Splinters and Slivers

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

“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

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:

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

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

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

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.