I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.
I hate it when things such as this happen and there is no one around to study them.
For the past 10 years, my face has endured twice-daily (and more often) applications of copious quantities of dog slobber. I wonder if anyone has examined this sort of phenomenon with an eye to predicting when the effect on the human face is so severe with the slobber build-up that one day it just slides right off the skull.
There must be some way in which this could be tested. At the same time, I am getting no help from the skin specialist my doctor sent me to. I was told by that doctor, after thorough testing, that I was suffering from a severe case of dog slobber deficiency, the worst case she had ever seen. She recommended I continue the twice daily applications and went so far as to advise me to encourage my dog to ramp up his schedule.
Another scientific test I would like to see done is an examination of how much slobber one 13-pound dog is able to exude in a day because I am pretty sure my dog’s glands are overproducing.
Lest you think a simple face-washing with soap and water might solve the problem, I am here to declare that slobber is very much like the goo that oozes out of evergreen trees from time to time.
Last week, I received a lovely eight-page, handwritten letter from my oldest sister Betty who lives in another city. She always sends letters and greeting cards where every inch of blank space is filled with her news.
Betty is not a fan of computers and doesn’t use email. I don’t believe she has ever sent one, though her husband prints out ones that are sent to her and brings them to her.
She doesn’t have a smartphone and not even a regular cellphone. She uses her landline.
But she loves her flatscreen TV and sits in the evenings, remote control firmly in hand.
After I receive one of my sister’s letters, I call her and we talk for two hours. But this time, I decided to respond in kind. So, I sat down and handwrote her an 11-page letter.
It was tough slogging. My handwriting, which used to be so good I won awards at fall fairs for it, has gone downhill. And it was a real effort to form all the letters and make them legible. My left hand kept wearing out on me and I would have to set down the pen and massage it back into shape.
The problem was I was trying to write like I type on my keyboards – very quickly. I couldn’t slow down and my hand was very tense.
But, the job finally done, I stuffed my treatise into an envelope, addressed and stamped it and took it to the mailbox down the street.
I felt pretty good about myself and tried to figure out when the last time was that I handwrote someone a letter. It might have been 50 years ago when I would write home for money to keep me going in university. They were very carefully written letters, something a defence attorney might present to a jury to try to keep his client from going to jail. The better I presented my argument, the more money I might score.
Then there was the summer I wrote a love letter every day to my girlfriend at the time who took the opportunity to get away from me by going to summer camp. Those letters, looking back, were probably sappy enough to cause rock music icon Roy Orbison, who specialized in writing sad songs, to admonish me and tell me to, “Cheer up, for ‘Crying’ out loud!”
In any case, yesterday my sister called me with some news and I asked her if she’d gotten my letter yet. She hadn’t and was all excited to have been sent one.
“I will read it over and over and treasure it,” she said.
And I know she will.
Next up: Sending her photos of our family. She sends us photos in the mail all the time and we never send any back. That will soon change.
In this fast-paced society we live in, Betty’s feet are still on the ground.
And I am grateful they are.
My feet, on the other hand (can your feet be on your other hand?) are somewhere between clouds seven and nine. Fresh off this victory, one of these days I am going to walk right past our shower stall and lay me down into a piping hot, soapy puddle waiting for me in our bathtub. It might take me two days to get out of the damn thing, but it will be worth it. Back in the day, I used to smoke cigarettes and read a book in the tub. It’s a right bugger trying to do either one of those things, or both, in the shower. However, I have given a lot more shower concerts than I ever have done in the bathtub.
And it seems like forever since I fell asleep in the shower.
My cat Mario and I have a lot in common. We are more alike than you might think a man and a cat could ever be.
To begin with, we are both old now, more days behind us than ahead of us. He is almost 18 in cat years and I am a little more than 10 in dog years.
We both have a touch of arthritis. We are incredibly picky eaters and very lucky guys to have found people to love us in spite of our quirky ways and our tendency to occasional outbursts of crankiness.
We have both lost brothers and are sometimes lost ourselves in our loneliness. We’ve given up a lot of the things of our youth. Neither one of us spends much time playing any more. That doesn’t mean we are unhappy, just that we’ve lost interest in some of the things that used to captivate us.
Mario still goes outside and enjoys doing so but he never leaves the property now and I rarely do as well. Our worlds are shrinking and I like to think that is by choice. We both love our backyard these days and when Mario sees me lounging in a lawnchair under one of our maple trees, he reaches for me to pick him up and sit him in my lap so I do.
Sometimes he sunbathes on the patio and falls asleep. I lie back in my chair and saw off in the shade.
But we do differ in some ways. He has a couple of more legs than I have and a long tail. All I can offer concerning his latter feature is a tailbone. Had I been ripping around the planet a few million years ago, who knows? I might have had a tail longer than his.
Mario isn’t much interested in human food and he doesn’t have to worry that I will eat his. He will still chase a rodent if one makes the mistake of crossing his path but his skills in that field have gone downhill. I haven’t hunted a wily groundhog since my days on the farm though I did chase one out of our yard a few years ago.
Mario sits on more laps than I ever do. He sleeps all day and wanders around at night. I napped during the day more in my twenties than I do in my seventies but like my younger self, I am still a nighthawk. As I write this, it is 4:45 a.m.
Added to these differences are our medications. He gets rabies shots once a year, I get a flu shot. We give him a little paste which helps reduce his furballs. I have no issue with furballs. I also don’t have to take any substance to ward off fleas. Flies and bees follow me around like rockstar groupies when I am outside but the fleas leave me alone.
But there is one major medication area where we are totally alike. (You knew something just had to be coming after reading all this, didn’t you.)
Mario and I both take the same laxative. It is made for humans but the vet recommended it for the cat as well. I pick it up at the pharmacy. We hide his in his soft food so he won’t detect it and refuse to consume it.
But I am braver than my cat. I pour mine in a saucer and lap it up.
Cat and man do have our issues but, all in all, we’re just a couple of totally regular guys.
I think the Universe is sending me a message and it doesn’t seem to be a pleasant one.
Two days ago, I wrote about my frustration in living a lifetime of not being able to turn straw into gold as many people seem able to do. And to rub that fact in, a woman ahead of me in a shop lineup earlier that day bought five cents worth of garlic powder and in return, was rewarded with a slip offering her $10 off her next purchase at that store. Instantly, somehow, she turned a single nickel into 200 nickels.
If I had 200 nickels and I was wandering around the stores, I would soon be reduced to one nickel. I can’t explain it.
But what I have learned for sure is that I have to quit following the woman around whom I referred to above. Again, today, I somehow wound up standing behind her as she was paying for parking at our city’s medical centre. She owed $4 and so she inserted a five dollar bill into the machine. Immediately it spit out her change into a receptacle. She reached in to pull out what she expected would be one dollar in change and instead fished out $5 in coins. She let out the same whoop of joy hockey players yell when they score a winning goal.
This was baffling and discouraging to me and it didn’t help that she turned to share with me how pleased she was with her good fortune. Following her golden nickel strike of the day before, this was just too much to watch her celebrating shoving five dollars into a machine and getting five dollars in change in return.
Along with the many things I wish for every day, I suddenly wished I lived in a bigger town so my chances of encountering this woman, seemingly on a daily basis now, would be greatly reduced.
I guess I should be pleased that she must wear a lucky horseshoe medallion on a golden chain around her neck, but her good money management on two days in a row while ahead of me in line is just a reminder of my total lack of the same.
The last time I dealt with this same machine, I used my credit card instead of cash. I tried my best to follow all the instructions but the transaction didn’t seem to go through. So, I slipped my card in again and had better luck the second time.
Checking my credit card statement when it came in, however, I discovered that my first insertion of the card HAD WORKED. As did the second. Bottom line: I paid $8 that day for a $4 parking fee. And on this day, the woman I seem destined to stand behind in line every day now paid $0.00 for a $4 fee.
Someday, I suppose, my ship will come in and I will climb aboard. A mile out from shore, I will watch in horror as the lake begins streaming in through a big hole.
To make things better, I will hear the engine of a large yacht streaking by with a now familiar face at the controls. And that lucky woman will smile and wave as she disappears from view.
I dropped my daughter Sarah off at her friend Melicia’s house. I went back a few hours later to pick her up but in the suburbs, sometimes, houses all look the same to me. I somehow found the right one and went to the door.
“Are Sarah and Melicia here?” I asked the man who greeted me warmly at the door. He nodded and went off into the kitchen, coming back with a little girl, maybe four, whose name was Sierra. Sierra and I had a nice chat and soon a woman in her 20s named Melissa came along behind her and we all started gabbing like old friends.
Finally, there was an awkward silence so I piped up, “Are Sarah and Melicia in the basement?”
Lots of puzzled looks greeted that question. A long silence and then, as it did for the family who stayed up all night to see the sun rise, it finally dawned on us. I had the wrong house.
“I think you want two doors down,” said the man who must have wondered later why he brought a little girl to the door to meet a total stranger. I wonder if he had mistaken me for someone he was expecting. Lots of apologies, then I went outside, crawled under the sod, and slithered my way down the street.
Even so, I’m pretty sure my red face shone up through the grass like a beacon.
What are the chances that the wrong house I would go to would have two females with names so close to the girls I was looking for? Freaky!
Here I am, night after night, staying up late counting my nickels and wondering how I will pay for the next day’s chocolate milkshake. And cookie, if funds allow.
After 73 years, I have never quite caught on to how everyone I know seems to be able to open the money spigot whenever the spirit moves them and stand back to watch the cash flow out like water over the rocks at Niagara.
Now and then, I do get a glimpse of a secret or two but even then, I can’t understand it.
This evening, for example, I was in a shop to take advantage of seniors’ discount day (for all the good that day has ever done me) when I watched a woman before me in line negotiating with the teller over the purchase of a very small quantity of garlic powder.
“That will be five cents,” said the cashier, sheepishly, as he rang up the meagre sale.
After a brief search through her purse, the woman retrieved a nickel and slid it across the counter. Of course she did, as women almost always seem to pay with cash. Maybe that’s part of the secret, I wondered.
To my astonishment, the teller handed the woman two pieces of paper – the first a receipt for her five-cent purchase and the other a sheet on which was printed a $10 discount she would receive on a future purchase of at least $30.
Where on God’s green earth could you get a $10 return on having invested a mere five ridiculous cents, I thought.
So, this is how it is done.
Based on my experience over these many years, I would be lucky to qualify for five cents off my next $10 purchase. As the woman happily left the shop, I watched to see her climb into what just had to be a limousine but was surprised to see her driving a far-from-new sedan which was no stranger to rust. Maybe that’s another clue as to how the wealthy do it. Invest one nickel to instantly earn 20o nickels and then drive away in a rustbucket.
I think I am in need of a brain massage. And a super large milkshake.
I will begin my new adventure into frugality by skipping the cookie.
I’ve played guitar for 45 years but I have never owned a guitar amplifier. That changed a few days ago so today I went out into the garage and plugged it in. I experimented with it, turning all the buttons every which way and checking out the neat sounds it can make.
After a while, I became curious about how loud it would go. So, I cranked it up. All the way. I strummed my guitar strings a few times, didn’t care for the distortion, and shut everything off to take the dog for a walk.
I got three houses away from home and my neighbour came out of his house. “My power just went off,” he said. Another neighbour came out his front door, directly across the street. “Have you got any power over there?” the first neighbour asked him. “Nope,” was the reply.
Then a woman emerged from the house next door. She too had no power. “Have you got any power?” the first neighbour asked me.
“Yes,” I said. “I was just playing my guitar in the garage there and my amp was plugged in.”
Oh, oh.
The report arrived later that almost the whole city had been down for a while.
Oh well. I am hell bent on becoming a rock star and my neighbours are powerless to stop me.
This is turning into my best week ever. First an email announcing a boatload of $7.5 billion in cash deposited in my bank account by Western Union and Mr. Peter Campbell.
And just now I got another email from Justin Alexander with an incredible offer on a new hair restorer product. Two sprays on my scalp and all my hair will regrow in four days. Every last little strand.
I am so glad to be alive in this day and age. Next time you see me walking down the street, I will have a head of hair like Elvis and wads of cash falling from my pockets like Warren Buffett.
If bad things happen in threes, maybe good things do too. Can’t wait to see my third surprise.
My dog Toby is 13 inches high. And I like to sit in a lawnchair in my garage with the door open so I can watch life as it passes by. Toby likes to do that too. However, some of the life that passes by arrives in the form of squirrels, which Toby likes to chase. Sometimes they run right across the street with Toby right behind them. This is a recipe for disaster.
Nothing to do but to build a gate which would go across the garage door opening and keep my critter in. So, I did. First, I measured the height of the dog, then went to the board store. Brought home a bunch of lumber. Toby watched me construct his prison.
The first gate was too high and other family members complained it was too hard to step over when they entered and exited the garage. So, I took it apart. Made another one. A really nice one.
I bought two lengths of lattice and stapled them onto the frame. Then I painted the whole affair blue to match the house. The height was acceptable. I sat down in my chair to watch life go by while Toby sat on the floor beside me.
My neighbour came over to inform me that the dog would easily jump over the fence. My neighbour revels in breaking news like this to me. He would gladly tell me I had a huge whitehead on my nose that was ready to pop and that it looked like hell.
I have not murdered my neighbour yet but only because I haven’t been able to devise a painful enough way to do it. So, my neighbour shambled back to his lookout and I watched Toby as he tried to look through the lattice. I could see that the darned holes were too small and he couldn’t get a very good view of the squirrels he was never again going to chase.
So, I took the gate to the back yard and ripped off the lattice. Went to the board store for some more wood and restyled the whole affair to make it easier for my dog to see all the rodents go flitting by. It seemed to be acceptable so I painted it up.
My neighbour came over to tell me the slats in the new gate were too wide and that Toby would squeeze right through. I calculated that if I squeezed my whitehead at just the right angle, the contents might hit him in the eye.
So, the summer went by and man and dog sat in the garage. I watched the young women from the fitness centre next door jog by in their ponytails and spandex and Toby watched the impudent squirrels scoot across the driveway. Life was good.
Three weeks ago, we were packing up the car for our annual vacation to a hut situated in the middle of a bear compound up north because we don’t want to die natural deaths and as he always does, poor Toby lost his mind. He was sure we were going to leave him behind.
The garage door was open and we all stepped over the gate as we hustled stuff from house to car. I wandered aimlessly with a can of bear repellant in my hand while Toby continued freaking out.
But Toby is a fast learner and he stood in all his panic, watching us step over the gate. And then, in a style reminiscent of every mountain goat that has ever scaled a hillside leaping from rock to rock, Toby backed up, put it into gear and flew over all that lovely painted lumber I had bought at the board store.
Next week, I am putting up an electric fence. Not to keep Toby in. That’s hopeless. To keep my neighbour (and the bears) out.
And once again, I thank the Creator for all the good sense and balanced thinking I was blessed with. And for the joggers from the fitness centre next door.
This is a tale of tragedy, trickery, treachery and maybe even treason. Most of all, betrayal.
You might have to follow the bouncing ball here a bit but I promise I would not relate this story to you unless it was of some vital importance. And I am still a little too emotionally overwrought to write clearly.
Last night my wife and I attended a very nice event and sat down to a wonderful banquet, served at our table which we shared with several others. The most important feature of the meal was the gravy, of course. It is commonly known that if there is no gravy, it is usually not worth the effort to even pick up your knife and fork.
When this wonderful food was consumed and enjoyed, we were advised by the wait staff to hang onto our forks, that we would need them. That is a very encouraging sign at any meal. It means there is dessert on its way. The main course, after all, is just something to get out of the way so that you can have dessert. Tale as old as time.
I need to preface the rest of the story by setting some ground rules. People insist on concocting desserts, pies very often, out of various organic materials that were never intended to be served up to humans as an after-dinner confection. Here are some “foods” that are not suitable for consuming at any time, especially after a meal. Rhubarb tops the list, of course. What depraved person first looked at a rhubarb plant and thought, “That would make an excellent pie.”? Similarly, raspberries, suitable for jam only, are wholly wrong in a pie. Apples are a wonderful fruit but to use them in any way other than their natural form is just wrong.
And, it doesn’t even need to be said, that people who bake pumpkin pies should be incarcerated, hopefully with a breaking rocks schedule added to their sentence specifics.
But the good news is, the humble cherry can be used in any of a hundred ways and not one of them is wrong. The cherry pie is the human’s ultimate achievement, moon landing a distant second place. The first person to ever bake up a cherry cheesecake needs to be given sainthood status by the Pope.
Dessert came.
What the hell?
Two fluffy cake-like affairs that were unidentifiable and it is a truism that if a thing cannot be identified, it should not be consumed. My wife was helpful. The dessert I had been randomly assigned was some sort of rhubarb affair. Oh no! It had a redness to it that was not appealing. Little red things sticking out here and there.
The stranger across the table from me had some other substance. My wife declared that it was an apple cake of some horrific assembly.
“I like rhubarb,” said the man across from me, obviously deranged. He scared me a little.
I generously switched desserts with him. He could have my bloodshot rhubarb disaster and I would take his apple monstrosity. He tore into his newfound gift, I laboured over mine. When he was close to finished, he got a closer look at everything and declared, “Hey, this isn’t rhubarb. It’s cherry!”
I looked more closely at my dessert. There were green things sticking out of it, items that seemed horribly familiar. They were rhubarb chunks.
I had had a wonderful cherry dessert delivered to me and traded it away, on the erroneous information supplied to me by my own wife, for a rhubarb cake.
Here is the definition of hell. You eat a rhubarb cake, feel faint as you most assuredly would, then fall face first into a pumpkin pie. Fortunately, there were no pumpkins involved in this affair. The authorities have been keeping a close watch on the kitchen staff at this place, which has served pumpkin in the past and been warned not to do it again.
As you might expect me to do and will congratulate me for having the courage to do it, I made a big stink right there and then about my betrayal. The display of righteous indignation paid off. There was one more cherry dessert left in the kitchen and it was brought out in a special container and given to me for later.
There was silence between my wife and I all the way home in the car following the dinner. I am hoping we will be speaking again by Thanksgiving.
