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.

The Drizzle Creek Curse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Shortcut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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