anybody holding?”

And so it continued around the table as surplus seeds were traded and stowed in pockets to lay forgotten until they sprout there after the next washday.

Towards the end of the game, The Runt staggered in with a big sack of assorted seeds and gardening equipment. His brow was covered with sweat, his face white, arms scratched and shoes and pants covered with mud.

“What on earth happened to you?” asked Moose as he poured the obviously distressed Runt a coffee and motioned to Val to rush an order of toast to go with it. The Runt’s apparent fragile condition must have really rattled Moose as it’s the first time in living memory he’s poured a coffee for anyone other than himself.

“Snakes!” sputtered the Runt as he slurped down half a cup of coffee and then started on his rant.

“I hate ‘em. I was planting the last of the garden and two of them came slithering out from under the rhubarb. I jumped on the mower and wiped out the potatoes and tomatoes as well as the rhubarb trying to get the filthy beasts. I just about had them when I lost control on a tight turn and put the mower over the riverbank. That’s it for gardening! I quit,” he stated firmly slamming the sack of seeds on the floor , then reaching for his toast and peanut butter.

I snickered then made a desperate, but determined dash for the john. Through the door, over the roar of laughter the only discernable voice was a plea from The Runt for post-coffee help dragging his mower out of Drizzle Creek.

Wheels

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

© Copyright

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Wheels

I come from a generation whose first burning adolescent ambition was the acquisition of a set of wheels. Plumbing the depths of the mysteries of the opposite sex was more of an obsession than an ambition. Both cost dearly in terms of time and money. But what a way to waste one’s youth.

Today youth is but a set of dim, rose-coloured, memories in my rear view mirror. With gas roaring past five bucks a gallon faster than a 55 Chevy with a 283 V8, past a flathead six Plymouth, reality of the fixed-income senior must focus on budgeting. No gas guzzling, rumbling, red rag-top in my future.

At the Bakery in Drizzle Creek, the usual crowd arrives for the morning bull…, er debate. The young punks- those under fifty- wheel up on their Harleys and assorted 4x4s. They’re the only ones with an income able to support such extravagant hobbies. The lies…, er discussion, generally runs to power, tire size, mileage, or whether the new boat should have a 100 or 150 hp outboard.

I take it all in wondering if I should invest in a new bicycle or scrounge a replacement rear wheel.

“Was that thump, you hitting the side of the building? I noticed you came across the sidewalk at full bore” inquired Pickle, as I pulled up to the table and looked longingly at his toast slathered with real butter.

I dejectedly slipped my hand in my pocket and then my day brightened as I realized I had enough change for a treat as well as caffeine.

“I’ve got some of that special private stock in from Aunt Dot,” whispered the Boss conspiratorially.

“Toasted with butter, and peanut-butter, “ she added to my enthusiastic nod.

“Yeah, I forgot about my back brakes not working. Rim’s bent,” I responded to Pickle’s question.

“Carrying too heavy a load is she?” Pickle snickered and then unable to contain his mirth slopped coffee on his lap. The hot liquid immediately sobered his demeanor. Must have hit some nerve endings.

“Well I think I can help you out. I’ve got an old spare at home. I’ll set it out. See if it works,” Pickle responded as he grimaced and soaked up the hot coffee on his pants.

I’m not sure if this was an act of charity, or whether he’s looking for consideration during the upcoming cucumber season, or if Pickle’s wife had recently delivered an ultimatum to clean out the garage. (At any rate, the wheel fit but the rear brake still doesn’t work.)

Later the hawgs rumbled away from the Bakery, and the remaining experts poured over Pickle’s new truck.

“Why she don’t have no spark plugs. She’ll never start in the winter,” opined Moose, ever the expert on all things GM.

I reluctantly mounted Old Stud and rear wheel wobbling managed to maneuver around a couple seniors without quite running them down.

It must have been the ‘special reserve’ toast. I didn’t realize my own strength as I wheeled up to my garage and bounced off the wall. I wonder if Pickle’s got a spare front wheel as well.

As to that obsession with the mysteries of the opposite sex, I haven’t figured them out either- just ask the Pearl.