Squirrel Pie

Pool Fashion is de Rigeur

2009-02-25T09:05:00.000-06:00

My wife, the Pearl of the Orient is an exercise nut and she does her best to encourage me to besitir my bloated carcass. Winter at the resort in northern Florida is pleasant and usually sunny, but not always real warm. Since our unit is a block or so from the heated pool, the Pearl commandeers the van to haul her load of accessories including, warm-up suit, pool slippers flotation devices, noodles, weights, boom box, etc. down to the pool, leaving me to find my own way south at my leisure.
Suitably attired-in my opinion- I mount my trusty bike and with a towel draped around my neck, wool work socks under my sandals and scarlet bathrobe flowing out behind, I wheel down to the pool in style. I think I cut quite a flamboyant figure.
The Pearl described it somewhat differently.
“You look like an old fuddy-dud of a fart!” she snorted after perusing the latest men’s fashion magazine.
“Those socks and sandals! And that ratty old robe! You’ve been scratching your butt through it so much, it’s all frayed in the back and looks like you have an exhaust port, exactly where it should be!” the Pearl continued in animated disgust.
“Why on earth aren’t you using that nice wind suit the Drizzle Creek Walleye Tournament gave you two years ago. You haven’t put it on once, and look at these new pool slippers. Show a little decorum and fashion sense,” she snorted gathering up her goodies for the pool trek.
I demurred, I wasn’t a slave to fashion and as far as I knew the Fashion Cops didn’t have jurisdiction in this compound. I would continue to flaunt my free spirited ways and would be down to the pool in my own style, in my own good time.
The Pearl slammed the door on her way out.
A half hour later I followed, stopping rather abruptly when I realized I had forgotten to don my swim trunks under my robe. A quick return corrected that oversight and once more I was on my way.
As I wheeled south, my robe streaming out behind me, I approached Freda and Millie with their leashed pack of yapping ankle-biters. Letting go of the waist of my robe, I waved a cheery hello.
A gust of wind whipped open my robe, neatly slapping the belt into my bike chain where it immediately wrapped itself up in the rear sprocket. The resulting unexpected tension forced my considerable weight backwards on the seat, just as I hit the concrete speed bump. Up came the front, popping a wheelie that would be the envy of any stunt rider or ten-year old kid.
Careening wildly, the bike first took a sashay towards Freda and her pack, then did a 180 and headed for a terrified Millie. Finally the belt broke and the bike, me, and the tattered remains of my robe crashed down into the bordering azalea bushes.
Freda and Millie commented , “Well, I never!” trying desperately to calm their ravenous packs which were intent on leaping on me and tearing me to shreds.
The bike is none the worse for wear. It only took an hour to cut the remains of the old robe out of the sprocket and spokes. It has made an excellent cloth for buffing the car. The scratches and abrasions covering my bod never became infected- must be something antiseptic in those azaleas. The Pearl was much impressed by my appearance at the pool in the new wind suit. But I’m still not giving up the wool socks and sandals.

Another good idea gone astray

2009-01-28T19:24:00.001-06:00

At the time, it seemed like a good idea. After all it was a little trick picked up from Jimmy the Hammer, renown Fat Frantic contractor, curler, and golfer. Jimmy is known to be quite resourceful particularly when his Scot’s thrift comes to the fore.
Let me explain. Dancing is something I enjoy even if I’m not good at it, but my super grip, non-slip sneakers ( aka old people’s shoes) simply would not slide on the floor and my wife, the Pearl of the Orient was getting more than a little disgusted with my lack of performance- on the dance floor that is.
“Elliott unless you stop stumbling around like a drunken sailor, you can just bet, no one including me is going to dance with you,” snapped the Pearl after one particularly toe-stompin’ waltz.
But Jimmy the Hammer had showed me a trick.
“Just stick a layer of duct-tape on the soles and you’ll glide along smoother than slidin’ down a sanded and waxed oak banister without encounterin’ a single sliver, “ explained Jimmy as he warmed to the subject of cutting expenses.
“I’ve used it for years for my curling sliders. Why squander good money on fancy footwear when you can find a bit of good old duct-tape in the toolbox you’ve leftover from a paying job. Besides it will waterproof those soles and plug up any holes and save on wearing holes in your socks,” he concluded as he plastered on the advice in his whispery, gravelly voice..
So I had the solution and the supply. All that duct-tape I had pilfered from Drizzle Creek’s Annual Duct-Tape and Cardboard Boat Races finally found a use besides holding the front bumper together on my van. I simply taped up those soles. It was amazing how I could glide and slide. I kept insisting to the Pearl as I swung her around the ballroom it was all the duct-tape and had nothing to the lubrication provided by that smallish bottle of red wine. That was just to wash down those salty peanuts and snacks.
Arriving home late I left the shoes in the centre of the floor. Morning would be soon enough to peel off the tape.
In the fog of early morning I picked up the first shoe and set to work. I must have gotten a roll of the industrial super sticky grade as the tape removal was difficult to say the least and the layer of adhesive left on the soles very apparent. Every time I ripped a strip off, the cat apparently excited by the sound would dash out from under the table and take a swat at my bare toes.
Finally done, I donned my shoes and started across the tile floor of the kitchen. I made exactly two steps before I came to an abrupt halt.
Have you seen those sticky pads you use for catching mice or maybe fly paper? Get the picture? I was glued in place.
A couple of half-hearted tugs simply stuck me down more firmly, so I summoned all my right-leg strength and gave a mighty lift.
“Rrrrriiipppp!” my shoe came free and headed straight up. My foot still firmly attached to shoe and hence my leg followed the shoe straight up,showing off a move most gymnasts could not copy without risk of serious injury.
The cat attracted by the sound of the breaking adhesive bond took that exact opportunity to rush in to investigate- just as my foot propelled by hyper extended tendons, contracting muscles, and excruciating pain descended back to the floor at Mach II.
Touchdown! The floor, the cat’s tail, and my shoe, in that order. The adhesive bond reformed, now intertwined with cat’s tail.
“RRREEEOOOOWWRRRR!” or some reasonable facsimile thereof was emitted by the cat, before it’s killer instinct kicked in and it turned on my ankle.
Grasping my leg with both hands I again gave a mighty heave. Up came my leg, foot, shoe and cat- in that order. Somewhere after the top of the arc the cat tail broke lose from the shoe, sans a patch of tail hair. Pussy ricocheted off the fridge and uttering a final “RREEOOOOWWWWRRR” headed for safety under the couch.
It only took another few minutes to free my other shoe from the floor and three bottles of nail polish remover to clean off the adhesive and the cat hair. The floor will have to wait until tomorrow.
Psychiatric treatment has been scheduled for the bald-tailed cat… if only we could catch it.

Silence is golden

2009-01-07T16:03:00.001-06:00

Ivor Sidetrak, known to us at the Bakery discussion group as Ivor the Hun, was new to Drizzle Creek. Had only been in these parts for 15 years or so.
Lived on the other side of the tracks, just downwind of the sewage lagoon. He never bothered us; we never paid him no mind.
It wasn’t Ivor’s fault that we knew when he was in town. Most everyone that lived downwind of the sewage lagoon had that familiar olfactory aura. If it were bottled, it would be labelled Eau d’Cochon.
Back to the subject.
Ivor was, shall we put it, a man of few words. Nothing that we thought was worth talking about ever crossed his lips. In fact, even worthless stuff, like gossip, fell into his personal sinkhole of quietude.
Ivor was quiet! Those of us at the Bakery, with a lot to say of great importance, had numerous descriptions of the man. “We should submit his name to the Slow Speakers Society of Canada,” for instance.
Well, the unexpected happened. Ivor came into the Bakery squiring Freella, Drizzle Creek’s most eligible widow. He was somewhat animated that day as he offered a measured “Hu’llo.”
“We’ll, uh, I guess you should know that me’n Freella got hitched last week,” Ivor muttered, his first full sentence to us in 15 years.
“Great, Ivor. How did you get around to askin’ her to marry you,” Pickle chimed in, ever a source of wit and wisdom.
“Well, as you know Freella sure can talk, and I mostly just sit and listen. The other day she stopped talkin’ and kinda dozed off for a while. The silence, for once, got to me. I couldn’t think of anything else to say so I asked her t’ marry me,” explained Ivor, a red glow suffusing his face and neck.
“She woke up real quick and said yes!” concluded Ivor, obviously still not over the surprise.
Ivor and Freella poured, paid for, and drank the high-test offering of the day, then left. The bakery was unusually animated that morning with jokes and predictions such as the likelihood of them having kids the next time Freella ran out of words.
Other things probably got said, too. I don’t know ’cause I was talking a mile a minute myself.
About a week later, we heard something else. Ivor and Freella, having left the Bakery that day, drove home. Along the way, they came upon an accident scene. Bad situation.
Ivor, with blanket, and Freella, with a warm thermos of coffee, comforted the stranger until the police car arrived. If they weren’t there, the Fat Frantic Police said, the man would not have survived.
The news was all over, especially at the Knights of the Oblong Table at the Bakery. Last Tuesday, Ivor came in for coffee. We regaled him with the media compliments, citing bravery, wisdom, and all the stuff we wouldn’t ever say to him face to face
“Ivor, we all saw you a dozen times last week. Why didn’t you mention it?”
His response, said with measured spaces, was, “Yu’ never asked.”
Ivor’s mantra is this: He doesn’t speak until he can improve on silence.
Maybe the boys at the Bakery could learn something.
This issue of Squirrel Pie was authoured by my brother-in-law, Ralph Jorgensen, a blue-eyed Arab ( Albertan) who, to deal with the depressed price of oil, is trying his luck as a writer as a better source of income. Sorry, Ralph, journalism is a dry hole, as well.

The lost art of conversation

2008-12-30T22:41:00.001-06:00

After a half day of snow and ice covered roads south of Chicago, the green and lack of white as we entered Alabama was to say the least, a welcome change. I was really beginning to mellow out as we rolled into the rest centre along the interstate.
I hustled into the restroom and had just settled onto the seat of the stall to commence an important operation when a southern voice inquired from the adjoining stall, "How y'all doin?"
Normally I don't carry on conversations of this nature. In fact the whole art of conversing while in the john seems to have disappeared along with the three-holer outhouse. But I thought this obviously friendly southern soul deserved a response, besides I was still elated to be out of the snow for a few months.
"Fine, How about you?" I shot back, wondering mildly how far this southern hospitality went.
"Great! What y'all up to," came the friendly reply.- quaint and to the point.
Again I was reluctant to reply, but didn't know how to properly break off the conversation at this point, so replied back hesitantly, "Travellin', same as you.”
"How's about I come on over there?" was the neighbouring response.
I freaked out. Who was this? The FBI running a sting operation or one of the stars of the movie Deliverance, on his way over to make me "squeal like a pig!”
"Not now, I'm kinda busy," I managed to stammer, desperately trying to speed things up and make my escape.
The reply from the other side of the barrier brought things into focus. "Listen Bud, I gotta call y'all back. The idiot in the next stall keeps answering all my questions."
What now? Hide in the stall until my neighbour departed or make a quick break for it right now. Who said I can’t move fast? Besides, the next rest stop is just another 40 miles south!

It's time to migrate

2008-12-07T23:46:00.002-06:00

With the ice closing in on the rivers and lakes up here in the Drizzle Creek District, it about time to either go into hibernation or migrate. My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, says since I’m a grumpy old bear and have a pretty good roll of fat around my middle, hibernation would probably be my best bet. But on the other hand, she needs someone to chauffeur her south so migration is the better option.
With that decision behind us, I have been working on my driving skills so I’ll fit in with the standard mix of drivers in the Deep South. You’d think the rules of the road would be universal, but they’re not. Once that salt air off the Gulf hits you, your brain as well as the finish on your car begins to rot at an increased rate. Here’s the scenario.
For the first five hundred miles the status quo continues. You use your signal lights, drive in the proper lane, and keep a sensible speed of fifteen mph (no km here... we’re in the U.S.-) over the speed limit. This is of course, if the road and driving conditions are good and the traffic light. If it is snowing or better yet freezing drizzle, with limited visibility and bumper-to-bumper traffic, it’s pedal to the metal with one foot hovering over the brake as you watch for brake lights about ten cars ahead. The noise beside me is the Pearl, her head covered with a veil, wailing ‘Hail Mary’s’.
By the time you hit Nashville, things have mellowed out a bit. With a country music station (there are no other genres near Nashville) blaring full blast, you crack a window, and inhale deeply of the warm humid smog rising off the river. The traffic’s still heavy, so you keep the hammer down and weave from lane to lane, in a well-choreographed automotive ballet. Use of the signal lights ceased someplace north of the Tennessee line. Their only function now is to keep time to the beat of ‘I walk the line’.
Finally you hit the hill country of Alabama and Northern Florida. Off the Interstate now, you search behind every clump of brush and tree for stop signs and reduced speed limits. You can bet Sheriff Buford T. Belly or one of his deputies will be on the hunt to bolster the county’s pension fund. If stopped you’ll need a translator, as even Jeff Foxsworthy couldn’t understand the redneck dialect spoken in these parts
As the coast comes into sight, your worries evaporate. Back amongst your own kind, you only have to watch out for the occasional ‘rebel’ plate. All the rest are from Ontario or Michigan. But remember, dawdle in the passing lane and don’t use your signal lights- that would only confuse the issue.
Back in Drizzle Creek at the Bakery, the winter will pass, as it should. Lies at the debating table will be of the most profound nature. Pickle finally managed the bag a deer. A month after the fact, it has gained 100 lbs and 10 points. His neighbour Dot will have her hands full all winter making sure he minds his ‘p and qs’. The Runt will keep the long john population in the pastry shelf under control. Dr. Goodwrench will continue to evade meaningful employment. Tiny Tookalook will be patrolling the side streets and back alleys. Watch for the footprints under your window.
The only one missing other than yours truly will be Moose. He’s off to Ottawa to advise Stephen Heartless and Jim Flabbergast on how to make friends and influence people.
If you’re down at the Beach, make sure you drop around for a visit. You know the address, right? Otherwise see you in the spring.

By the numbers

2008-12-07T23:38:00.001-06:00

Got a new credit card the other day. The scanners wouldn’t read the magnetic strip on the old one anymore. That’s either due to the radioactive high-test coffee down at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek or all the radiation from the hopped up cell phones all those railroaders around the debating table carry- at least two each.
No matter, a couple days before the card arrived, and official looking letter with strange markings arrived. I hesitated to open it suspecting another vicious assault from Infernal Revenue. Why don’t those birds just look at the stock market and realize they’re beating a dead horse. You can’t get blood from a stone. Even poor Murray says the bailiff may be along any day and he’s switching from heating his house with gas to burning share certificates- they’re cheaper.
I finally drew up enough courage to crack open that first letter. It was a top-secret message from a spy agency. “Lift the flap, and we will reveal your secret code number to use your new credit card,” it stated.
I lifted the flap and peered through the semi transparent plastic frame. There were some faint hen-scratchings that appeared to be either Greek or Chinese. After studying them without luck for several minutes I reversed the paper and voila, there they were- murky, but legible- barely.
The instructions explained I must memorize the number and then destroy the paper. I would need this number for every future purchase to be made with this card. I spent a full day repeating the number, burning it indelibly in my brain. Then I destroyed the paper. Two days later the card arrived. I dutifully activated it and destroyed the old one.
That afternoon the phone rang and like all smart consumers, I screen my calls, waiting for the ‘Do not Call’ registry to kick in. The answerer came on. It was for my wife, the Pearl of the Orient. The voice said,” Pearl call me at 3311.”
The next caller left another message for my wife,”Gimme a shout back at 4798.”
The next caller, “Ring me back at 6745”. And so it went the rest of the afternoon, one message after another. I recorded every one of them in that steel trap- my mind. Paper is for wimps.
When the Pearl breezed in later that afternoon, she glanced at the empty inbox on the answering machine and questioned, “What no messages for me? I was expecting some calls today.”
Tidy sort that I am I had of course erased all the calls from the answering machine.
“Yeah the d#$%^ thing was ringing steady. Couldn’t hardly get in a good nap,” I wheezed in my best ‘put upon’ manner.
“But they refused to leave any messages. Said they’d call back,” I lied as I quickly donned my hat and coat and headed off for a heavy-duty information session at the Bakery.
Later I stopped to pick up a case of wobbly pop and a bottle of snakebite remedy. After all we were soon to head south and I wanted to be medically prepared with my immune system properly challenged. I whipped out that new credit card. The clerk swiped and handed me the pad. I punched in 3311.
“Incorrect PIN, Try again” blinked the screen.
I punched in 4798, my confidence frustrated but unshaken.
“Incorrect PIN, Try again, idiot,” blinked the screen.
Insulted, I quickly punched in 6745.
The screen began to pulse and a siren wailed.
“You have entered an incorrect PIN three times in succession. Your card has been permanently cancelled and your bank account frozen for 30 days. Please contact our head office in Trawna, in person immediately. Bring your passport, income tax returns for the past three years, 4 pieces of photo identification, and three witnesses who can verify you are who you claim to be,” scrolled the message on the machine.
There was a final clatter and a whirr as the built-in shredder spit out pieces of plastic and the screen scrolled one final message, “Your account will be debited $100.00 for replacement of this card. Thank you for using your Wheezer Card… for everything else there’s cash.”

Trawna Report

2008-11-12T19:22:00.000-06:00

Now that Ontario is a have–not province and is eligible for Equalization Payments from the rest of Canada, on a recent trip to the Centre of the Universe – Trawna- I took pains to see how things were progressing.
First, you have to understand although the good old Drizzle Creek District is technically part of Ontario, in reality the border of the province stops abruptly at the edge of the GTA (Greedy Trawna Area). The only exceptions are a few outlying centers that contain an auto industry plant- like St Thomas and Windsor. The rest of the land base is more like a territory- only considered important when there is a gold or diamond discovery, or when the GTA needs a new dump site. So you folks up here don’t expect too much largesse from the politicos at the Queen’s Park Bastille in Trawna. Besides, you’re already used to tough times. Why should anything change?
But not only has the Provincial government under Dolt McFlinty gotten into the Equalization begging game, the private sector is doing their part as well
Down at the corner of Bay and Yap Streets in Trawna, here’s the picture. Recently pink-slipped stock brokers and investment bankers were busy panhandling.
“Hey Buddy, could you spare me a ten-spot so I can pay for my parking slot for my BMW?” was the standard line from the disheveled pin-stripers. Meanwhile they demonstrated their multi-tasking skills texting on their Blackberries with another cell phone pasted to one ear, an Ipod in the other, and nervously glancing skyward to avoid the landing of any other financial hotshot taking the swan dive off one of the financial towers. Poor souls
Even my wife, The Pearl of the Orient, experienced the shock of Equalization as practiced by the hotel restaurants.
“Yes ma’am, what could we get you this morning,” wheezed the obviously bored waiter as he poured the morning coffee and set the water glasses on the table.
“Oh something simple,” replied the Pearl as she searched fruitlessly for her glasses in her Pullman-sized purse. Reading without her glasses is not one of the Pearl’s strengths
Finally terminating the fruitless search and closing the menu, she looked up, her glasses perched all the while on her forehead. She ordered, “ I’ll have hot oatmeal with some fresh fruit, and brown toast. How much is that?”
“That will be on the breakfast buffet special. It is $27.90, plus tax and tip, I think,” replied the flustered waiter, first pecking hurriedly on his calculator and then chewing in frustration on his pencil.
“Expletive deleted, How much?” choked the Pearl who had just started to swallow some water to wash down her morning meds. Her menu sailed across the table collecting the napkins, water glasses, silverware, and centre piece on its trip to the floor.
“Another expletive deleted. I’ll just have the oatmeal and fruit and please another cup of coffee,” sputtered the Pearl, still in sticker shock.
The oatmeal arrived along with three raspberries and two blackberries, preceded of course by the fresh tablecloth, silverware and coffee.
When the bill arrived, it was $37.50, plus tax.
“But this is more than the whole breakfast, you first quoted me,” sputtered the Pearl, once again losing her hard-won composure.
“Oh yes ma’am but that was a package. This is a la carte,” sniffed the waiter departing post haste.
The Pearl made her contribution to the Financial Equalization programme and we departed Trawna, poorer and wiser- maybe.

Smoke gets in your eyes

2008-11-06T19:55:00.000-06:00

It’s that time of year. With a bite in the air, time to fire up the woodstove. Since I’m headed south shortly, and am well known for my lack of ambition, I’ll forego that pleasure. Haven’t split a single block of wood since I left the farm. Even in moose camp I leave that chore to the more experienced- like Pickle. Pickle, an expert on all things wooden, has an enviable woodpile. It is home to about a dozen chipmunks, the occasional weasel, 4 or 5 hornet nests and innumerable mice. He’s home to Drizzle Creek’s own private vermin plague.

Schoolbus Jack wandered into the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other morning, pulled up a chair to the debating table, and immediately started complaining about the weather.

“Too warm and too wet,” he stated massaging his aching knuckles, explaining he simply couldn’t get into the swamps and across the fields to skid out the firewood to fill his orders.

“Why can’t they simply order it ahead of time, instead of waiting until now, and then whining because I can’t deliver it right away. They do the same thing every year,” he whined settling in for his first cup of high test.

“If they do the same thing every year, why don’t you cut a bunch ahead of time when the weather’s decent,” I asked already suspecting the answer. I’m an expert on procrastinating. Schoolbus Jack, like this Jack, works better under pressure. All the question gained me was a dirty look so I turned to Moose who after his third cup of high test was finally coming to life.

“What do you burn in your stove?” I queried, not really that interested as I wasn’t going to help him haul it.

“Tamarack. Some dry, some green,” he stated without hesitation, keeping his eyes glued on his cup.

“Isn’t that awful dirty? Doesn’t it creosote up your pipes? How do you keep them clean?” I continued as I got my toast order in before the busy crowd showed up, and just in time as Pickle, the Runt and about three other philosophers pulled up to the table.

Moose came to life and he started to chuckle, obviously remembering some mischief he had been up to years back. It had to be years ago, as he simply hasn’t the energy or stamina to do it anymore.

“Oh I just watch for a good rainy wet morning then I crank up the fire and let ‘er roar. Nothing like a brisk creosote fire to clean out the flues,” he chuckled remembering a few decades back.

“I was a little slack that one year, and the creosote load was pretty heavy. It was raining good, so I hopped out of bed, stuffed some newspaper up the flue, fired ‘er up and jumped into the shower. About five minutes later I hear pounding at the door and horns blowing, so I peek out,” Moose explained now starting to giggle.

“Must have been a temperature inversion or something because the chimney was just roaring a flume of green smoke with flames going about twenty feet straight up. Then it went straight north and settled on the main drag. I stuffed the towel I was wearing up the flue to cut of the air supply and there was kind of a ‘Whuuuump” as she completely snuffed herself out,” he explained.

“Then I had to find another towel and unlock the door, before the neighbour kicked it in. The sight of me with that skimpy towel seemed to make him back off and mutter about the smoke, but by then there was nothing left to trace it to me. Main St wasn’t so lucky. Those folks were busy coughing and rubbing their eyes for a couple of hours.

I got dressed double quick, stuffed the smoldering, creosote-soaked towel, in a garbage back and snuck it out the back before the missus even come to,” he bragged as he held finished off his high test.

Rising from the table he commented over his shoulder as he headed for the door, “Kept a straight face for about five years whenever she got on a rant looking for that prize towel. But I don’t think she’d have wanted it back anyways.”

Carrots

2008-11-01T16:13:00.001-05:00

I love carrots- firm, crunchy tasty carrots. My granddaughter, Emily is not so enraptured. At four years old her reasoning was, “Papa, you know, I’m not a rabbit!”

I haven’t had a lot of luck growing carrots. Either the soil is too hard, the resulting crop looks like a bunch of tortured, arthritic fingers, or the seed fails to germinate, or they are so thick they never make any size.

This year I was determined to succeed. I picked that special spot and added enough peat and sand along with copious nutrients to guarantee just the right growing medium. Then with the soil nicely warmed up I seeded- not too thick, or deep- and gently covered the precious seed. And waited. And waited some more.

When only weeds came up, I checked the seed packet. It was dated 1998.- apparently a hold over from my pre-Rainy River days.

Quickly, scurrying around Drizzle Creek to get some fresh seed, I soon discovered “sold out” was a common theme, with the next delivery truck scheduled for March 2009. A trip to Fat Frantic, and Emu- home of some really strange birds- was similarly unproductive.

Nearly sobbing I laid my tale of woe on Len who solved the problem in short order.

“Why didn’t you get your order in early, you ninny? But you’re in luck. Here’s a couple spare packets. Now do a good job,” he lectured as he returned to his own patch.

Lovingly, I reseeded. The gentle rains came. The sun shone. And voila, a week later I was treated to a few wisps of green emerging.

Every day I checked on the six rows. Carefully weeding out the volunteer poppies and sunflowers. “Gently! Gently, now,” I cautioned myself taking care not to damage the precious seedlings.

I was similarly dedicated to watering my patch. Just enough. Don’t over do it. All summer my carrots grew like gangbusters and I religiously thinned enjoying the first tender roots- boiled and slathered with butter or raw- straight out of the garden with a careless swish under the fawcet- after all a bit of good, bacteria-laden, dirt is just the thing to challenge the immune system.

Finally at the height of the harvest season, I put on the heavy boots, got out the fork and set to. Carefully I levered them out of the soil making sure not to injure or break a single perfect root. Out the beauties came in great, orange clumps. Nine inches long, gently tapered, perfect in every way. A bumper crop!

I shook off the fertile soil, snapped off the tops, and gave them a final wash. Proudly I presented the bounty too my wife, the Pearl of the Orient. She was suitably impressed and took charge of the crop. After all, it was my first really successful carrot crop.

A week later the Pearl announced we would be having honeyed carrots, a real favourite of mine.

“Bring in some carrots, before you go for coffee,” she directed.

“Sure thing. Where are they?” I asked as I headed out for the Bakery.

“They’re in the garage in that garbage bag, next to those wormy apples, I asked you to throw out,” stated the Pearl, referring to my recent apple sauce production project.

I stopped short remembering how thorough I had been at gathering up all the garbage bags the day before. I’d had a real mountain out for Frank and per usual he had cleaned up every last bit of it.

I don’t suppose anyone has any surplus carrots, eh?

Secrets, hunt camps, and headaches

2008-11-01T16:10:00.000-05:00

It was a quiet weekend followed by a slow news week here in Drizzle Creek. It had taken most of the previous week to recover from the Thanksgiving celebrations, which included a week of cleaning up leftovers. That meant there was not a lot of extra blood to send to the brain as the stomach had first call on all reserves.

Then by the weekend a major segment of the male population had loaded up and headed for moose camp. This left the Bakery devoid of surplus bread and some of the best liar….er, conversationalists, the town has to offer. The truckloads of supplies and equipment that were headed out of town in the convoy suggested a major military excursion, or a mass permanent exodus. Outfitting a full brigade with tents, and ATVs, as well as enough food to last a couple of months was obviously complete. Ample medical supplies to ward off snake and frost bite was also in evidence.

But by late Monday the entire crew was back arranged around the debating table, holding their heads and reliving the adventure- that is the parts they could remember. Moose were of course absent from the mix. This is not uncommon, but it is rumoured Pickle’s annual solution to this lack of meat is to stop at brother Gherkin’s farm at Hooterville on the return trip. For twenty bucks apiece, the crew is allowed to drop one cull cow, drag the carcass around the pasture a couple of times to simulate usual moose extraction techniques, before loading it on the pick up and taking it in for processing.

No one will ‘fess up’ to this actually happening, but the rumour persists, and what’s that they say about ‘where there’s smoke.’

The Runt was also at the debating table, again foregoing this year hunt, preferring instead the safety of a soft bed where there is far less chance of being mistaken for a Sasquatch. He did however manage to break into the moose discussion to brag about his new car.

“Runs real sweet, but the missus has pretty much taken claim of it and is personalizing to suit herself,” he stated as he looked longingly at the latest tray of chocolate long-johns being delivered to the display case.

“It has only a metric speedometer- no mph numbers, so I see she’s made up a little conversion chart for the equivalents and pasted it to the dash. She’s got it topping out at a 110 mph,” he explained as a puzzled look crossed his face.

“I wonder where she’s figuring on doing 110 mph? Maybe there’s something she’s not telling you?” I observed as I sheltered my cookie from the Runt’s lust-filled eyes.

“I don’t think I’ll ask. Husbands and wives should keep a few secrets from each other,” concluded the Runt philosophically as he pushed back from the table and gave the long-johns one lingering, wistful glance.

As I rose to leave, Pickle picked up the aspirin bottle that had been seeing more combined service than the sugar dispenser, and shook out a couple of tablets.

“Boy, I can’t figure out how we all came down with these terrible headaches. Must have been a virus going around that hunt camp,” he stated as the assembled crew nodded in agreement.

A pre-election prediction

2008-10-17T09:46:00.000-05:00

I took in the all candidates meeting out in Hooterville the other night and it was predictable to say the least. Obama and McCain were at their best…. Whoops, sorry… wrong election.

The candidates visiting the Drizzle Creek District were arrayed across the front like a bunch of convicted terrorists awaiting the firing squad.

The assassins were scattered throughout the audience trying to get their jabs in at the victims they didn’t support, while deflecting criticism from their own favourite. Bombast and hyperbole was rampant. Even the candidates were slinging a bit of mud.

All in all, we didn’t learn much and no one changed their minds. It seems to be the status quo. But someone must be changing their allegiance; otherwise what would be the point of having an election. Well, I’ve got it figured out. A sure fire poll, I reckon is accurate. Here is how I stumbled on it.

I started listening to women. My wife the Pearl of the Orient says it isn’t true. She claims I haven’t listened to her more than once or twice in nearly forty years of wedded bliss. I had to explain it was other women I was listening to- eavesdropping actually. Husbands and wives aren’t supposed to listen to each other.

I started picking up these tidbits while waiting at the checkout, picking up the mail, paying my Stupid Tax at the 649 counter, or offering refills to the ladies crowding the front table at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek. I started keeping track.

“Did you see that hunky John RiffRaff outside the post office this morning,” gushed one lady of maturing years.

“My yes! Those flowing locks of glistening silver. I’d sure like to run my fingers through his hair,” replied a companion letting out an audible sigh.

“Well I like that Kenny BiffBoff. He has that cute little wave of hair flipping down over his forehead and such a lovely smile,” said a third and with a giggle added, “He’s single, you know.”

“That Rusty Lusty seems like a very nice young man,” observed another thoughtfully.

“Too young. He’s just a baby. You’d have to spend all your efforts mothering him,” snorted a Red Hatter obviously fed up with raising kids and ready to wear purple.

“Well how about that Ricky Oldmann. He’s a mature military man. I always was a sucker for a man in a uniform” wondered another wag, dreamily running her tongue over her lips.

“Nope! He’s overweight and overbearing. Just like my second husband when he’d had a belly full of beer,” snapped an obviously bitter matron.

“And that leader of his Stephen Heartless with his school boy good looks. Reminds me of that boy that had his way with me back in school. (Gasps all round) Lied to me and dumped me. Broke my heart. How could you trust a man that perfect,” the tirade continued. ‘Hell hath no fury like a women scorned’ and all that.

I was receiving some hostile looks so I drifted out of earshot, but I’ve been keeping score and the prediction is, RiffRaff edging out BiffBoff by a hairdo. Oldmann will be a distant third- broken hearts are vindictive, and Rusty Lusty could make a surprisingly strong showing if the empty nest syndrome kicks in.

Statistically, this poll is considered accurate within 50 percentage points, ten times out of twenty- maybe.

Lessons Learned

2008-10-17T09:42:00.000-05:00

With the chill winds of autumn reminding us the summer is over, reminiscing over the past season’s follies was in high gear down at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other morning as I pulled up a chair.

“When did you say you were heading south?” Pickle quizzed me as I extracted a pencil and began recording his latest escapade on a napkin. My short-term memory is just not what it used to be.

Pickle was silent for all of thirty seconds, trying desperately, but in vain from not exercising that profound ability of his- getting his foot in his mouth.

Turning to Dr. Goodwrench, he stated flatly, “Don’t bring that lawnmower back anymore. The warranty has expired. Fix it yourself.”

“You don’t understand, I only work on major pieces of equipment, that require substantial professional repairs. I leave that rinky-dink stuff to you backyard doctors,” retorted Dr. Goodwrench as he swept his hair back out of his eyes so he could find his coffee cup.

“No I don’t have time! I’m busy electrifying my wood splitter, and I have to finish a major tune-up on the missus’ lawnmower. All that rain and mild weather has really kept the lawn growing,” explained Pickle, as he checked his watch, then settled back in his chair. After all it was only 45 minutes into the coffee break.

“What do you mean electrifying your wood splitter? I thought you powered it off your truck,” remarked the Runt who to this point had been too deeply involved with his toast and peanut butter to comment on other matters.

“Gas is too expensive, so I mounted a couple of old electric motors on it. Just plug it in and it runs for nothing,” explained Pickle, ever on the lookout for any way to save a nickel.

“Why don’t you have to pay a Hydro None bill like the rest of us?” wondered Moose, who had been uncommonly quiet to this point.

“Oh no. I just run an extension cord under the hedge an plug it in that side outlet on Dot’s house,” bragged Pickle and then realizing he had spilled the beans, reddened and concentrated on his coffee.

A pool was immediately started on how long it would take Dot to detect the errant extension cord. My money’s on Dot.

Pickle will be out of town this week on the mighty moose hunt, so he’s safe for a few days. But he has to tune up that lawnmower first. It must be humming, not so he can cut the lawn. Oh no, he planned carefully the first time he did that a few decades back and made such a mess of it, his good wife hasn’t let him touch it since. Insists on doing it all herself.

Hmmm, is there a lesson to be learned here?

The Magic of Mushrooms

2008-10-01T22:26:00.000-05:00

Continuing education was on the agenda around the debating table at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other morning. Maury from the hill country north of Hooterville broached the subject.
“Have you seen the crop of mushrooms out in the wild the last week? It’s simply amazing,” he stated with wonder as he sucked in his first mouthful of high test.
“You’d better be careful what you go stickin’ in your mouth,” lectured Moose, an authourity on all things wild.
“I’m pretty careful when I’m out pickin’ mushrooms, but I think someone in the last group snuck in one of them poisonous or magic specimens,” he added pausing only to reflect and refresh his cup.
“Well whatever happened? You’re still with us,” needled Pickle, delighted to dig up some dirt on Moose.
“I fried up a big pan of ‘em fer my supper with lots of onions and butter, and I must say, they were delicious. I’m quite a cook when I turn my hand to it,” bragged Moose as he pointedly ignored Pickle and tied into his toast.
“But somethin’ was amiss ‘because I woke up in the middle of the night with the curse upon me. Couldn’t hardly move and I’m sure my heart wasn’t beating more’n a few rpms a minute. Just sat there on the edge of the bed a sweatin’ and a moanin’,” he remembered as he washed down a bite of toast with half a cup of scalding coffee.
“Then the worst part started. Spiders, snakes, and monsters started comin’ out of the walls. It must have been a couple of hours till I sort a’ came back to my normal self,” stated Moose, the terror of the experience obviously still vivid.
“Sounds pretty scary. What did the missus think of it?” I asked, wanting all the juicy details, but wondering at the same time just what was Moose’s ‘normal self’.
“Oh she was absolutely beside herself. Spent the rest of the night and most of the next day pouring over the life insurance policies to make sure mushroom poisoning was covered. Didn’t really settle down until she discovered not only was it covered, but would probably qualify for double indemnity benefits,” said Moose as a puzzled look crossed his brow.
“Anyways, the long and the short of it is, you don’t want to be pickin’ mushrooms unless you know which are the safe ones,” he concluded, blessing the table with his insight.
“Oh I figure on taking that course Honey Bee is holding next week out in the high country, on identifying wild mushrooms,” assured Maury, chastened by Moose’s close encounter.
“Say, I’d kinda like to take that seminar in too. I kinda fancy a feed of wild mushrooms,” mused the Runt, as he licked the last of the peanut butter off his knife.
Pickle looked up quickly with some alarm.
“Runt, before you start picking, would you mind stopping by the lawyer’s office? Make sure your will is updated to specify cremation. No one at this table has a back strong enough to be your pallbearer,” he observed.
All round it seemed like a sensible precaution.

Liars’ Convention

2008-09-23T20:46:00.000-05:00

This past weekend was the Annual Gathering of Liars down in Drizzle Creek. No I don’t mean the participants in the Walleye Tournament, although I must admit those folks are no slouches when it comes to spinning tall tales. They’ll be here this coming weekend and they’ll certainly have to stretch things a mile or two if they expect to regain championship status.
Nor am I referring to the hopefuls in the upcoming election, although they should have been on hand to take a few pointers. After all whoever is successful in that race will have to spend the next four years- or portion thereof, depending on the whims of the PM obeying laws he has passed.
No, I’m, of course, referring to the crème de le crème of the lying fraternity- Giant Pumpkin Growers or Lords of the Gourds. Their leader in Drizzle Creek, Sir Eltjo ‘Hard Luck’ Whimpering has been setting the stage all year how everything was conspiring against him and his efforts to produce a prize winning Giant Pumpkin. By ‘prize winning’, I mean the largest. Not the ugliest, not the most misshapen, not the smallest, not the scabbiest, but the biggest.
Over the past 14 years past there have been, frosts, droughts, and plagues of insects, marauding Great Beavers, mice, weed infestations, humming bird attacks, groundhogs, and accidental shootings.
This year the range of excuses pretty much ran the gambit.
“I’m so disappointed. Not one of those expensive seeds I imported sprouted,” whimpered Hard Luck over coffee early one morning last spring.
“There, there, young fellow. Don’t cry! Don’t cry! I’ll supply you with one of mine… supply you with one of mine,” soothed Archie Archie, patting Hard Luck on the back.
“I’ve got plenty of extras… plenty of extras,” he added reassuring the hapless Hard Luck.
A month and a half later, it was another crisis.
“I finally got a couple pollinated, and wouldn’t you know, it rotted right off during that last wet spell,” Hard Luck explained, shaking his head sadly.
“Look’s like I’ll be shut out of the winner’s circle again,” he concluded.
“But what about the other one. Surely it’ll make it,” I encouraged, trying to lift his spirits.
“Nope. It met with a small misfortune when I was trying to thin out those pesky groundhogs. Direct hit with a 30-06. She’s toast,” he explained.
Two weeks later, it was the hail and the wind that tore up the punkin’ patch. Then it was the algae bloom on the river plugging up all the holes in his irrigation system. An early frost touched his vines, stunting any further growth.
Saturday morning of the weigh in Hard Luck sat with the other growers picking at his pancakes.
“You know I’ve been sitting up nights to make sure the deer stayed out of the patch, but last night I figured I needed a really good rest in preparation for today, and wouldn’t you know it the terrorists slipped in and ate a hole right through my biggest punkin. Ruined it!” Hard Luck stated, as a tear rolled down his cheek and he set the final stage for another year of defeat.
Around him all the other Lords of the Gourds echoed tales of woe covering everything from bears, to plagues of frogs, to crop circles, and alien spacecraft beaming up their prize orbs.
You never heard such a professional, pre-race’ parade of excuses and position jockeying, all entitled, “I didn’t win because…”
When the smoke had cleared after the weigh-ins, Hard Luck took first, his wife second, and his daughter and grandkids, the next three spots.
My entry was disqualified due to squirrel damage. Maybe there’s something fishy about the judges and the scales?
At least, that’s my excuse… for this year.

In the sauce

2008-09-22T17:18:00.000-05:00

One of the wondrous things about this season is the bountiful harvest and all the good things you can make to eat. In case you didn’t know, eating is about my most favourite thing- right next to lying. My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, has been trying to discourage this habit, the eating that is- she’s reluctantly accepted the lying. But things came to a head when I showed up with the latest haul, 30 plus gallons of crab apples.

“Just what do you expect me to do with all those apples? I’m not making pie. Your cholesterol is still way too high and I can’t let out the waistband on your pants any further,” the Pearl snorted with a level of disgust generally reserved for door-to-door peddlers.

“You aren’t bringing them into MY house. It’ll be totally infested with fruit flies before you have to haul them out to the garbage,” she emphasized totally ignoring my protest that it was MY house as well.

“But they were free! And they’ll make great applesauce. You know how healthy that is supposed to be,” I informed her as I began to drool over the prospect of brown toast with lots of butter slathered with applesauce.

“Well have at it. You can make it out here on the deck. Stay out of MY kitchen and put all MY utensils back when you’re finished,” was the final response I got as the door closed in my face.

Undaunted, I set to washing- sort of, quartering and potting the apples. I had every pot full before I had finished the first bucket. Only six more buckets to go. Then I loaded up the cook top as well as the barbecue and set the containers to cook. It was exhausting work, so I took a little break on the sofa while things came to a boil.

I guess I had the lid on that one pot on a little tight, but when it blew, ricocheting off the cupboard, the attendant ‘Boom, Clatter, Clatter!’ brought me fully awake. Fortunately, at the time, the Pearl was off to an extended swim and exercise class, so there were no personal injury or marital abuse issues to deal with. A mop and a bucket quickly cleaned up the mess and the stain on the ceiling is hardly noticeable.

With the apples all nicely boiled, I did a bit of mashing, and it was onto the straining. A couple of windows screens pressed into service speeded up that operation. Besides we don’t open those windows very often and the bug season is pretty much over.

When the Pearl arrived home, I proudly had my production displayed on the counter. The Pearl was impressed and not too put out by the slap dash job I had done of cleaning up. I cleared out to let her bring that area up to her standards. After all, what’s that about discretion being the better part of valour.

Since we were off to Emily and Norm’s for brunch the next day, I insisted on taking a quart of the ambrosia along as a token gift. Emily is a very gracious hostess.

“Isn’t this wonderful. I just love fresh applesauce,” she gushed as she spooned up a servings all round.

“You know you just can’t beat it mixed up with yogurt like this,” she added as we all dipped in with gusto.

“I wanted Norm to make some from our apples, but he said they were too wormy. How did you manage to find crab apples without worms?” Emily continued with unabated enthusiasm.

“Who said my apples didn’t have worms?” I replied.

“Well how did you get them out? It must have involved a lot of cutting,” wondered Emily.

“Who said I got them out?” I replied.

Emily’s spoon stopped someplace between her bowl and her sweet mouth.

Emily’s spoon returned to her bowl.

And it’s amazing how that woman can suppress a gag reflex.

But that’s what being a perfect hostess is all about.

Norm just kept eating.

An electrifying morning

2008-09-11T22:06:00.000-05:00

I headed for the Bakery in Drizzle Creek early this morning as Hydro None had notified us of a scheduled three hour outage from 9 till noon, and I wanted to make sure I got my morning fix of caffeine and calories. The debating table was already pretty well occupied as the early risers had yet departed for work and some of the regular crew also noting the scheduled outage had wandered in early as well.

These scheduled outage notifications from Hydro None are greatly appreciated so we can arrange our important schedules. My only request is could the please give us advance notice of the unscheduled ones also.

Moose sauntered in, followed shortly by the Runt, who was sporting a heavy limp.

“You got foot rot?” I observed using good agricultural terms a farm boy like the Runt could understand.

“No, he’s got the gout,” snorted Moose downing his first half-cup of coffee, and chortling at his early morning wit.

The conversation halted briefly as orders of toast and peanut butter were placed in a rush to avoid the impending outage, with the last stragglers just barely making it in under the wire, including Pickle who was also limping. With all the orders filled and the table now fully occupied conversation resumed.

“So Pickle, the Runt has the gout, what’s your excuse for being up limping around so early in the morning?” I asked taking up a pen and paper to keep the facts fresh and straight.

“My physical later this morning. Had to get my blood work in first thing, and the foot’s pretty good. Thanks for asking,” quipped Pickle.

“How’s the Doc gonna do a rectal exam in the dark? Use a flashlight?” I shot back. Pickle’s approaching that age when the golden digit gets applied annually.

Pickle’s paused, his toast halfway to his mouth. The question seemed to have taken the starch out of his shorts.

“You’ll make a fine looking pair, barely able to stagger up on the stage for the Walleye Tournament,” I observed reflecting on the sore feet and the upcoming event.

“Thore feete won’t haf a thin t’doo wit t’em thaggerin,” observed Moose, trying mightily, but unsuccessfully to keep his bridge in place as the overload of peanut butter sucked things loose.

The Runt gave Moose a withering glance and brought things into perspective.

“It’s not the gout. I’m a prime physical specimen,” he bragged as he trowelled on the peanut butter.

“The problem is crickets,” he added, holding out his cup for a refill, before the Hydro None limited supply ran out.

“Crickets? How so?” I asked, priming the pump. It didn’t need much priming.

“I’ve got one in the basement that’s driving me nuts. I can’t find it and it’s making so much noise I can’t get a decent night’s sleep,” explained the Runt, exhibiting the dog weary look of the truly put upon.

“Thum boyth thill need their mommies,” quipped the Moose, the peanut butter, finally losing most of its grip.

“Anyways, I just stubbed my toe, looking for the little beast in the dark,” explained the Runt ignoring Moose’s comment.

“Why the dark? Hydro None have an outage at your place too?” I inquired once again wanting to get all the facts straight.

“No! Because when you turn the lights on it stops chirping and I can’t find it! And I told the missus not to move any of the furniture. It was a domestic trap,” emphasized the Runt, clearly peeved by the lack of sympathy his case was eliciting.

“Why not leave the lights on all the time?” I asked. What good is a reporter if you don’t dig for all the facts?

“You simply have no environmental sensitivity! Think of our grandchildren. Save the planet! Leave the lights on? Really!” the Runt’s response was withering.

Properly chastised, I put my tail between and left. At home I discover power at our house was not out after all, so that hour and a half coffee break wasn’t really all that necessary.

The phone rang. It was a recording. “This is Hydro None. There will be a scheduled power outage from….”

Gracie’s got a ghost

2008-09-05T19:55:00.000-05:00

Every once in a while I roll my carcass out of bed early. Recently it hasn’t been to accompany, my wife, the Pearl of the Orient to the swimming pool, but to wheel my bike around Drizzle Creek in the cool of the early morning… and of course to stop by the Bakery to see what’s new with the early risers.

The early risers are generally made up of an entirely different crew than the regular 9 to 11 coffee break crowd, except for Moose who’s liable to be there most any time. So there’s a whole new pool of debating skills and information to stimulate one’s cranial functions.

This week as I ambled in to the usual chorus of jibes about having ‘overnight accidents’, Grace and Sheila were deep in discussion on the general uselessness of the male of the species, both resenting their spouses who were still asleep while they themselves were out after the almighty dollar.

Grace looked particularly forlorn, and kept rolling her tongue up into one cheek and grumbling.

“You look beat Grace. Grumpier than a bear with a sore tooth,” I observed as Grace rubbed her jaw tenderly.

“Exactly! I’ve got a tooth that’s raising Cain and my appointment isn’t till October. I wish he’d pull ‘em all out!” she harrumphed, taking another slug of coffee and wincing as the hot liquid hit the tender tooth.

“Pull ‘em all out! Why on earth wouldn’t you just get ‘em fixed up and visit the dentist more regularly,” I wondered aloud looking for, and expecting a unique female perspective.

Grace didn’t disappoint.

“Because I hate going to the dentist and if I got them all out, I wouldn’t ever have to go back,” snapped Grace, the sore tooth not improving her demeanor at all.

“Sorry,” she apologized, “But I haven’t been getting a lot of sound sleep lately, what with this tooth and that pesky ghost.”

“Ghost? Tell me more?” I asked as I poured refills and turned on my mental tape recorder. After all it’s important to keep the facts straight.

“ Oh, the ceiling fan kept coming on the other night with no one touching the switch. I was afraid there was a problem with the wiring so Dave crawled around in the attic for an hour and pronounced everything was normal. He didn’t even step through the ceiling drywall, which is surprising as I expected him to double clutch when he ran his head into the shingling nails sticking down through the roof,” snorted Grace, obviously tickled by Dave’s discomfort or imagining him sitting astride a rafter with both his legs hanging through the ceiling.

“Anyways, we always have these strange little things happen and we figure it’s just the ghost of either the long departed Harold or old Frank rattling around the house they occupied in lives passed,” explained Grace as she drained her cup and held it out for a refill after an examination of the clock showed another five minutes before the opening bell.

“I told my house guest about it and she freaked. Let a wail out of her every time the house creaked or a bug hit the screen. Haven’t been able to get a decent night’s sleep for the past week,” moaned Grace before finally rising and heading off to start the sort.

So the next summer night you are cruising through Pinewood in the wee hours and the moon is shining brightly, keep and eye on Grace’s house for something white and ethereal drifting around the vicinity of the swimming pool. It might be a ghost… or maybe just Dave and Grace out taking a late night skinny dip.

The right tool for the job

2008-09-05T19:50:00.001-05:00

The dog days of August are gone and with a nip in the early morning air the usual crowd at the Bakery down in Drizzle Creek had a visible spring in their step as they headed in for the morning debating session. Something was in the air.

A spirited discussion on the purchase of new power tools ensued. With winter closing in, time is getting short to complete those outside projects prior to hibernation and one must have the proper tools. Many a toolbox has suffered considerable attrition since last spring. The Runt lost his rechargeable batteries and flashlight fending off the attack of a vicious garter snake that had crawled out from under the floorboards of his new boat just last week

“Next ones will float,” he said nervously, still rattled from his close call with the deadly viper.

Moose explained he had burnt out his drill batteries during emergency use on his trolling motor and depth finder. When he tried to boost the charge level, they had both exploded ventilating his garage wall. Then Moose being the authourity on most everything started the lecture on the proper selection of a new power tool.

“You make sure your sinuses are clear and then head down to Wally-World. The tool collection is in the back corner, but you must take real care to make sure you get a fresh one. After all those batteries deteriorate if they’ve been sitting around too long,” explained Moose as he sucked the last of the peanut butter out of his teeth, took a final swig of high test from refill # 4 and settled back to imbue us with higher education.

“Pick up the appropriate box and carefully open it close to your head. Quickly inhale the atmosphere making sure to breathe in through the nose and slowly out through the mouth taking care to roll the air thoroughly around the back of your tongue to capture the rich, full bouquet,” he said, demonstrating the appropriate breathing technique.

“You should feel a burning sensation throughout your nasal area, and you eyes should tear up if you get a really good one,” he added with obvious authourity.

“You see all these goods are manufactured overseas, and the shipping containers have to be thoroughly fumigated before they are opened. With a little practice not only can you tell the date of manufacture, and which country it came from, but also the region of that country. A drill from Northern China, has a totally different bouquet than one from the Hong Kong,” Moose concluded, holding out his cup for another refill.

“Sounds like you’ve got it down to a science. How about you come along with me to Wally-World and help me select a new combo power tool set,” suggested the Runt, obviously impressed with Moose’s prowess.

“Sorry no can do,” Moose replied way too quickly.

“Why not? Can’t help out a buddy?” the Runt asked sulkily, his feelings obviously hurt.

“No, no… sure would like to help… but it’s, well… kinda embarrassing…,” stumbled Moose, obviously reluctant to explain, but unwilling to let a buddy think he would let him down.

“Y’ see last week I was down at Wally-World checking out the new tool selection, including freshness checks and I got so into it I didn’t notice these two security dudes watching me, “ he explained, wringing his hands helplessly.

“I guess the fumigant was still a little strong or I was hyperventilating or somethin’ anyways I got a little confused and disoriented so I headed out for some fresh air, a scarce commodity in Fat Frantic that day as the wind was blowing straight from the paper mills,” continued Moose doing his best to avoid getting to the point.

“The missus was with me shopping for some unmentionables, so I detoured through the lingerie section to advise her of my destination, an’ I was in such a fog, without realizing what I was doing, I picked a pair of lace panties up off a display and gave them a thorough sniffin’. Before I could recover, the two security thugs grabbed be and threw me out of the store. Said it was a family store and such perverted behaviour would not be tolerated,” protested Moose, his face blazing red.

The whole debating crew erupted into a cacophony of coughing, spraying and choking as coffee, toast and peanut butter was liberally spattered across the Bakery.

“ All those new tools and I’ve been banned,” whimpered Moose dabbing his face and shirt with a napkin.

Excitement building

2008-08-23T12:54:00.001-05:00

The summer doldrums-heat and humidity- had slowed the pace of things in Drizzle Creek. Down at the Bakery the crew at the debating table was looking for inspiration of any kind to excite their spirits. They were relegated to listening to Moose’s witticisms on tires, troubles and the fairer sex. Even Crawl Space Doug’s ramblings on politics, religion and gay marriage were being given some attention.

We needed a change. Ginty provided it.

“You’ll never believe what we saw coming back from Lake of the Bushes,” he gushed as he pulled up to the table completely out of breath.

“You’re right, I don’t believe you, but do carry on,” shot back Pickle, who after three cups of high test had his nerves tightened to the jangling point.

“We seen a yeti,” gulped Ginty, still out of breath.

“A what-ti?” queried the Runt, who had managed to pull his attention away from trowelling peanut butter onto his toast, to digest the conversation.

“A yeti! A pure white bear… except for his nose,” stated Ginty, a measure of composure returning now that his breathing had calmed.

“ I didn’t know you were on the Churchill run. Thought CN had sold that line,” mused Pickle, holding his cup out for his fourth ‘free’ refill.

“No, no, not Churchill, Not a polar bear. A pure white black bear, in the ditch on our way in from the lake,” protested Ginty, now somewhat put out at the skeptical reception.

“Did you get a picture of it on that new-fangled camera cell phone you’re always bragging about,” wondered the Runt as he polished off his last bite of toast and gazed longingly at the fresh tray of chocolate covered long-johns the baker had dropped on the counter.

“Well now, I never even thought of it. I guess I was too excited,” admitted Ginty, pulling out his phone and fiddling with it trying to figure out how the camera worked.

“You sure this wasn’t a Labatt’s induced vision, Ginty?” jabbed Pickle safely shielded by the Runt’s bulk.

“Siderod seen it too! And since I’ve a bear license, let’s go out and bag it, Pickle,” jabbed back Ginty, ”Or are you not up to it?”

“Me? Why me” gasped Pickle suddenly feeling himself backed into corner.

“Yeah! We’ll rub you down with bacon grease and you can bait him out for us,” explained Ginty. There were murmurs of approval all round the table except for Pickle.

“No, no. You’d be better off to grease down the Runt and use him for a decoy,” protested Pickle, desperately looking for a way off the ropes.

‘The Runt? You gotta be kidding! We want to lure the bear out not scare him off,” scoffed Ginty.

As Pickle’s mind kicked into high gear looking for escape, his cell phone rang and he grabbed it up.

“Hello…… Emergency run to the Peg?….. I’m on my way,” Pickle said, rising from the table, dropping a bill at the cash, and not even waiting for change, rushed out the door, with just a feeble “Sorry” directed at Ginty.

“Say if you’ve got some bacon grease to spare, I could use a couple of pounds,” the Runt proposed to Ginty.

“Why? You really going out after that bear?” Ginty questioned back.

“No seems my new boat (RR Titanic) is a little higher than the old one and I got her stuck in the garage. I bet with a bit of the proper lubricant, I could skid ‘er out without a lot of unnecessary disassembly or damage. Sure would make the Missus happy to have her garage back,” explained the Runt as he accepted another refill.

It was all the inspiration I could stand for one morning. I hurried home to snooze through the heat of the day in the shade out on the deck.

Between the sill and the blind

2008-08-16T08:25:00.001-05:00

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

2008-08-16T08:18:00.001-05:00

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

2008-08-16T08:16:00.000-05:00

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.

Project Planning

2008-07-18T10:52:00.000-05:00

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

2008-07-13T19:45:00.000-05:00

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

2008-07-13T19:44:00.000-05:00

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

2008-07-13T19:42:00.000-05:00

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

2008-07-13T19:41:00.000-05:00

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

2008-07-13T19:39:00.000-05:00

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

2008-07-13T19:37:00.001-05:00

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.

A remote possibility

2008-05-30T14:05:00.001-05:00

I thought the new big screen for Mother’s Day was great idea. My wife, The Pearl of the Orient didn’t even twig to it. Even after watching it for two hours, there was not the slightest glimmer of recognition or appreciation.

And then she saw the new remote.

“What’s that thing for!” she demanded, with scorn generally reserved for a vile serpent.

“It’s just the TV remote,” I replied with equanimity

“NOOO! This is the TV remote!” stated the Pearl forcefully; waving the other new remote we had received two days earlier for the new satellite receiver.

“ Yes,” I replied calmly and clearly, “but that’s for the satellite, not the new TV.”

“What new TV?” questioned the Pearl, her eyes searching every corner of the room but the one where the giant one-eyed monster stood?

Finally cluing in that the only TV in the room was considerably larger, the Pearl uttered a resounding,”Humpff! Now I’ll have to learn how to use another stupid clicker. Dumb TV.”

Why, I wondered did she feel she had to learn to use another remote. After all, The Pearl still had not mastered the previous satellite remote we had owned for the past decade.

“Elliott, this stupid TV won’t work again!” is a fairly common utterance in our household.

Then it struck me- the reason that is, not the remote- for this phenomenon, but my conclusion required more investigation, so I retired to the Bakery, first thing Monday morning. The usual collection of wit and wisdom were seated at the debating table.

“Does anyone else here have a problem with their spouse not knowing how to run the TV remote?” I asked the assembled faces.

“TV and Video Input settings! Simply hasn’t a clue. I fix it at least twice a week,” snorted the Runt as he troweled a half-inch layer of peanut butter on three slices of flaxseed toast. High fibre and Omega 3 fatty acids- the Runt is on a health kick.

“But don’t quote me on that,” he cautioned, shooting hopelessly for continued domestic peace.

Moose, just back from a successful turkey hunt, along with photographic proof (but you know how he likes to use Photoshop) kept his own counsel, not wanting to stir deep waters.

Then Sheila surprised us all by stating it for a fact, she had on occasion had to run home at lunchtime and change the channel for Jack.

So this isn’t a male/female thing after all. It’s simply why bother learning any new tricks if your spouse already knows how to do it. So when the kids leave home, one of you will have to learn how to program the remote.

As for the Pearl and I, I’ve got the TV remote covered. But for the life of me I can’t figure out how dishes are washed the right way, or the proper method of sweeping the floor. And the washing machine- not even a remote possibility

It’s a guy thing

2008-05-23T10:27:00.001-05:00

“Why didn’t you just take it to the garage like I SUGGESTED?” asked my wife, the Pearl of the Orient, as she swathed by abraded knuckles with a layer of bandages. The Pearl is ever ready to remind me of her SUGGESTIONS.

“Don’t forget we’re seniors on fixed income and besides I blew the surplus on that big screen TV for you for Mother’s Day,” I shot back as the pain from the disinfectant sent burning throbs up my arm.

“For me? Yeah, right! I was happy with the old one. Now I have to figure out how to run TWO new remote controls. I was just getting comfortable with the old one (after four years),” snorted the Pearl. There is a remote possibility the Pearl is right, but that’s another whole column.

The latest incident had started as that right of spring came around- switching the snow tires for the summer ones. Since we spend all winter in Florida, I wasn’t even sure why we bother with snow tires, and then I look back on the past two weeks and know. Where is global warming when we really need it!

Besides which, having owned this particular vehicle for about four years it was time I figured out where the jack is. Never know when you might have to change a tire. Particularly since I kicked over that can of drywall screws in the drive way and my little compressor has barely enough wind to blow up a tire with a slow leak. A major hiss and it wouldn’t stand a chance.

I tugged on the grungy old coveralls. The family off mice residing in the pocket scampered down the one leg, only one of them hesitating to nip me before running up the inside of my pant leg. Three good swats ended his upward mobility and the bruises should fade in about a week or so.

Properly attired I dug the summer wheels out of the corner of my neat workshop. The avalanche of tools, lumber, flowerpots, old computers, and plumbing supplies pretty much missed me. The explosion of the old monitors picture tube did add an air of excitement. I’ll clean it up next week- maybe.

Extracting the jack from its storage compartment convinced me of one fact. It was put there as a required option, but was never made to be used- not ever. Automotive design engineers are either the most perverse, masochistic, sadists or have never changed a tire themselves. I have those abraded knuckles to prove it.

Eventually I got it out and even figured which part of the car body you place it under to lift the beast. I looked at the crank and the physical effort it would require. But hey, I have an electric impact wrench that will be much quicker and way easier.

“ Brrrraaaappp!” Down came the jack, pinching my finger in its grip! Through flashes of searing pain, I figured out how to reverse it. “Brrrraaaapppp!” Up it goes. The string of profanity didn’t help ease the pain, but it certainly perked up the ears of the kids at the Day Care next door. Their caregivers rushed them into the sanctity of the shelter. “How come Mr. Elliott uses those funny words?” several of them wondered aloud. Another parent delegation in the offing?

The rest of the operation was rather uneventful, if you don’t count the two times the van tipped off the jack, or the explosion of the compressor tank when I backed over it. I didn’t even bother trying to stow the jack properly. Just tossed it in its compartment where it can rattle away for the next couple of years.

“Well, why didn’t you just take it to the garage and let them do it?” demanded the Pearl for about the sixth time.

I thought long and hard before I offered up the only explanation I knew the Pearl would accept, “You just don’t understand, it’s a guy thing.”

In the heat of the night

2008-05-18T17:26:00.004-05:00

All the best stories are true. My bother-in-law, Ralph Jorgensen, an Albertan, related this unvarnished experience.

The weather was hot and muggy, as only it can be at the centre of the universe---the wife's hometown in Southern Ontario.

"But dear, you'll enjoy it down there. Warm evenings, romantic walks, and gardens… gardens to die for. Perhaps even a few rusty old tractors in fencerows to gloat over. We'll have a wonderful trip."

The last one was a clincher. Anyone can have a garden; just throw some seeds in the dirt, pull a few dandelions, and voila, a garden. But old tractors, they have a siren call and charisma all their own.

We were staying at the sister-in-law's place at John and Main. Insulation hadn't been thought of in the century when her house was built. HEAT was spelled in capital letters.

The bed sheets were clammy. By midnight sleep was still at third base, apparently never wanting to reach home.

I had enough!

I remembered a far, far better place—downstairs on the sofa, under the fan. Numbly I made my way down the steps. Stubbed toes and abraded elbows meant nothing. I was a man on a mission, to find a place with fewer BTU'S.

Cool air wafting from the fan did the job. Heaven on earth! It was here! I lay prone on that wonderful lounge. It was simply bliss. Soon I drifted off to sleep.

Apparently others were suffering from the intense heat as well;

the sister-in-law, for instance. Liz had the same idea, of achieving nirvana in a cooler place---that sofa downstairs under the fan.

Now Liz knows her way around; after all it is her house.

No stubbed toes or skinned knees as she effortlessly and silently glided through the darkness. She reached the sofa and lowered herself.

Liz's bottom and my stubbled face lined up perfectly. It must have been quite a sight, had my eyes been open.

Liz's scream and subsequent levitation startled me into an awareness only available to those who have experienced a vision.

I don't exactly know what height Liz achieved at 1:30 AM that night, but stray bits of hair tangled in the fan overhead made me wonder.

The house now sports a brand new air conditioner.

As well, Liz seems to be recovering from that noticeable stutter.

A reasoned observation

2008-05-06T22:08:00.001-05:00

We've all done it. In the heat of the moment you dash through the washroom door, realizing too late, you're in the wrong department. Your reaction upon seeing the error of your ways is to either make a hasty retreat or carry on and brave out the consequences.

I'm not referring to the deliberate invasion of the men's facilities by the likes of my wife, the Pearl of the Orient. This bold soul's actions are in direct and deliberate response to the architectural community's collective inability to apply time and motion studies to the design and capacity requirements of washrooms for the fairer sex.

Stand in line at the women's washroom and wait? Never!

"Excuse me gentlemen, but I've got to go! Carry on," states the Pearl as she discreetly raises her hand to shield her vision, and boldly bypasses the urinals on her way to the stalls.

The following male experience, however, was a little different.

It is the German Club. Those steins of Oktoberfest suds are demanding release and the only thought on seeing all the stalls and no urinals is, "I guess these Germans do things a little differently." Without reflection or a backwards glance it is a mad dash for the nearest cubicle.

Nature's pressing demands are answered and the relief is most satisfying.

Then the timorous voice from the adjoining stall.

"Elizabeth is that you?" quavers the voice.

"No, I'm down here. Why?" replies Elizabeth from a few feet further on.

"Oh dear! I think there is a man in the stall next to me," answers the voice with some trepidation.

After a moment's silence Elizabeth shoots back, "How do you know it's a man?"

"Well," states the timid, but reasoning voice, "The feet are pointing in the wrong direction."

The Bump

2008-05-04T18:02:00.000-05:00

The Bump

“Ziggy had a bump?” I asked somewhat astonished. It was the first news I had received upon return from a winter in sunnier climes.

Other than that, nothing much had changed as I pulled up a chair at the debating table in the Bakery in Drizzle Creek. Pickle was sucking on a cup of mint tea, while the Runt was chowing down on a couple of cream-filled long-johns. Moose having spent half the day at the table was just taking up space, as he bragged of his skills as a wild turkey stalker in preparation for his annual trip to the Missouri Breaks.

“Yeah, here he comes now. He’ll fill you in on all the details,” Pickle stated as he nibbled on his cookie and Ziggy came striding towards the door, then stopped and retreated to the curb to stomp the mud and barnyard residue from his boots. He is so well trained in that regard The Boss doesn’t even have to wait at the door and take a swing at him with the broom anymore to keep from tracking up the joint.

As he settled at the table he let out a raucous bray and started his tale, “ I tell you, I don’t think it was no bump!”

“I was just getting’ some pain killers fer my back and they insisted on takin’ my blood pressure. It was a little high so they said come back in a week and they’d check ‘er again. So I come back, they checked it again and said I needed an EKG,” snorted Ziggy really into the swing of the tale now.

“An EKG? Is that like when they hook your truck up to the scope at the shop?” interrupted Pickle. Pickle has to distill all information he receives into a comparison of his Ford pickup. It’s the only way he can properly relate.

“Yeah,” snorted Ziggy impatiently, “ and after running a diagnostics on me, they said I was having a bump and needed to get to the hospital right away.”

“I told ‘em I would run right over, but they would have none of it,. Slapped me in a wheel chair, scooted me next door hooked me up to some plumbing and pumped me full of drain cleaner.

“You mean like your fuel injectors were plugged,” quizzed Pickle as he took another nibble of his cookie, and held up his teapot for some more hot water. Pickle likes to squeeze every bit of goodness out of a teabag.

“I don’t know. I was feelin’ fine, but the Doc said my tracings were way off and I was sending out strange electrical impulses. So they got me on the air ambulance and flew me into the Peg for an angio, “ explained Ziggy as he looked longingly at the second chocolate long-john the Runt had just started on.

“Electrical misfire! Maybe you just needed a new set of plug wires?” wondered Pickle as he nibbled cautiously to make sure his cookie lasted to the end of his tea.

“I don’t know. They couldn’t find a thing wrong,” snorted Ziggy, sucking up the last of his coffee.

“I’ll bet they had the firing order wrong. I think you Pine Stump models are wired different than us good Dutch engines,” offered Pickle.

“Whatever! They kept me in the hospital eight days. But the worst thing was nobody visited me the whole time,” Ziggy whimpered as a big tear formed in one eye, ran down his face and plopped into his coffee cup.

“Well I heard you died. Wasn’t much sense in visiting. And to think I wasted all that money on a new suit,” opined the Runt as he licked the last of the chocolate long-john off his fingers and looked jealously at the other half of Pickle’s cookie.

“Yeah, and now I’m on a diet,” whined Ziggy. “I gained 10 lbs in the hospital.”

Then resistance crumbling, he brayed, “Say Val, I’ll have one of those long-johns.”

Hi! How you doing?

2008-01-03T20:15:00.000-06:00

“How you doing? “

It’s a greeting that rolls off our lips without thought or hesitation.

“Fine.” Is the answer we expect. Again without thought or hesitation.

Lawrence Gushulak always replied, “Terrible.”

It was unsettling, My automatic reply of, “That’s great!” caused me a great deal of pain as I managed to bite off and swallow it. I obviously was being set up to see if I was listening to him. But I fought back.

“Hey, you’re looking great, Lawrence.” Was my greeting next time I climbed into the chair for a cut.

“Terrible! How do you want it cut?” replied Lawrence.

“A little more off the top and less off the sides, than last time,” I answered.

Lawrence proceeded to cut it exactly the same as he had for the previous 15 years. He wasn’t listening either.

It’s amazing the automatic responses we issue, through habit or training without paying the slightest thought or heed to the responses.

“What would you like for dinner?” quizzes my wife, the Pearl of the Orient on a semi-regular basis?”

“How about a nice stir-fry with rice,” I reply absently without pulling my eyes away from the computer screen.

“Do you want mashed or baked potatoes, with the pork chops?” she asks back.

“Yes, and gravy with the roast beef, would be great,” I add.

We enjoyed the poached eggs on whole-wheat toast.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” is a favourite at the checkout counter.

A response of “No..” often as not will result in a blank stare, “That’ll be 15.99. Plastic or paper?”

On a rare occasion you might get an, “Oh! What can I help you with?”

An excellent opportunity to drop a preprogrammed wisecrack. But beware!

“Strength and inspiration,” is a favourite response of David, the proprietor of Fresh Coffee and Hot Beignets (are they ever good!) in Panama City Beach.

The blank stare and dropped jaw are occasionally replaced by, “I’m sorry we’re out of stock,” or “Perhaps some Preparation H would do. Would you like a 4 oz tube or a box of suppositories? You obviously need some”

Moe’s best response is, “ No, I can’t find that $20 bill I dropped here yesterday.”

“One sharp clerk replied, “O yes, I found it. I used it to buy lunch. It was delicious. Thank you so much.”

So, how’re ya doing anyways?

There goes Santa Claus

2007-12-24T14:30:00.001-06:00

Some of our most vivid memories are of childhood events. We old codgers may not be able to remember what we had for breakfast, but can recall every detail of our first Christmas concert.

At my first, I was a bumblebee. We each had cardboard cutouts we coloured black and yellow ourselves. We held them up in up in front of us and danced in a line across the stage. It was exciting. Half way through the song I remember grabbing myself and promptly peeing my pants. The appreciation of this performance was startling- the attendant roar of laughter and applause was deafening.

It was like yesterday. Hmmmm, what’s that dampness? Maybe it was….

Marlin Cowser of Colorado and a part time resident of Morley was relating his most memorable childhood Christmas memory.

As a small child on the farm, my father and grandfather were always up early and out to the barn to milk the cows. Christmas morning was no exception and I remember one Christmas like it was yesterday. Some cattle had broken out of the barnyard, and like a bunch of rambunctious kids on a spree, had run up by the house knocking a couple pickets off the fence while jumping it, tore across the fresh snow of the front yard, and escaped into the field.

Grandpa and Dad had routinely got them back into the barnyard, but then Grandpa rushed back in the house, delivering the exciting news to the grandkids.

“Quick, Santa Claus and his reindeer, just crossed the front yard! You can see their tracks and where they hit the fence and if you hurry you might still be able to see them going across the field!” he exclaimed.

In bare feet and pyjamas we all rushed out into the snow and sure enough, there were the fresh tracks and damaged fence. To this day I am absolutely certain we all glimpsed the team, sleigh, and driver disappearing over the last hill.

Hope your Christmas was happy and you received a few nuts in your stocking. See you in 08!

The Mouser

2007-12-18T19:59:00.000-06:00

When Pat, Roger and family moved into the summer cottage converted into a year round house, a good portion of the local mouse population moved in as well. It’s nearly impossible to make a tight, new home, mouse proof. An old house is like grand central station for the residents of Mouseville. To say these extra residents were straining marital relations was an understatement.

“Roger, you do something about these @#$% mice, or I’m leaving,” was the final ultimatum screamed by Pat when a mouse scampered across her leg as she relaxed on the couch in front of the TV one night.

So Roger reluctantly stirred his brain cells and considered his options.

Poison? No, too many kids and dogs around, besides the litter of victims would probably get pretty smelly.

Traps? No, too many tender toes, especially his own; besides you had to set traps and then empty them. Something Roger’s frayed nerves might have trouble with. And how could you get a decent night's sleep, when just after you doze off, the darkness is punctuated by, “SNAP!”

A cat! The perfect answer! Automatic, self-cleaning, and zero maintenance considering the mouse population.

Tabby arrived the next day and within minutes had nailed her first mouse. One down, about a million to go!

And Tabby had a built in fan club. Pat was thrilled, Roger was relieved, and the girls were happy with a new pet. Jay at 18 months was enthralled!

His cheering for the new hero was vocalized as only, “Unnh, unnh, Unnh! Kitty!” as he observed and excitedly jumped up and down at each new capture and consumption of the rodent population. If the Bombers had fans that enthusiastic, they’d win the Grey Cup for sure.

All was well with the world until that fateful day.

Pat entered the living room, where Jay was sitting in the middle of the floor. The cat was excitedly tearing around and around him obviously searching for an escaped mouse.

In horror, Pat rushed to pick up Jay knowing the cat’s latest victim was hiding somewhere under or on his person.

Pat stooped, reached out, focused, and then froze. There was the mouse, at least the hindquarters and the tail, all which was visible, dangling from Jay’s smiling mouth. Jay had figured, what’s good for the cat is good for the kid!

Pat freaked! She couldn’t bear to touch the mouse.

“Spit it out, Jay! Dirty! Spit it out!” she screamed in panic.

Jay grinned, clenched his newly sprouted teeth and shook his head, "No!"

The mouse’s tail twitched and its hind legs kicked futilely.

The cat continued tearing around Jay looking for its lost snack.

Eventually Jay gave up his prize, the cat regained his, and Pat after disinfecting Jay, and pouring herself a stiff drink, managed a motherly kiss.

This all happened over twenty years ago. Jay is happy, healthy, and married. No word on whether his bride kisses him with her eyes closed. Pat still shudders.

But Jay, Farley Mowat would be proud of you!

This is a rewrite of the first Squirrel Pie originally published 14 years ago. It is a true story.

Trust me, Dear

2007-12-13T09:46:00.000-06:00

Marriages are built on trust. That is you can trust your spouse is lying to you and you just have to know how much, so you can lie in return at an appropriate level. That’s how it works with my wife, The Pearl of the Orient and me.

For example, when we pack the van for our winter migration south, it’s up to the Pearl to lie to me about the volume of items we have to take with us and it’s up to yours truly to lie to her about how much will actually fit in the van and still leave room for the driver and one passenger.

The Pearl understanding this will confidently lie, “There’s only a couple more bags, Jack,” Meanwhile she drags four more oversized cases out of the attic for a few ‘extras’.

Understanding this when the van is 1/3 full, I warn the Pearl, “Gad! I doubt I can squeeze in more than three more items.”

“Well you’ll just have to leave some of your computer and camera junk behind,” she shoots back. This woman fights dirty, but I know a trick or two and deliver a really low blow.

“But I need all that stuff so I can work on our IT return so we’ll have it all finished long before we get back and there’ll be no danger of the government bureaucraps bugging us.” I explain. The Pearl is terrified of government bureaucraps. It works like a charm.

And so it goes, I pile and re-pile the boxes and bags. The springs on the van bottom out and the tires squat. Another 10 pounds of air pressure in the rear tires solves part of the problem, but the low beams will still be aimed about right for coon hunting.

Finally with six inches of clearance on the top of the stack and the backseat crammed, the Pearl announces we are finally finished, “except for a few more clothes and a couple of bags I’ll put by my feet.”

My only concern is the stack of boxes and crates piled over the top of the rear seat. If we ever have to hit the brakes, risk of an avalanche decapitating both of us is very real. Maybe I’ll bolt the two opposing seat belts together as a safety cable? Hmmm?

I wander back in the house to get the last “two small bags” of clothes. There they are lying on the bed. Two plastic bags, each the size of a small beached whale.

“Are you crazy? I’ll never get those two bags stuffed in that little space on top,” I moan as another muscle spasm races across my already insulted back.

“Oh nothing to it. Watch this,” breezes the Pearl as she cranks up the shop vac and applies the suction to a valve on one of the bags. In about thirty seconds it’s sucked down flatter than a pancake- four feet by six feet, by three inches. The second bag gets the same treatment and my mouth drops open in complete surprise.

“Whaddya know! Cryovac’d underwear!” I murmur admitting the Pearl has come up with a neat trick.

I lug the flap jacks out to the van and as best I can, stuff them into the last remaining space. It’s a tight fit, but I get them both in and slam the tail gate. I push the tops of both bags behind the seat to one side to put in one more piece of computer equipment. They both catch on a hanger sticking up out of one box.

“POP!” is followed by a larger “Whhosh!” as a giant sucking sound makes my eardrums pop.

The bags expand like a bloated carcass lying in the hot sun for a couple of days, but in a period of about two seconds.

They expand up against the roof and the metal strains and snaps a bit to accommodate the pressure. My formerly cryovac’d underwear suddenly takes on a more normal shape, but seems to be handling the strain.

With a good deal of trepidation I gently poke the now straining plastic . It holds. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least now I won’t have to worry about that load shifting.

Now if only the Customs Officer doesn’t insist on doing an in depth inspection we’re good to go. As for flat tires, who needs a spare. Might as well use that Auto Club Insurance we paid for.

Danger amongst the English

2007-12-04T14:38:00.000-06:00

When I arrived for the Koffee Klatch at the Mall food court, it was like viewing a UN collection of the walking wounded- literally. The group clustered around the table in dragged up chairs were liberally attired in assorted slings, braces, and bandages.

“W-w-what happened?” I sputtered in amazement as ten pairs of eyes turned my way and a half-hearted shuffling of chairs made room for my own.

“Well Matey, it’s like this, bloody chain reaction collision, when I slowed on that ‘ard-left turn down by Sears,” snorted Clive in a broad Cockney accent as he twirled the ends of his waxed handlebar mustache and adjusted his knee brace

“Yeah, Mon, den w'en I was lookin’ I plumb rear-ended him an’ hit de wall,” continued Henry in his best Caribbean twang, as he massaged the bump on his head swathed in a white bandage.

“Ya, and Nick and me, vee side swiped both ‘dose guys an’ spin outta ‘trol. Smash to bits, by Yiminy!” spouted Ole in his broad Swedish singsong, hoisting his leg cast into a more comfortable position on the adjoining chair. Nick just shook his head in agreement and finished adjusting his new crutches.

“Mamamia! She wassa disaster. I a never a see any a t’ing lika it since de cementa truck tippa over ona da Fiat!” roared Tony, his hands flying faster than his lips, drawing a virtual picture of the mayhem, while sporting a black eye and attendant contusions.

The only one of the group that seemed unscathed was Anson, the group’s soul Amish component. Anson had spent a lifetime as a hard-working farmer, faithful to the Amish creed of worship and shunning the modern world. But urban sprawl had overtaken him and when his farm was expropriated for a new interchange, Anson caved in – sort of. Since his kids were all grown and had moved onto farms of their own. Being a great believer in character developed by independence, rather than risking spoiling the family, Anson deposited the cash into a charitable trust. He was now living frugally, but comfortably, off a small portion of the interest. Electric heat, hot water, and indoor plumbing at the retirement home weren’t all that sinful after all, he had decided.

“Boy that’s some accident! What did the cars look like? Must’a been lots of damage,” I speculated, imagining the carnage unveiling in squealing tires and crunching metal.

“Cars? What bloody cars?” roared Clive, wincing in pain at the sudden movement.

“W-w-whaddya mean?” I stuttered in stunned puzzlement.

“Mamamia! It a was a right a here in a de Mall when a we was a walking!” roared an exasperated Tony his hands flailing even more wildly.

“Yeah Mon, dat new kiosk by Sears has got dis bodacious mango runnin’ it and she was jes’ openin’ fer de day,” explained Henry his face beaming in remembrance.

“Ooo la la!” spouted Pierre, “What de sight w’en she bend over jes’ when Clive come ‘round de corner.”

“Uffda! First dat sight and den der vas bodies pil’ up all over de place. Tak’ an hour for de ambulance and de paramedics to untangle us all. Uffda!” emphasized Ole as he passed the felt pen to another onlooker to autograph his cast. Nick remained silent and looked more morose than ever.

“How did you avoid the disaster?” I asked Anson the only apparently uninjured member of the Klatch.

Anson slowly turned his long aquiline face towards me, gazing out of sad, brown eyes. There was the only one thing he regretted leaving behind on the farm- his horses. A lifelong love of smart stepping buggy horses had left even his face resembling a horse, a little.

Picking up his hat, he demonstrated his city traffic adaptation. A set of blinders folded down from the crown to the sides effectively narrowing his vision to straight ahead.

“My wife, Sarah, rigged up this bridle for me,” he explained as he rose, donning his hat, and adjusting the blinders.

Then as he eased out into the traffic of other mall walkers, he nickered softly, “After all it’s dangerous out here amongst the English.”

Economic opportunities

2007-11-27T21:07:00.000-06:00

It wasn’t immediately clear if the Bakery in Drizzle Creek was using a new brand of sugar or the coffee had an extra jolt of caffeine, but something was definitely altered at the debating table the other day. The topic had switched from splitting wood to splitting hairs- on the proper design and deployment of ice fishing accommodations.

Pickle was describing his new ultra light fishing mansion- wooden, of course- when the topic of what constituted the proper amenities for an ice shack might be. After the usual discussion of heaters, hole augers, and benches was exhausted, someone raised the ugly subject of – dare we say it- waste disposal.

Immediately Ike put in his suggestion.

“The thing is,” he bubbled, “I’m offering a new hat with a weather vane, so you can safely, without accident, determine wind direction, early in the operation.”

“You know it’s a wonder Natural Resources, don’t clamp down on all that yellow ice out there,” wondered Alvin, fresh in from a summer at the cottage and once more suffering from the restrictions town society placed on the free expression of an individual when it comes to answering the call of nature in the middle of the front yard.

“Next thing you know they’ll be making them put port-a-potties outside every fish shack on the river,” I observed absently as I dreamed of the white sand Florida beaches beckoning me. One more week, I thought.

There was a pause in the discussion, then the veritable torrent of ideas washed across the table.

“The thing is, we could manufacture a whole line of them right here in Rainy River. We’ve got that vacant plant sitting there just waiting for an opportunity,” gushed Ike, literally bouncing on his chair.

“And the thing is, we’ll have to get the CAD system going to design a few different models,” he added, his trembling hand proffering his cup for a refill of high test.

“Yes, you’ll have to offer a high end model, with lots of options, just like the auto dealers. It’s where the money is.” opined the Runt who has spent the last week drooling over a new pickup with all the bells and whistles.

“Heated suede seats, maybe even wireless, high speed internet, for those of us who wish to contemplate and surf the net simultaneously,” he added.

“Branding is the important thing. You need a really catchy name, if you expect to corner the market,” counseled Alvin.

“And I think, I’ve got just the ticket- The Drizzle Creek Long Drop. Just enough mystery and international flavour, to achieve good market domination,” he concluded leaning back triumphantly.

When you think of the economic impact such an industry could have it’s a wonder no one has thought of it earlier. Why Bull Elk down in Hooterville might have to put on a couple extra sewer sucker trucks, locally, just to handle the volume. The OSB in the Bailiwick could put on an extra shift for panel production and Bucky could fire up two, if not all three of his NWO sawmills to produce the dimension lumber. Definitely an economic development idea whose time has come.

“The thing is, all we need now is some investors,” advised Ike.

Cash! Thousand dollar bills in plain brown envelopes. If its good enough for Mulroney, its good enough for the Drizzle Creek Long Drop.

I might even come back from Florida to pick up my cut.

Splinters and Slivers

2007-11-20T20:20:00.000-06:00

With the season’s new hunting lies… er reports, pretty much exhausted, discussion at the debating table in the Bakery at Drizzle Creek turned to more mundane and practical issues- getting the firewood pile up to snuff.

Dennis swept the hair hanging in his eyes back over his forehead and confidently bragged he had the issue all solved with his automatic wood splitter

“Bought a new splitting mall with a fiberglass handle, for the Little Woman,” he stated as he sucked in another mouthful of high test and then looked cautiously over his shoulder to make sure there were no tale carriers within earshot who might report his musings to the wrong source. Sorry Dennis.

Then Pickle who is a self confessed expert on all things wooden, launched into an enthusiastic description of his new wood splitter, his most recent treasure from the last auction sale.

“I tell you, you can hardly believe how slick it works,” he explained, waving his toast around, splattering peanut butter and jam on his neighbours.

“Easy! Easy!” caution Kayak as he dabbed the condiments off his sleeve, then polished his fingers with a quick lick.

Pausing only to bite, chew, slurp and swallow Pickle continued, “ She’s got these two rollers you just drive one rear wheel of your vehicle on, slap her in gear, and it drives this big tapered screw. You slap the edge of a block of wood up against the end of that screw and she pulls herself into the wood, splitting it slicker ‘n a whistle.”

Incredulous glances were exchanged around the table as Pickle pushed back from the table to grab the coffee pot and make the refill rounds. As he settled back into his spot, a barrage of questions greeted him.

“How does she handle that twisty old elm?” wondered Kayak.

“Isn’t it dangerous? Remember, safety first” quizzed Ike.

“What kind of gas mileage do you get during that operation?” asked Wally.

“How much power does it take? Can you use a front wheel drive?” added Steve.

“One at a time,” ordered Pickle holding up a firm hand, before answering the torrent.

“Yes it splits that old, twisty elm. Just give ‘er a little more throttle,” he stated with authority.

“Danger is relative. Just look at what happened to Ziggy when he tried swinging a splitting mall under the clothesline. It bounced back, broke his jaw, and stopped him from laughing and talking for better than two weeks,” advised Pickle, pausing as the whole table reflected on that period of unusual silence.

“I don’t see a single reason why you couldn’t run ‘er with the front wheel drive car,” advised Pickle sagely.

“Whoa! Don’t try it with a car with traction control. She’ll kick in and take off an’ you might have to skid ‘er outta the creek or you may even put it through the wall of the garage,” warned Dennis, his mechanical prowess coming to the forefront.

“Hmmm. Never thought of that,” mused Pickle, “ My kid brother Gherkin at Hooterville was going to try it today with his 4-wheel drive, and I think he’s got posi-trak in that rear diff.”

“I better scoot out there before he takes out the dairy barn and half the herd,” he stated, hurriedly pushing back his chair, and exiting the Bakery. Was he worried about a few stray splinters from his new wood splitter?

Dangerous waters- the gene pool

2007-11-16T15:52:00.000-06:00

“Grandchildren are God’s gift to grandparents for not killing their own young,” is a truism advancing years and an expanding gene pool have made evident to the Pearl and me. And since our own personal gene pool exists in a rather remote location, a trip there takes considerable planning and training.

First on the list is preparing said gene pool to properly appreciate our visit by whipping them into a frenzy of anticipation. This is best undertaken by a phone call just before bedtime after the waters of said pool have been calmed for the evening. Preferably during the middle of a favourite adult TV program or the dying minutes of a tied, first-half of a Minnesota Vikings game. The groan on the other end is almost palpable.

“I’ve just got them settled in for the night! Why can’t you phone earlier- like when I’m still at work,” suggests a surly son, in a voice usually reserved for telemarketers.

But in the background excited twitters and chirps break in, “Is that Lala and Papa? How many more sleeps ‘til they get here? Lala, I want a Barbie an’ Chloe wants a Cinderella! ‘Kay, Lala! How many more sleeps? Jus’ ‘free?

“An’ Lala, you bring some of your special cookies an’ Papa gots to bring all his tools cause Mom wants him to fix the bathroom an’ build us a swing an’ a doll house, an’ to take his ‘lergy pills cause we gots a new cat!”

“Well we’ll just do all that and have lots and lots of fun,” enthuses Lala.

The groan at this end of the line – mine- is palpable, as I anticipate an already aching back and raging sinuses.

Four days later we arrive. Little heads are peering excitedly out of the window. Fifteen minutes later the living room is strewn with dolls and wrapping paper, the cookies have evaporated, and the contagion the gene pool has brought home from school that very day has been passed on with a multitude of delightful, slobbery kisses. The cat has come out of hiding just long enough to shed on my pillow, and snarl viciously at me before attacking my big toe. I yowl. The Pearl admonishes me and directs me not to be such a big sissy.

I relax on the couch, to relieve my jangled nerves from the last eight hours of freeway traffic. I drift off for a couple of minutes, only to be awakened by a bundle being plopped onto my chest.

“Papa, this is my new kitty, Midnight. She’s a boy cat and is very nice” Chloe informs me. Midnight fixes me with a hellish stare and then realizing he might be in mortal peril, demonstrates he has not been declawed, digs in and launches himself from my chest clear over to the adjoining chair where he turns to give me a final hiss before retreating underneath the furniture to plan a further ambush. I sneeze.

After supper Junior goes over the construction plans and then reluctantly and woefully hands over his Home Depot Credit card with this advice, “Geez, Dad take it easy, eh? I just got your last visit paid off!”

So we took it easy and after two weeks we’re exhausted. Delightfully so. The morning patter of little feet across our bedroom floor and giggles as they tickle the ‘sleeping Papa’s’ feet, is too soon over. The top question from the early morning snugglers was a quizzical, “Papa, how come you gots fur on your back?”

Tomorrow morning we leave, but with an unexpected benefit. Emily came home from school today with a fever, spots, and the verdict, chicken pox.

“Great for you old folks,” proclaims the Doc, “Challenge your immune system and boost your resistance to shingles.”

“But I haven’t even planned any roofing projects,” I stammered.

When you’re right, you’re wrong

2007-11-08T06:55:00.000-06:00

There is only one thing more satisfying to a woman than being right.

That is in the process of being right, she proves her husband is wrong.

I know this to be the truth. I’m a husband.

Brian and Evie were off for a short drive.

“Did you lock the front door, Brian?” quizzed Evie after Brian had belted himself in, checked both his mirrors, and began reversing out of the driveway.

“Yes dear,” he replied.

“Better go back and check,” suggested Evie.

“Yes dear,” answered Brian, realizing arguing would be fruitless. He slipped the vehicle back in park, undid his belt, and skipped up the walk, double locked the front door, and hurried back to the car.

“Satisfied?” he inquired with an air of pained, all-enduring suffering.

“Better safe than sorry,” replied Evie just as smugly. “By the way, you’d better do up your seat belt or you’ll get a ticket.”

“Can’t. It’s jammed. See,” said Brian, pulling half-heartedly at the offending device.

“Better pull over and fix it now. Better safe than sorry,” reaffirmed Evie.

“Naw, I’ll fix it when we get to the mall,” replied Brian stubbornly.

As they pulled up to the first red light, Evie advised, “Brian, there’s a policeman right behind you. You’d better put that seat belt on right now or he’ll give you a ticket.”

“Naw. Maybe he can’t see I don’t have it on and if I grab for it now, he’ll see I haven’t got it on and give me a ticket. We’ll just play it cool,” breezed Brian as he pulled away on the green.

“I tell you, he looks peeved. You’d better put on your seat belt,” insisted Evie as she peered worriedly over her shoulder and Brian pulled up to the next red light.

“And I tell you I can’t, it’s jammed,” repeated Brian as he again pulled futilely on the offending belt, which to his surprise now popped loose.

“There! Put it on,” ordered Evie as the light turned green.

“Can’t. We’re moving. Wouldn’t be safe," insisted Brian as he jack-rabbitted away from the light.

“It would serve you right if he pulls you over and gives you a ticket right now,” scolded Evie as Brian pulled up to the third red light.

“Not a chance. We’ll be at the mall in half a block and we’re home free,” chortled Brian with glee as he roared away on the green.

Just through the intersection, the lights on the cruiser flashed on and the siren wailed a warning blast. With a sigh, Brian pulled to curb.

“See, I told you,” stated a smug Evie as the she crossed her arms in triumph.

“Sir, I gave you every opportunity--three lights--to put on your seatbelt. But in spite of that you kept flaunting the law,” lectured the officer. “And as for those jack-rabbit starts, I’m afraid I’m going to have to issue you a citation.

“Why couldn’t you respect the law like the lady there with her seat belt securely fastened?” he continued.

“I warned him, officer. I told him to do it up,” chirped Evie, glowing with the pride of righteous vindication.

As Brian shoved his registration, insurance, and driver's licence through the window, he couldn’t resist the retort, “Here! Just shut up and give me the ticket.”

Jumping to conclusions:

2007-10-31T10:14:00.000-05:00

Jumping to conclusions is not only unfair to the other party; it can also be downright dangerous. Recently my wife, the Pearl of the Orient jumped to two conclusions. First she concluded the wet pool floor was not slippery, and second that jumping into the concrete block wall would not be too hard on her head. She was wrong on both counts.

This started off a whole chain of conclusion jumping as, post incident, we walked down the street, the Pearl with her beautiful shiner that no amount of makeup could disguise. When approaching pedestrians got close enough to focus on the damage they had two immediate reactions. The first was a look of horror at the obvious damage, followed immediately by a palpable cry of empathy.

The third reaction- the jump to a conclusion- was when they immediately focused on me with a mixed look of anger, disgust, and downright loathing. That many eyes were shooting bolts of male-disintegrating rays wouldn’t be stretching the truth.

Before any of them had a chance to swing back a purse for a whack at me, or run me through with an umbrella, I threw up my hands in protest, and cut them off at the pass with a forceful, “Not my fault! Not guilty!”

That I was not the perpetrator of this insult to the Pearl’ s person should have been immediately obvious to any reasoning person; a, I was not incarcerated and b, I was still alive. Had I been guilty, the cops would have had me in protective custody, if I were lucky enough to escape the Pearl’s scalpel skills prior to their intervention.

But even I jump to conclusions occasionally. Like when I’m making the midnight dash for the bathroom and get tangled up in the electric blanket cord that sneaks out from the foot of the bed. Or when the desk chair mysteriously works its way out from the desk to kiss my little toe as I try to sneak quietly into the bed. Or that closet door that mysteriously swings open in the dark, unobserved until I walk smack into it. I immediately and vocally jump to the conclusion the Pearl is just being careless, but then maybe she’s just trying to send me a message. Hmmmm?

On area highways, this autumn, there’s been quite a bit of jumping to conclusions. The other night Moe concluded he could drive home safely in the dark from the ‘Peg. The terrorist deer jumped from the ditch. Moe jumped on the brakes. The bumper and attendant plastic and sheet metal jumped into the radiator. The air bags jumped from the dash.

The conclusion: The deer was dead. The van was dead. Moe was flabbergasted. The tow truck and body shop operators were delighted. The insurance company was disgusted.

But Giggles was philosophical. She mused,” I hadn’t really bonded with that van yet, so I don’t feel too bad about it. And besides the weather is still so nice, it would be a shame to head for Florida just yet.”

In your sights

2007-10-23T16:26:00.000-05:00

It’s that time of the year. Autumn leaves, crisp mornings and the male of the species at his arrogant peak. Steam spouts from his nostrils into the frosty air as he paws the earth. He bellows forth his challenge and strides both boldly yet cautiously through the forest, to meet the challenges of the season. Testosterone levels are at their peak. Caution is thrown to the wind as the presence of a challenger to their dominance is sensed.

Just to clear up any confusion, I’m not talking about a trophy bull moose or a 12-point buck. I’m describing the behaviour of the great white (or any other shade) hunter. In Drizzle Creek, they stride confidently into the Bakery, most any hour of the day, decked out in their blaze orange togs, except for the crafty bow hunter in full camouflage.

Shuffling up to the debating table, their arrogance, pre or post hunt is only distinguishable by the odor or lack thereof that only a week in a hunting camp can instill.

Pickle, who was full 21 years of age before he realized you could shoot a deer other than at night and without a flashlight, was cool and nonchalant.

“A bull and a calf, of course. It’s all we had tags for” he offers, off-hand, before launching into a half hour speech on the wile and cunning required to bag the trophies. Pickle has become a pillar of sportsmanship and now follows all hunting regulations to a T. After all his brother and hunting partner is a game warden.

When snorts of disbelief greeted some of his details, he hesitated not a whit.

“Well what part of my story didn’t you like anyways? Tell me and I’ll change it,” he offered as he sucked in another mouthful of hi-test.

Pickle had to take this tack as his fishing partner; the Runt no longer hunts and couldn’t vouch for him. Recent reports of Sasquatch sighting have some what unnerved The Runt and although there is no official season on them, he is concerned some wild hunter on an adrenalin high, might mistake him for the legendary bigfoot and drop him while he was innocently sitting on a stump in the cut.

“I’m just to close to the pension, to be taking those kind of risks,” he philosophized, as he ordered up a second serving of flaxseed toast and peanut butter.

Personally, even yours truly joined the hunt this year, after an absence of several seasons. On the first morning in camp, Norm and Rick took me for a Hollywood Hunt- cruising the bush roads in a vehicle- while they explained what areas they would push the following day and where marksmen would be posted.

As I am slow and old, as well as a questionable shot, I was crammed into the centre of the front bench with Rick and Norm on the doors, ready to jump out in a split second and drop any trophy unlucky enough to show itself.

“Now remember we only have bull tags so be really careful. NO COWS!” emphasized Norm for about the 20^th time as we bounced along rut and pothole heaven.

“Now we’ll push in from that ridge on the other side of the swamp and maybe we’ll scare up a moose. If you post along here you could get a good shot at a…MOOSE!” exclaimed Norm as the truck bounced over another rock and skidded to a halt.

“Look there! Just 100 yards!" he whispered at about 100 decibels as he and Rick piled out of the truck, simultaneously slamming clips into their rifles. I followed behind trying to untangle by legs from the gearshift and the binocular strap, eventually making it to a firing location. I loaded up but didn’t lift the scope. I’d leave this one to the professionals.

“ Has it got horns? Has it got horns? Has it got hhhhh-horns?” stammered Norm as he whipped back the bolt to chamber a shell. Too late he remembered he’d disassembled his rifle the prior evening, and forgotten to re-insert the bolt-retaining pin. He whipped the bolt clear out of the rifle a good two feet. An arc of shells sprayed up out of the clip and descended into a mud puddle.

He scrambled to reassemble and reload, all the while asking, “Has it got horns? Has it got horns? Has it got hhhh-horns?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see it!” exclaimed Rick who was trying to peer through his scope. Then realizing he still had the lens covers on, snorted in disgust and sent them flying into the mud puddle.

The moose determined to win a Darwin award waited patiently.

Finally Norm had his rifle reassembled and aimed. Rick had his scope focused on target.

“Has he got horns?” Norm asked once more.

“Yes! Positively” replied Rick firmly.

“Well shoot it then, d@#$#% !” exploded Norm.

BOOM! BOOM! We had meat.

Now if there’s some part of my story you don’t like, well tell me about it and I’ll change it

Invasion of the carcass carters

2007-10-16T21:15:00.000-05:00

Undoubtedly you noticed the strange creatures skulking around the bus stations and airports over Thanksgiving- those wasted looking souls with the strange haunted looks. Not vagrants or terrorists, they’re just first Year University and College students returning home for a substantial home cooked meal.

“I ate the last of the cereal this morning,” moans one waif to another. “There was no milk, so I used the rest of the Kool Aid.”

It’s kind of like when the young cheetahs of the Kalahari are kicked out on their own and find making a kill is quite a bit more difficult than when Mom used to serve it up, steaming hot and plentiful.

And so they arrived Friday and Saturday, tumbling off buses and out of packed student cars. Their knapsacks loaded down with books and pending assignments due early the next week. The garbage bag slung over their shoulder is stuffed with six weeks laundry. They stagger to the door where a beaming Mom waits in her empty nest.

“Hi, what’s for supper?” is the greeting as Junior hands the laundry bag to Mom, and then his eyes light up,” What’s that I smell? Is it ready yet?”

Within a half hour every plate on the table is licked clean. Mom beams. Dad looks at the empty pot roast platter. No snack tonight. A cavernous voice echoes from the vicinity of the fridge, where a skinny butt protrudes, “Hey Dad, I need the car for a while, ‘kay?”

And so the weekend goes. Eat, sleep and prowl. These wild critters are clearly not domesticatable. Never a book is cracked, nor a pen put to paper on those pending assignments. But the computer does get used. Dad had spent a month of evenings and two hundred bucks freeing it of viruses and spyware so it would even work again. Within 24 hours, Junior has it once again plugged full of downloads, including the latest bugs.

“Dad, I think you need a new hard drive, this one’s way too slow.” advises Junior condescendingly.

Monday afternoon, Junior's ride shows up at the door as he wolfs down the last of his Thanksgiving dinner, including the better part of a monster turkey.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Mom sniffles, and presses a care package on Junior who is trying to balance the last quarter of the pumpkin pie in one hand while stuffing a drumstick in his knapsack.

Dad looks out the door and asks, “Where’s MY car?”

“Oh it’s parked down the street a few blocks,” breezes Junior as he stuffs the garbage bag of now clean laundry, gratis Mom, into the already overstuffed trunk, sitting on the lid to force it closed.

“It’s just out of gas, but no problem, I just walked home. Here’s the keys,” he reassures offering a quick hug- not too long, maturity is still a few years off.

Into the car and they’re off. Mom sniffs. Dad sighs and gets out the lawnmower gas can.

In the car, Junior digs out the drumstick and begins to gnaw. “Anyone get that assignment done?”

A chorus of snickers and ‘”yeah, right!”s rumbles around the interior with a final reply, “Trade you a piece of pie for the rest of that drumstick.”

Your own space

2007-10-08T19:29:00.000-05:00

Your own space

If you ever worked with animals, protocols for space are very evident and they change depending on the situation. Cattle are real social animals. Just watch them during the hot weather when they are free to roam the pasture at will.

When they head in for a drink, there is all kinds of pushing, jostling, and impatience to get at the water. The bullies slake their thirst first and then try to keep the meeker members of the herd from the trough, but eventually relent and everyone gets a drink.

Same thing for grazing. Everyone eats at the same time- no alternating, or working in shifts. Every critter is just well enough spaced to stay out of horn range of its neighbour. About the only time the herd will crowd together without friction is when the flies are really bad and they swish tails for mutual benefit.

People on the other hand being sane, reasonable, highly intelligent creatures are not prone to such foolish "space" issues, right? Wrong!!!

Marital space for instance. Early on, there isn't any. You just can't get close enough. But as passions cool, your own side of the bed, your pillow, and your stuff become increasingly important.

Tolerant phrases like, "Whatever you say Dear," are replaced by the likes of, "You threw out my what? Are you crazy?"

In time however, you reach understandings on "space", Just like the Pearl of the Orient and I have. She stays out of my office and I stay out of her lingerie. A very sensible arrangement.

In the coffee shop, where males congregate to tell the latest lies- with the female we call it gossip- personal space issues are a socialized ritual.

Down in Hooterville at the cafe it is called the Hooterville Hop. In Drizzle Creek at the Bakery it is called the Chair Shuffle.

At the Bakery tables are grouped to hold parties of four except for one larger one serving as the discussion group area- the debating table. This debating table is generally habituated totally by males.

Drizzle Creek males in their blissful ignorance, consider themselves one of the last great bastions of sexism and chauvinism, remaining in all of North America. Employment equity is unheard of. Equality of the sexes is not even open to discussion. The females know they are superior and see no reason to come down to the male level.

Observing the "space" quirks of the Drizzle Creek males is quite a unique experience.

The normal six seats at the forum table are quickly filled, but others crowd up to the table and the "Chair Shuffle" gets under way. This is an almost unconscious act of automatically adjusting the space between table members.

You don't just get up and move your chair. The "Shuffle" involves special technique and skills.

The Drizzle Creek male generally sits down by grabbing the crotch of his pants, hoisting it up to ensure there is plenty of free room or perhaps just to reaffirm his masculinity. Then he swings his leg over the back of the chair, before he lowers his butt.

Once lowered, his hand transfers from his pants crotch to the seat of the chair between his legs. He then lifts up on the chair and proceeds to manoeuvre his chair in short rapid hops to his proper position at the table.

As if on cue other males at the table automatically grab the seat of their own chairs, and eyes quickly darting left and right, "Hop, hop, hop," adjust their own space.

When Stinkki Bootela, Drizzle Creek’s least eligible bachelor, shuffles up to the table, his high level of testosterone, causes his neighbours to take a couple of extra hops to make sure they're not too close.

When the latest political hopeful wanders in from the Trawna with another handful of election lies, the whole crew shuffles around to face the new arrival. Looks just like it does on Nature, when buffalo at the water hole turn to face the approaching lion.

But the strangest sight of all is when four or five bodies rise and leave in unison. Those remaining, have their space sensitivities kick into overdrive, feeling being seated too closely threatens their masculinity. A veritable syncopation of the shuffle erupts as they re-space themselves around the table, scurrying around like a bunch of surprised cockroaches.

If you don't believe me, stop into the Bakery some morning and observe. You could even get involved. And please be prepared to contribute at least one new lie. Besides the shuffle looks a lot easier and more entertaining than line dancing.

Beer Can Chicken

2007-10-03T07:25:00.000-05:00

It was beastly hot and there was no way we were going to roast the house and ourselves just to do up a chicken for our guests that Sunday. They were special guest, but not that special.

“Why don’t you do something up on the barbecue?” suggested my wife, The Pearl of the Orient. The Pearl is very good at delegating chores to me, even if I am resistant to taking direction.

“I think we’re about out of propane,” I offered hoping, against hope that would put the ball back in her cooking court. You see I had the afternoon all planned out with a cold six-pack.

“Well fix it Dear Jackie, Dear Jackie, Dear Jackie. Well fix it Dear Jackie. Dear Jackie, fix it!” the Pearl rhymed off in here best Harry Belafonte accompaniment fashion.

I dragged out the obsolete, rusted, empty propane cylinder and headed off to the service station for an exchange.

“I can’t give you any credit on that old piece of junk. It’s obsolete,” the attendant informed me.

“Obsolete! Why I just got it from here two months ago!” I lied indignantly; hurriedly trying to wipe off the five years of accumulated cobwebs and grime it had collected in my garage.

“Yeah, right!” commented the attendant ringing up 23 bucks for the refill plus another 25 for the replacement tank. I grumbled all the way home.

As I lay on the deck hooking up the propane, the first of the six pack sitting at the ready to soothe my parched throat and assuage my soon to be scraped knuckles, the mosquito settled lovingly on my head and proceeded to extract a blood sample.

I gave it a good swat with my free hand, remembering too late, that was the hand holding the crescent wrench. I missed the mosquito, but not my skull.

Parents and children exiting the church next door, made a pointed retreat for their cars rather than tarrying around to exchange pleasantries. Looks like another friendly neighbourhood petition will be circulated.

Now, what to cook? The Pearl handed me a hunk of metal that came with the new barbecue and announced, “Beer can chicken. Read the directions.”

To my horror, those directions included the sacrifice of half a can of beer to be shared with the chicken, stuffing can and all up its backside. Well let me tell you, no way was I sharing half a beer with any chicken. It’s all or nothing.

Fortunately, beer is considered a necessary service during the summer season in a tourist community, so I was able to obtain a re-supply at the local snakebite remedy store. Otherwise I would have been forced into a smuggling run and would probably have wound up in the slammer for the rest of the weekend.

In the end I got more beer and managed to get the chicken on the barbecue shortly before the guests arrived. Norm and I settled onto the deck in the shade, with the new six-pack as I explained how I had set up the beer can chicken.

“I know,” interrupted Norm, “ I’ve done it lots of times. Just open a can of beer and stuff it in the chicken and sit ‘er on the grill.”

“Open..?” I asked as the dawn of reason began to suffuse my befuddled brain and I headed for the barbecue.

With a look at first of amazement and then one of sheer terror, Norm dove for cover behind the picnic table as I raised the lid on the grill.

It was just the little added shock the beer can needed as the pop-top popped and the chicken achieved lift off. By the time it reached the top of the house it had achieved orbital velocity. It must have burnt up on re-entry as we never found it, but the neighbour’s shiatsu did develop an awful case of indigestion.

However, the takeout pizza was great and we had just enough left of the six-pack to wash it down.

The truth of the matter

2007-09-26T13:09:00.001-05:00

The secret to a happy, long, and lasting marriage is mutual respect, devotion, and truthfulness, right?

Well maybe the truthfulness part should only be attempted as a last resort. The Pearl of the Orient and I have kept the knot tied for going on 39 years and we hope to keep the divorce lawyers at bay for a couple more decades.

Also regarding the Pearl’s little truth tidbits, I simply don’t want to know. One surprise visit with the undertaker was enough. So I will not use this forum for “digging up bones.” After all true love has to have a good dollop of mystery.

However, this past weekend’s Rainy River Walleye Tournament, revealed some real truths amongst the contestants, for the entire world to see. Take Cathy and Ziggy for example.

Ziggy, a long time competitor in the RRWT was happy with his fishing partner. It was male bonding at its best. Friendly banter, spirited competition, and no strings attached.

Then it happened. The unthinkable. Cathy put her name on the waiting list and was drawn. But she didn’t have a partner. Who would she select? Ziggy was in a real pickle. He finally offered to partner, and when the initial spousal interest was cool, he finally insisted.

Morning of the Tournament Cathy showed up with her survival kit. A roll of duct tape to silence Ziggy. A revolver to keep him in line and coerce him back to the dock for potty breaks. Two bottles of medicinal potion to ward off malaria, snake bite, west nile, and the plague. A sign directing him to shut up and fish. A set of handcuffs to keep him from going AWOL. And lastly, a big tub to put the fish in.

So why did Ziggy insist on fishing with his wife?

Was it a sense of chivalry? Ziggy? C’mon!

Was it loyalty? They have dogs for that?

Loneliness? Maybe a bit.

Mid life crisis? Ziggy’s way past that!

Mating season? Not on your life, says Cathy!

No, it was none of these reasons. The truth is, it was cold, white-knuckled fear!

Fear that his manhood would suffer unrecoverable damage.

Fear, his male ego would be squashed like the migrating frogs crossing #11 the past couple of weeks.

Fear, smashed like his prop hitting a boulder.

Fear!

Fear, that Cathy with another partner, would scoop poor old Ziggy at the RRWT.

The bare, raw, truth is not to be taken lightly.

I’m lost

2007-09-19T14:25:00.000-05:00

Everyone knows that real men don’t ask for directions, but few know the real reason why. It’s fear plain and simple. Not fear of being lost, or being wrong, or any minor shortcomings the fairer sex might heap upon us.

The real reason we males are more than reluctant to ask for directions is the overriding fear some female might try to give us directions. That is a sure path to disaster.

For example, my wife the Pearl of the Orient is a very talented lady, but directions and reading maps aren’t her forte. A typical trip question after we have been traveling west for a half-day goes something like this.

“So now we are at west, what direction is that?” she’ll inquire earnestly, while pointing off into the sunset. But in her defense, I must admit she’s a real whiz at keeping the road maps folded neatly and keeping track of my faux pas.

Should the male take his wife’s advice- admittedly, a rare occurrence- and ask the cashier at the gas station for directions, I’ll bet the response from the helpful lady behind the counter will go something like this.

“… that place is just the other side of town. Go up the street to your right,” she says waving her hand left, “up past Mrs. Johnson’s house. It the one with the gingerbread trim and the pink peonies.”

“Then on past Mrs. Smith’s… she’s got that beautiful long porch, with the swing set, and the fuchsia curtains, and turn right before the bridge,” she continues again waving her left arm….

You ask if she might draw you a little map. Mistake number two. This requires a group effort with the other cashier and the food prep staff converging with a napkin and a tube of lipstick. Placing the napkin on the counter, they begin a cooperative work of art, rotating the napkin as lines are drawn and notations noted.

The matter finally comes to a head when the big fat biker waiting impatiently in line behind you snarls, “Three blocks down the hill past the beer store and hang a left!”

You stammer your thanks and hurry off, leaving the staff all huffy about not appreciating their effort.

Luckily things are changing, as Moe showed me on a recent trip in his new van. It was GPS equipped and it only took the better part of two hours for me to get it up and running. The sarcasm and running commentary from Giggles and the Pearl in the back spurred on my efforts. Finally, I got the home address in the gadget changed from California to Drizzle Creek (I think all mini vans naturally home in on California- it’s a Grapes of Wrath thing)

From then on the little red arrow faithfully traced our course down the blue line of the designated highway, except for a couple times when it showed we were driving through a cornfield. Moe assured me we never left the pavement and sure enough we arrived at our destination without once stopping for directions.

On the way home, I continued to tweak the new toy and found a menu that offered voice prompts. I pushed OK and a chill of the coldest ice ran up and down my spine. The computer-generated voice was definitely female. I lost all confidence and began putting it to the test.

“Prepare to turn left in one quarter mile’” it prompted politely.

“Turn left in 300 feet,” it soon added in a stronger tone.

“Turn left in 50 feet,” it ordered even more sternly

“TURN NOW! TURN NOW! TURN NOW!” the voice shrieks, beeps twice, and flashes an error message as we cruise blithely on through the intersection.

“If possible make a legal U turn in 300 feet,” are the new orders, in a voice now dripping with disdain. We ignore the new directions and continue homeward.

And so it went for the next four hours as I furiously programmed in mis-destinations and we joyously ignored the voice prompts. The co-pilots in the back kept making pointed comments about boys and their toys.

But I think the system was learning from our truancy as we prepared to make the last left turn, it directed us to “Turn right and proceed on past Mrs. Johnson’s house, the one with the gingerbread trim and …”

Fish or eat bait

2007-09-12T21:02:00.000-05:00

With the Rainy River Walleye Tournament just a few days off, the crew at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek were bemoaning the paucity of fresh shiners, their favourite bait. Even Pickle couldn’t scrounge up a supply from his older brother Dill, nor his younger sibling Gherkin. I dug through my archives and came up with this tidbit penned in 2003 for just such an emergency.

Bait! What’ll it be? Worms? Too much work. Minnows? No money. Blew it all on beer. Time to get creative. Take a look in the kitchen and see what else might do.

Voila! Answer to both you and your wife’s prayers.

A shrimp ring.

Now this is the answer to your wife’s prayers, because although said ring was intended for the Church Women’s meeting this afternoon, she realizes unless you have an adequate supply of bait, there’s always a chance you may come home early…. before the meeting’s over and all the other members of the Auxiliary have safely departed.

She still remembers the last time this occurred when you and your buddies, fresh out of bait, but not beer, arrived in the middle of the luncheon, and took over the kitchen to clean up the rest of the beer, and that stringer of ripe fish.

If nothing else, it sure provided a good serving of gossip- as well as a few new cuss words- for the Auxiliary for the next couple of months.

So you can be assured your wife is more than prepared to negotiate your guaranteed absence for the duration.

Bargaining from a position of strength in this marriage is a completely new experience for you, but don’t let it go to your head. If you play your cards right, not only will you not ever have to waste money on minnows again, you’ll be the envy of all your fishing buddies as well. Here’s how.

The shrimp ring is key, You should be able to negotiate for at least half of it- maybe even all of it, if the Minister’s wife and mother are attending this day. Whatever. On special at $3.99 for 80 pieces, cooked shrimp are way cheaper than minnows at $4.50 a dozen. And they are not as slippery and taste way better. That’s right, “taste better”. Here’s the methodology.

Place your supply of bait- shrimp- in one of those zip lock plastic baggies in one pocket. In another pocket, another baggy of cocktail sauce- the spicy kind if you have an abundant supply of beer and Tums. Then you can bait your hook or snack at your leisure.

If the catching’s slow, ( the fishing itself is always good) you will be the envy of your group. While they cuss, swat flies and try to keep their minnows alive, you enjoy a succulent shrimp cocktail.

On the other hand if the catching is great, as soon as the shrimp bait on your hook starts getting a little tattered, simply dip it, jig and all, into the cocktail sauce and daintily nibble it straight off the hook. Um, Um good! And grossing out your buddies is a top-notch fringe benefit.

A word of caution at this point, make sure you use only barbless hooks.Catch and release takes on a whole new meaning when it’s your tongue or lip that gets caught trying for that last morsel on said hook. You hook yourself, it’s a sure bet, after recovering from a fit of hysterical laughter, your buddies will embellish and spread the news of your misfortune faster and further than the Auxiliary’s review of the Preacher’s current affair with the choir leader.

Aside from the embarrassment, such a tale on reaching the wife’s ears could seriously impair all future supplies of bait from the shopping cart.

So the choice is yours, fish or eat bait..

Off Balance and loving it.

2007-09-05T17:39:00.000-05:00

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

Some marital relationships get can pretty staid with about the only excitement happening when the cat gets its tail caught under the rocking chair. What kind of a life is that anyways? Just sitting there rocking, watching the world go by, and waiting to die.

With the Pearl of the Orient, my wife, life is never that dull, but near death experiences are pretty common for me, so I’m informed.

“Just leave the toilet seat up once more!” or “You bought what?” are the kind of responses I’ve long grown accustomed to. And in my defense, I have to actively seek little earth tremors just to keep the score close to even.

In the last thirty-eight odd years, I have been choked with peach juice, had my butt assaulted with a vicious pinch, my privates zapped with static electricity, my prized wild game cache given away, and my computer drive terrorized, amongst other indignities to my manhood.

So on occasion, I make a pre-emptive strike just to keep the score close and the marital mystery alive. Perhaps you’d like to spice up your relationship. Here’s a few ideas.

While sitting at a charity fundraiser, after your sweetie has cautioned you not to bid twenty bucks on pie because you’re already too fat, drop a $500 bid on the 3-day wilderness fishing trip. Even if you get stuck with the winning bid, the look of “awe and shock” on her face will be worth the pain. When she starts to sputter, simply counter with, “Well, you didn’t really want that new chesterfield anyways, did you?”

However don’t ever expect to come out ahead. It’s not in the cards. I’m still trying to pull even with the Pearl after her classic “gotcha”

I had spent a long morning on the computer doing books and filing junk- a chore I detest. A break was in order so I descended from my inner sanctum.

A gentleman in a suit was sitting at the dining room table enjoying a coffee and in deep discussion with the Pearl. There was an assortment of documents and brochures spread before them. My eyeballs were pretty much burnt from staring at the computer so I couldn’t really focus on the literature and before I could the gentleman jumped up and began pumping my arm with a shake that would have intimidated a seasoned politician.

I was curious. What was going on? Who was this dude? There was no mention from the Pearl earlier of anyone coming and the last door-to-door peddler that stuck his foot in the door on the Pearl is still taking physio for the shattered ankle. Something was afoot here.

“I’m just making funeral arrangements- yours, and maybe mine,” said the Pearl, directing the guest back to his chair.

He almost had his first pick-up right there and then. I know I stopped breathing and I think my heart stopped. My mouth was probably hanging open and a stunned look of shock froze my face. Never at a loss for words, I was speechless. I think you call it sucking wind.

So you see I need help. Any of your suggestions on one-upsmanship, would be greatly appreciated. Please contact me- not the Pearl.

Bountiful harvest

2007-08-29T08:55:00.000-05:00

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

By the time the Emo Fair is over, you have a pretty good idea of how this year’s gardens have turned out. You think strolling through the displays of award winning fruits and vegetables gives you the answer? Think again. You also will not be able to depend on the lies… er, reports, from neighbours of a bountiful harvest.

So how do you gauge that bountiful harvest? You have to use more subtle investigative techniques.

Sweet corn is one delight that used to be pretty much dependable, but with the current massive infestation of raccoons, skunks, bears, and corn borer, across the District, you’ll have to be more than lucky to harvest a good supply. And if you do luck out, there’s a better than even chance, the poachers, announced by slamming car doors in the wee hours, will signal the final decimation of your crop.

In the old days, simply viewing the traffic to the area outhouses could pretty much tell you how bountiful the corn crop was. But not with today’s indoor plumbing.

Here’s the trick. Observe the crowd heading down to pick up the mail, preferably Monday morning, after a weekend of family feasting and when the heavy load of bills and flyers arrive.

You can bet those with a hurried confident stride, taking the steps two at a time, have a total crop failure.

Meanwhile those taking short cautious steps and intently concentrating on their location and progress have a bumper crop. You can confirm this by watching to see if they quickly detour into the café, and make a beeline for the john.

Nothing quite like a massive feed of sweet corn, particularly if accompanied by a big plate of ripe tomatoes and burpless cucumbers, to test the control of bodily functions.

So now you know how to locate the bounty, and who to mooch off, proper garden season etiquette comes into play. Avoid embarrassment by following these few important rules.

First, don’t insist on stopping that fidgeting friend on the street and relating the latest belly-laugh inducing story.

Secondly, never…NEVER… poke that same friend unexpectedly in the belly, or some other bodily location, particularly if they are bent over checking their mailbox. You’ll both be sorry.

Thirdly, that old two-holer outback should be cleaned of cobwebs and certainly sprayed for wasps and hornets. Throw in a couple of past editions of the paper and post a welcome sign on the door. But caution, make sure the inside latch is removed. After all it is a two-holer, and you never know when unexpected company might have to drop in.

Frying pan Justice

2007-08-21T10:53:00.000-05:00

Squirrel Pie

By Jack Elliott

Since real men don’t shop, I was killing time while my wife, The Pearl of the Orient, selected a new bathing suit. There were several thousand in her size range. It promised to be a long process.

As I wandered the houseware aisles heading for a gander at the new giant flat-screen TVs, another shopper on a mission hurried past. Abruptly, 20 yards in front of me at the frying pan display, she stopped and began a detailed inspection of the wares. With a pan in each hand, she tested the heft, and inspected the bottom of each. A real study in concentration.

As I sauntered past, I glanced at her. We made eye contact, so I had to do the socially correct thing and speak.

“You know, neither one of those is heavy enough to kill him with one whack,” I opined, while trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk.

Without hesitation she shot back, “That’s okay. I don’t mind hitting him twice.”

I moved out of range. Nothing more dangerous than a decisive female.

Back in Drizzle Creek, while relating the incident over coffee at the Bakery some days later, Pickle and the Runt, exchanged strange glances. A modicum of prodding managed to pry out the story.

It seems while on one of their regular fishing trips, while unstowing the gear for a shore lunch, Pickle turned around unexpectedly and caught The Runt across the top of the head with the cast iron frying pan.

It is unclear how long The Runt was laid out on the island or if there were any repercussions. But it couldn’t have been too serious as they are still fishing buddies.

As he picked up another piece of toast slathered with peanut butter, The Runt, however, gingerly explored his scalp with his left hand and commented, “No physical scars, just emotional ones.”

Curse of the Purse

2007-07-30T07:17:00.000-05:00

Monday, July 30, 2007

Squirrel Pie

By Jack Elliott

Men, thank goodness have wallets. Although they will swell to the proportions of a cane toad before exploding, they’ve nothing on the female purse.

The lady’s handbag or purse is a wonderful invention run-a-muck. Invented before pockets, the purse has a lineage and personality as unique as each owner.

First size. Most younger females can get by quite handily with a small grip, to hold the ‘necessaries’, like make up, keys, I.D.s and yes, even money. Not so the more mature matron, or Doňa.

I think purse size starts to increase a motherhood bursts onto the scene. Partly as an unconscious response to increasing body size and definitely to and increasing need for ‘wet wipes’, soothers, squeaky toys, and other baby goodies.

The male on the other hand simply let’s the parental gut expand outward and down over the belt. Soothers and toothing toys are readily supplied by a greasy finger and as for wipes, what else are ratty old sweat shirts for?

But the purse is never given up. It simply grows and grows, as it expands to the size of a Pullman. I speak from a position of authority. My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, has a whole collection of voluminous fashion accessories. When she, her sister, and her friends venture out into the mall on senior’s day, it looks like a whole gaggle of prehistoric hunter-gatherers with huge sacks out gleaning the countryside of every useful item. They all have permanent curvature of the spine and gimpy knees from subjecting themselves to decades of purse abuse.

Getting stuck behind one at the checkout is a real experience- if you’ve got the time.

“How much is it? Seventeen, thirty-three? Let me find my money.”

Open Sesame! The reluctant zipper opens in fits and starts, jammed by a lace napkin.

“Oh, I saved that from lunch at Chez Pierre’s. It was just to fancy to throw out,” exclaims the Purse Meister as the now shredded lace is cooed over, refolded and tucked back into the bag.

Then another napkin with a stain soaking through and a distinctly ripe odor surfaces. “O dear, there’s that piece of salmon, I saved from the buffet for Fifi last week. I guess I forgot about it. Here Dear, could you put that in your waste basket?” gagging only mildly, the clerk complies tossing it into the waste at the next checkout.

Next, the makeup is excavated. Enough to prepare half the cast for a Hollywood epic. Nuff said.

Finally the money. A $100.00 bill. That presents a problem. Nothing over $20 accepted smiles the clerk tapping the sign and explaining the problem with fake $100s. “Oh, not a problem Dear, I’ve lots of coins here.” and another bag, a Crown Royal pouch, complete with draw string is extracted. Untying the knot takes less than five minutes.

This treasure of pennies, dimes and quarters not only explains why the Mint has an ongoing severe shortage of coins, it also reveals why foiled purse snatchers suffer from so many pulled back muscles and severe concussions. After collapsing from the unexpected weight of their snatched prizes, their skull is nearly crushed from a well aimed swing of the purse as it is retrieved by the offended Doňa. Who said our currency has no weight?

Finally it’s down to the nitty gritty. “Oh dear, this is mostly my U.S. change and we may need it for the toll bridge next month. I’m 48 cents short. Would you pay Dear?” she says turning to a non-plussed hubby who extracts a twenty and refuses her help with some uneven change. The transaction is completed and re-stowing of the contents starts. The only hiccup is the still balky zipper causing the Doňa’s fingers to slip off the clasp and thrust an escaping elbow into the solar plexus of the next customer in line who was foolish enough to get within range.

Profuse apologies follow with the unlucky victim able only to gasp and grimace while hurriedly shelling out their bucks and escaping to their double-parked car- the one the cop is busy ticketing.

Her purchase complete, the Doňa rejoins the herd. Raul trails behind laden with bags.

“Come along Dear. Don’t dawdle!”

Challenging Memory

2007-07-26T06:29:00.000-05:00

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

Friday, July 25, 2007

It’s got to be an x/y chromosome thing. That seems to be the only rational for faulty male memory.

No female has ever admitted forgetting anything, particularly if it has to do with some perceived shortcoming of her spouse. I say perceived, because what the female identifies as a male shortcoming is likely in fact a male survival strategy.

Like, “Honey, I can’t find my socks!”

“Did you look in the laundry basket?”

“There’s none there. Besides, all the ones I left on the bedroom floor… er, put in the cloths hamper… had holes in them. Did you mend them?”

“No! Look in the garbage can and then the clothing counter at the store!”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. I’ll pick up a bit more fishing tackle while I’m at it.”

“Huuummmmpf!”

So you see, by following this system, you can a) get out of mending your socks with the ensuing danger of self-administered acupuncture, b) splurge on new socks with tacit spending approval, and c) load up on a whole season’s fishing tackle with the treasurer none the wiser. And all the time you maintain the illusion of female memory superiority without muddying the domestic waters- too much.

At other times it’s not so simple.

When you take the kids out for a walk, it’s important to remember not to let the baby play in the grass where the dogs poop. Yes, Drizzle Creek does have pet owners who do not obey the “pooper-scooper” bylaw.

Ignoring the mess until you get home can be quite a challenge. Scott says it takes months of practice to be able to convincingly recite, “Smell? What smell? I didn’t notice. I don’t remember any place we could have come across dog poop!”

Fishing is a whole other memory challenge. Pickle claims he can remember, to the millimetre, the size and location of every fish he ever caught. The size is, of course, an outright lie. And the location specification evaporated this season when he invested in a new boat, forgetting to note the Xs he had placed on the bottom of the old boat for locating great fishing holes.

He is, however, tackling the problem with a new GPS gadget. Now if he could only remember how to run it and take along a fresh set of charged batteries! Remembering to bring a loaf of bread home from the bakery also remains a challenge.

The Runt faces a different memory challenge- remembering to empty the minnow bucket at the end of the fishing trip. Rose had noticed a gaggle of stray cats nosing around the garage and then gagging as they sniffed a cooler in the corner. A partial lift of the lid exposed the almost fully vapourized remains of a package of previously frozen shiners definitely past their ‘best before date’. The cooler and all contents made a quick trip to the curb. It was garbage day.

“Dear, have you seen my boat cooler?” whined Ken. The ensuing explanation was very clear.

“But it had all my best tackle in it!” wailed the forgetful male.

Oh, and Ken, remember to pick up some socks, while you’re restocking that new cooler and tackle box.

Warfare in the punkin patch

2007-07-17T13:07:00.000-05:00

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott
© Copyright

Competitive gardening can reach pretty intense levels. Maybe it even should be an Olympic Sport. And as important as winning is, having an acceptable excuse for losing is just as important .Down here in Drizzle Creek, the all time champion of losing excuses is President of the Giant Pumpkin Festival, Eltjo ‘Hard Luck’ Wiersema.
After several years of rain, hail, flood, drought and frosts excuses for a mediocre showing when the scales were balanced, ‘Hard Luck’ resorted to critters. First the Great Beaver in 04 wiped him out. Then in 05 it was deer, followed by a plague of bears in 06. This past week I stopped by his punkin patch to see what he had conjured up for the 07 Reason Season.
At first, I couldn’t even see him, then I spotted the barrel of the .22 protruding ominously over an old log. Sure enough there was ‘Hard Luck’ stretched out behind the barricade. His full body camouflage, including a blackened face aptly conveyed his desperate situation.
“”Hogs!” he whispered hoarsely, cautioning me with a finger to his lips.
Having heard of a band of marauding wild boars that had terrorized Arbor Vita some years prior, I nervously inquired, “Real, wild tuskers?”
“No, ground hogs. They got five of my punkins, so far and it’s open warfare,” snarled Hard Luck.
“There’s one now,” he cautioned and leveling his weapon, began spraying lead towards the patch. Two lilies, a tomato, and a cornstalk toppled. The sprinkler hose sprang a geyser, and three metallic ‘plinks’ echoed back from the moored pontoon boat.
The ground hog, apparently unharmed, scampered for its den.
Looks like I’ll have to make another ammo run,” mused Hard Luck as he patted his empty pockets and glanced at the empty shell casings littering his redoubt.
As I headed home relieved the only holes in my old pickup were from rust, not stray bullets, I contemplated my own, saner approach to winning- psychological warfare. It is simple, inexpensive and safe- so far.
A couple years back, Peggy had bragged how her giant sunflowers would beat mine by a good two feet. What to do? Simple?
I wrote a nice piece on Ike’s giant specimens, complete with a doctored photo, showing them towering a good four feet taller than Peggy’s. Peggy took one look at the photo and gave up in disgust, relegating her giants to the garbage heap.
Ike declined to enter, opining it would be unfair to beat out the rest of the community.
I entered taking top prize.
Peggy ranted!
It was proven once more that ‘Youth and Enthusiasm’ are no match for ‘Old Age and Treachery.’
All’s fair in love and war and the Punkin' Patch

Testing

2007-07-09T21:17:00.000-05:00

Just a test to see if the sucker works
J.E.