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.

Smoke gets in your eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      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

      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

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

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.