Trust me, Dear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Danger amongst the English

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Economic opportunities

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

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

Immediately Ike put in his suggestion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Splinters and Slivers

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.”