Pool Fashion is de Rigeur

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.