Between the sill and the blind

With the Great beaver Cardboard and Duct Tape Boat Races out of the way for another year it’s time to concentrate on more serious issues. One’s eyesight for instance.

Over the last weeks the CNIB Eye Van has been touring the District doing a fantastic job of checking out everyone’s peepers. Even Tiny Tookalook, Drizzle Creek’s resident peeping tom had his vision checked. It seems he couldn’t believe some of the sights he’s viewed between the top of the windowsill and the bottom of the blind, around our fair community, and wanted to make sure his vision was a sound 20-20.

He also asked over coffee one morning if I would pass on a few requests.

The first was would area residents do a better job of cleaning their windows. He claims the current level of smearing and grime is appalling.

Second, many rosebushes, thistles and other thorny plants around houses need to be trimmed. Also please pick up all those boards and shingles with protruding rusty nails. Tiny claims although his tetanus shots are up to date, he doesn’t want to startle anyone with his screams of pain when he punctures himself.

Third, please turn off your outside lights, particularly those ones connected to motion sensors. They not only startle the neighbours, prowling cats, and scavenging skunks, but they are simply an unacceptable waste of energy. Where is this community’s sensitivity to saving the environment.

Finally, please keep your dog tied up and train them to quit their infernal barking. Remember people are getting ready for bed and all the racket is an impediment to a good night’s sleep.

I suggested to Tiny that rather than worrying about his vision being 20-20, he should consider if his hide was 30-30 resistant, but he assured me Drizzle Creek was a law abiding community and discharge of firearms within the town limits was simply unthinkable. I also requested he stop littering my garden with cigarette butts, and if he tromped on the Pearl’s prize rosebush once more, he could be courting a premature death.

But Tiny countered he considered his activities a real community service. After all Drizzle Creek is considered a pretty sedate place and his nefarious nighttime jaunts added that touch of spice that enhances living here.

Further he invited me along on one of his outings, but after remembering a recent post-bathing reflection of myself in the full-length mirror, I felt encountering a similar site elsewhere was more than my sense of adventure could handle. I respectfully declined.

But don’t let that deter the rest of you. Just leave those blinds up. Tiny Tookalook will be along most any evening.

The Drizzle Creek Curse

Every community has its own peculiarity or bane it must live with. The Drizzle Creek Curse raises its ugly head quite regularly at the debating table at the Bakery. We don’t even have to wait until ten o’clock to start a rumour.

“Who’s that new guy I see around town this week?” wondered the Runt as he waited impatiently for his order.

“Stranger? What stranger?” shot a suddenly alert Moose who prides himself as being the first to recognize anything different in the town.

“Officious looking dude all decked out in a suit and tie. I see him going into the restaurant the last couple of mornings. He must be staying at the motel,” said the Runt, delighting in stealing a march on Moose in the observation department. Moose put down his toast seeming to have suddenly lost his appetite along with his slipping social status.

“Yeah, looks like a government official. Like, maybe from Revenue Canada. I wonder if the Income Tax is in town doing surprise audits,” continued the Runt then hitched his chair up to the table and tied into his double order of flaxseed toast with extra peanut butter.

The rest of the table was not so non-chalant.

“Income tax audit,” two or three others murmured nervously.

Murray who had been unusually quiet that morning suddenly began to stir his tea furiously and the pace of his nervous tick accelerated.

Moose pulled some change from his pocket, paid his bill, - even leaving a tip- and left without finishing his toast.

Bugs nervously pulled out a cigarette and began to fire it up before remembering the smoking zone was at the table outside.

Pickle, uncommonly late walked through the door and asked, “Anyone know who that new dude in town is. Sure looks officious.”

In unison most of the chairs at the table emptied and headed out the door, the rattle of coins on the counter, scraping chairs, and shuffling feet the only sounds.

“What did I say?” wondered Pickle as he pulled up a recently vacated chair. The Runt tried to fill him in but as he continued to chow down on his toast, the generous layer of peanut butter stuck on the roof of his mouth was hindering his speech.

I intervened explaining the Runt’s earlier revelations. Checking at the door I noted most of the recently departed were heading for the Clinic, undoubtedly to get renewals or reinforcements for their high blood pressure and nerve prescriptions.

The clinic noted the unusual rise in emergency refill requests, but dutifully met all requirements. By noon a sudden surge of customers were seen heading into the pharmacy.

As inquiring minds want to know, I headed in to view the parade. There they were all lined up, new prescriptions in hand and silly looks on their faces as they waited to be served by the new-to-town temporary pharmacist, an “officious looking dude”.

Luck was with them all. Seemed like a great day to pay one’s stupid tax and buy a Lotto 6-49 ticket.

The Shortcut

My wife the Pearl of the Orient was looking at me sceptically after my latest pronouncement. We were on our way down to visit the Gene Pool and this trip involved a stop at my sister’s place near Windsor so the most logical path was through Detroit, instead of our regular crossing at Port Huron.

“Not to worry,” I breezed, “We’ll just slip on down I-75 and nip across the Ambassador Bridge. It’ll be a snap, besides we have Linda (our GPS) with us to sort out any problems.

Two minutes later we passed the first sign, ‘Construction ahead- Alternate Route Suggested’ but the traffic was breezing right along so I followed Linda’s cool-voiced command, ‘Stay on the current road in 3 kilometres.’

The Pearl dug the road atlas out of the side pocket and with some concern asked, “What state are we in?”

‘Not to worry,” I assured her, after all Linda was locked onto 8 satellites

The miles rolled by and the ‘Suggest Alternate Route’ signs appeared with increasing frequency. Linda kept her cool and so did I. The Pearl seemed tenser as she rotated the map trying to make sense of this idiocy.

“In one kilometre make a slight right turn, followed by a right turn, followed by a keep to the left,” ordered Linda.

I swung in behind a transport that immediately hammered on his brakes. Smoke rolled off his tires, as my ABS chattered, and the rig braking behind us fishtailed. We all got stopped. The Pearl crossed herself.

The next hour was a pleasant stop-and-go crawl as we moved the half kilometre and merged, then exited the traffic jam. The Pearl’s eyes were wide with terror as I eased from a crawl into the 60 mph traffic. In no time we were in downtown Detroit and totally lost.

Linda, who had lost her fix on the satellites while under a snakes-nest of flyovers, finally regained consciousness, and began spitting out directions.

“Keep left in 300 metres”, followed by a “hard right”, then by a “keep to the left,” she ordered with the coolness of an air traffic controller.

“Flight Elliott maintain altitude and continue straight down the runway,” she ordered as I pulled up to the concrete barricade blocking the roadway, my ABS brakes once more receiving a thorough workout even with engine reverse thrusters fully applied.

I switched to my backup guidance system, “Quick Norma, do you see a sign directing us to the bridge?”

“The bridge is over there,” the Pearl replied pointing off to the left, “but the sign says to the right.”

We pulled a hard right as horns blared and fists were waved in our direction. I waved back politely and carried on. Canadian, eh.

“The next fifteen minutes was a ‘search and follow’ mission as we obeyed sign after sign with the bridge constantly diminishing in the rear-view mirror. All the while Linda kept up a barrage of ignored orders, “Turn left”, “Turn right,” “When possible make a legal u-turn!”

But we followed the signs and suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a slum without another sign in sight. It looked like the burnt out set of ‘Escape from New York City.’

“Get the h… out of here! Make a U-Turn, legal or otherwise,” ordered Linda. I obeyed.

Twenty minutes later under Linda's renewed direction, we approached the bridge. I pulled in behind a transport sporting a Canadian flag and with desperation clung to his tail until we pulled up to Canada Customs.

“Nothing to declare? On your way, eh,” ordered the official, but I had to wait for the Pearl to get back in the van as she was busy out kissing the ground.

“Flight Elliott you are cleared for takeoff on Highway # 3. Make a slight right at the fork and climb through 15000 feet,” ordered Linda. I never even looked back.