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.
They say the only walls that ever imprison us are the ones we build ourselves. And that there are many doors we encounter along the way and we need only open them and walk on through.
Sometimes that is easier said than done and in that, is the challenge of life.
It is an even bigger challenge for some people than for others. Take a Florida couple, for example. Last week, for some reason, they were wandering the halls of a college where they didn’t belong. Apparently, someone chased them into a closet and closed the door. There they stayed for two whole days until, desperate, they phoned 911 and asked the police to come save them.
The police showed up, found the closet and opened the door. With ease. There was no lock on it. And yet, the couple thought they had been locked in.
In this case, however, it doesn’t appear that any fancy philosophy fits the situation. Both of them proved they do not belong in a college. Not because they are too old or too poor, but because they are dumb enough to get locked in a closet behind a door that won’t lock. And to stay there for two days. No food. No bathroom breaks. And, I am going to guess, no intelligent conversation.
Who said, when one door closes, another one opens? I don’t know who said it but it wasn’t one of these two superstars.
If you know any Experts, you might want to call them up and direct them to this message because I believe it to be of some importance and could, in fact, change the world in some wonderful ways. I have been thinking about this for a while and now I am sure of it.
Things have been upside down on our planet since people stopped standing on their heads. If you think I am wrong, tell me when the last time was that you saw somebody standing on his or her head. Better yet, when was the last time you did it?
When I was a kid a half century ago, we all spent a lot of time standing on our heads and I think we can agree that those were the good old days. If you walked through our kitchen/living room/rec room/TV room/family room in our farmhouse on any given day and at any given time, for example, you could expect to see me happily off in a corner standing on my head and sometimes I was joined by some of my brothers and sisters. If I was feeling adventurous, I would stand there freestyle with no support but if a bit lazy, I would rest my back and legs against a wall.
Not more than a few times I heard my father ask my mother, “Why is that boy always standing on his head?” I don’t know what her reply might have been but she usually defended me, so my art was safe from the negative reviewers.
However, when I was taken to get eyeglasses at the ripe old age of seven years, the doctor asked my parents if I had any unusual habits. They thought for a while and then reported the information that I stood on my head a lot. “Well, stop him from doing that,” the doctor commanded them. But by that time it was too late and I was hooked.
I think that’s where my lifetime habit of hiding my sins began. I still stood on my head but was a little less public about it. I can’t tell you what the attraction of head standing was but I do know I wasn’t alone. Boys especially, and even some girls, all around our little rural community, were spending a lot of time in their farmhouses with their feet straight up in the air in those days. The girls weren’t usually so enthusiastic about the practice as their dresses fell down around their faces. But maybe a head full of blood gave us a lift of some sort. I don’t know.
Much later, we relied on alcohol for that but head standing was cheaper and you broke few laws when you did it (except those imposed by those dreaded optometrists.)
Some dishonest kids thought they could cheat the system by standing on their hands but all the rewards were reserved for the purists, not the pretenders. I honestly believe that those poor souls who insisted on standing on their feet, a completely boring and safe orientation to the world, started their lives in the rat race later on a few laps behind.
I love my kids dearly but I feel a bit sorry for them. They have spent very little time on their heads during their lives so far and I think this will serve them ill as they venture forth to face the challenges of life.
Perhaps you did not know that the word “headstrong” was invented to describe a person who could support his weight for long periods of time using only the funny looking orb on his shoulders. I think we are on the wrong track when we tell our kids to go outside and play. We should be commanding them to experience a little upside down time.
It has been many years, alas, since I last stood on my head. I have avoided the practice as I cannot afford new glasses. Maybe I should summon up the courage to face the problem head on.
How often do we hear it. It’s the little things that make life worthwhile. I get the concept and believe in it wholeheartedly, but I have a quibble or two. A little bowl of potato chips? That’s a little thing. I hate to say it’s not worthwhile, but it hardly beats a big bowl of chips.
A little dish of ice cream? A little peck on the cheek rather than a full-on smashmouth? A little bit of money or a pocketful? Hmmm.
But I guess what is being argued is that it is the little moments, gestures, gifts and even brief smiles from strangers that enrich our lives. The events of the past couple of weeks have me wondering.
My 19-year-old Chevy, one year away from claiming classic status, decided to quit running. Not while it was parked n my driveway, but instead as I was driving down the street. One day, it was the main street of our town. It simply died, as though it had run out of gas. I coasted onto a nearby sidestreet and a quick check showed almost a full tank. I restarted the car, no problem. And drove off.
This happened several more times, especially when I was stopped at traffic lights.
So, off to my mechanic I chugged. He opened the hood and was horrified to see that several important wires were missing. And as a result of that, the car was failing to get the right information about things. It kept getting the idea, for example, that the car was out of gas.
“You’ve had a hungry family of mice living in here,” he said, pointing to several chewed off wires. After a little more inspecting, he pulled out a chestnut that had been deposited in a cavity, possibly as a peace offering or a rent deposit by the mice.
Now, mice are little things. Little things in my life. They are not bringing me happiness.
Auto repair bills, on the other hand, are not little things. Nor are the sobs of grief that follow the paying of same.
Today, following the mechanic’s advice, I bought a bag of mothballs, and was advised against my plans to either train a cat to live above my engine or install a bunch of mousetraps. I opened my hood and tucked them here and there wherever I could find an opening. Mice hate the smell they give off and won’t go near the car.
I would like to officially thank all the moths that gave up their precious mothhoods to keep my old car going. Their balls might appear small to me, but they must have appeared gigantic to them.
I have a little car. After all these years, it still makes my life worthwhile.
A friend asked me for a ride to his college this morning. I said that would be no problem as I had to deliver a package to the college anyway.
But I joked there would be a fee. He laughed.
He wanted me to take him to his townhouse near the college so I dropped him off and we said goodbye. I drove across town and found a restaurant for lunch.
Then I drove to the college where I had never been. It’s a big place. One hundred acres, 21 parking lots, three floors, 15,000 students. More entrances than an African jungle.
I found a parking lot near a door. I walked through the door and looked to see there was only one student in a long, empty hallway. The friend I had dropped off at his place an hour before stood there grinning at me.
I showed him the address of the office I needed to go to. He took me there.
Fee paid in full.
My wife and I were touring a large site in ancient Rome many years ago when we managed to get lost. We stopped a couple of tourists and asked for directions. We were grateful they responded in English.
By way of a brief chat, we discovered that the husband used to deliver bread to our farm in Canada more than 60 years ago. We never knew each other but we grew up five miles apart.
He remembered a bunch of kids running around our place.
I was waiting in line at the gas bar today when a small white car drove in out of nowhere and cut right in front of me. That car was followed by a small red car and suddenly, where I had been first in line for a free pump, I was third. I must have missed the sign that announced it was small-car day at the gas station.
I wish I could say I calmly accepted this new situation but I can’t. I was overcome with fury and you know it was serious because I try to never use the word fury.
Finally, I got my tank filled up and left the station. I drove straight to a fast-food joint to grab a burger and as I sat in my car consuming an above-average tasty lunch, I was still fuming about the gas pump fiends.
But then I remembered something that happened to me a couple of months ago. I was in line at a grocery store checkout and my items had been rung up when I discovered that I had left my debit card in my car. I apologized and the woman was very nice. She suggested I go get the card and come back. I did that and when I made it through the line to her again, she told me my $14 or so in purchases had already been paid for. A young man in line behind me, seeing my panic, offered to pay for my stuff.
I asked the cashier about the guy and was told he had a young boy with him. So out I went into the parking lot to see if I could find my benefactor. I couldn’t. But as I was about to get into my car, another car pulled up beside mine and a young man, with a boy strapped into his seat in the back, got out.
“I heard you were looking for me,” he smiled. “I’m the one who paid your bill.” I thanked him profusely and apologized for not having any cash on me (later I thought I could have run into the ATM in the store and came up with the money) but my young friend, who didn’t look like a billionaire and who had a car older and shakier than mine, said he didn’t want to be paid back. He was just glad to help out.
He more than made up for the two jerks at the gas bar and I am glad I have my memory of him and what he selflessly did to counteract my anger.
The homemade Christmas chocolate fudge appeared in its usual tin a few days before the Big Day. With my normal lack of restraint and total absence of conscience, I tore into it like a tiger that happened across a wildebeest by a lake. Incredibly, the apparent bottomless tin of fudge did have a bottom and by Christmas eve, the container sat there pathetically shiny but naked as a newborn.
I moved on to the cookie tins. But two members of our household sat down on the couch to watch a Christmas movie and there on the coffee table between them sat their two cups of tea and a plate of goodies. I had no choice but to inspect those goodies and to my astonishment, I counted on that plate eight large chunks of chocolate fudge.
How, I wondered, do you get eight large chunks of fudge out of an empty fudge tin and using my best logic, I concluded that even Mandrake the Magician couldn’t pull that off. The only other explanation I could think of was that these two close relatives of mine had purposely squirreled away a hidden stash of fudge which they had obviously decided to keep out of my reach.
Such perfidy on the eve of such a Holy Day left me almost in tears. I felt such a stab of betrayal, I could hardly hold back the sobs. But, later that evening, as I sat there Fudgeless on Albert Street, I also came to the conclusion that conspiring with my two close relatives was good old Karma who had decided to pay a visit. I used to hide cookies from our son and daughter when they were kids so I could access them after they had gone to bed.
So all these years later, my sins were revisited and punished.
So what choice did I have? I yelled Fudge It and went off into a corner to pout. And I discovered something else about my family. This soulless bunch, who tried to pass off the extra fudge supply as a Christmas Miracle, are impervious to the sight of a sad man pouting in a corner on Christmas Eve. I was offered not even one small chunk of fudge.
In the morning I saw the dish on the counter in the kitchen and there were not enough crumbs on it to keep a fruit fly from starving. It isn’t always easy to keep the Christmas spirit alive.
P.S. The youngest member of my family has lodged a protest, reminding me I forgot to mention she baked a whole new batch of fudge on Christmas morning which, as far as I know at this point, I was allowed full access to. That batch is now gone.
So the sidewalk snowplow guy phoned the city snow department and told his boss he needed a new sidewalk plow.
“How wide are the sidewalks there Harrufus?”
Harrufus Smith informed the City Snow Man that the city sidewalks are 40 inches wide.
“Perfect,” responded his boss with a somewhat evil chuckle. “We’ll order you a new plow with a 60-inch blade.”
Concerned, Harrufus said that the new plow would carve up 10 inches of sod on either side of the sidewalks and cause homeowners to run to the street, haul him out of the cab of his small tractor and pummel him half to death with their snow shovels.
“You leave that to me,” replied the demented Snow Man. “And Harrufus,” he ordered sternly. “Change that goofy name of yours.”
So the poor sidewalk snowplow driver started using his new machine this week and changed his name to Harrufus Jones.”
Visitation for Harrufus is Monday from 2 to 4 p.m. Mrs Smith-Jones requests monetary donations to the Neighbourhood Sidewalk Vigilance Committee in lieu of flowers.
I don’t know if there are five people in the world who lie awake at night worrying about squirrels. I have no statistics to help me arrive at the number five but I do know for sure that I have never been one of those odd souls if, in fact, they even exist.
The squirrels at our place are complete menaces. They get into our bird feeders and chomp down most of the seed. They rip our flowers out of the soil after we plant them. They chew up things you wouldn’t think any animal would be interested in chewing.
So when our wee poodle caught one of the little buggers a few weeks ago, it didn’t seem to be something to be concerned about, assuming the squirrel was not rabid. I asked the person who saw doggie catch the critter what he did with it. The answer came back, he shook it like one of his toys.
So, it’s all good, as the expression goes.
Or at least, it was, until the next day when I saw a poor squirrel, his head all twisted to his right side, trying to gather up some birdseed the birds had kicked onto the ground. I can’t say I have ever actually hated squirrels, though they can and do annoy me. But instantly I felt very sorry for this little guy. Soon, where there had been two squirrels that regularly roamed our backyard, there now was one. One lonely one, ransacking the bird feeders all by himself.
So the next day, I went searching for that one’s mate, expecting to find his body somewhere in our yards. But unlike the little devils when they visit our feeders, I came up empty handed.
Every day, for three or four days, one squirrel only ran atop our wooden fence and attacked the feeders. No sign of little Crooked Head. Of course, he must have died.
And then there were two and not one twisted skull among them. I don’t know if this is a newcomer to the yard. I hope not. I hope the little crooked dickens somehow survived. So I can yell at him three times a day to get out of the feeders. He and his pal have gotten so used to my rantings now they wait till I’m three feet away before they make a run for it.
Pest or not, I don’t want to start thinking of my sweet little doggie as a mad killer. I already have a cat that has that well-deserved reputation.
It’s not easy keeping the peace in our Backyard Wild Kingdom. But it’s a living.
I got up this morning and dressed myself as I am, happily, still able to do. Then reached for the bedside table for my smartphone. It was missing.
Rats.
So I went upstairs and grabbed one of our cordless landline phones and dialed my iPhone. I immediately heard it ring. Somewhere, pretty loudly, but I couldn’t tell where.
I raced back down to the bedroom. Loud ringing, but no phone. Out to the hallway, laundry, bathroom. Same thing. Lots of sound but no jackpot.
I dialed the number again and wandered upstairs. The sound was loud up there, maybe even louder. In the kitchen, in the living room. I searched the couches. Nothing.
I went out into the garage and dialed again. Riiinnnggg! Loud as hell. But a careful search produced no phone.
More dialing. Back downstairs. In the bedroom once more. Down on my knees looking under the bed.
Riiinnnggg!!! Very loud now. And as it rang, I felt a vibration in the back pocket of my jeans.
I sometimes forget my name too but fortunately, it is sown onto the front insides of my underwear waistband and so I check there now and then and sure enough, I am reminded of who I am: Harvey Woods.
At our home, I am known as Finder Man. I am very proud of that title and the fact that I gave it to myself takes nothing away from it, in my opinion.
I have a superpower, that first came to light when our kids began arriving on the scene almost 23 years ago. As kids will do, they lost things. A lot. And their resultant distress bothered me so much I kicked it into high gear and would search for hours, after they’d gone to bed, sometimes, until I came up with the lost item, usually a toy.
I once trawled the bottom of a lake with my feet for a set of green swimming goggles and amazingly (to me), found them. It was not the largest lake in the world, but still, it was a lake.
Another time, a child’s pearls that had been part of a necklace, were tossed into the garbage by accident when their string broke. This was a major crisis. Unfortunately, also in that bag of wet garbage was an almost full carton of cottage cheese that had gone bad. It is incredible show much a white cottage cheese nugget resembles a child’s pearl. I spread the whole mess out on an old door in the backyard and went through the entire affair, squeezing every round piece. If it was soft, it was cheese, if it was hard, a pearl. I eventually rescued all the pearls.
Whenever something disappears, I yell out, “Don’t worry. Finder Man will find it.” And I do. Then I remind everyone in the household of my sheer amazingness. I can tell they are always on the verge of being impressed.
A few weeks ago, my wife came home discouraged, and told me she had lost a little purse and was sure she would never see it again. She tried to convince me it didn’t matter, but there was a gift inside the purse that our daughter had given her among other items she didn’t want to lose. She kept looking everywhere in the house and car but was convinced it had fallen out of her pocket downtown. So, we went downtown, to the two places outside where she thought she might have dropped it. No luck. We came home and I knew she was dejected.
The next morning, without telling her, I went back to those places to look again. At the first parking lot, there was nothing. My only hope was the other lot, closer to the city centre. I parked my car and went to a machine to pay for parking. When I turned around, I thought I saw something in the grass not far from my car. I recognized it instantly. Someone had picked up the purse, opened it and probably looked for money. Finding none, he or she threw it on the ground without zipping it closed. Its contents spilled out in the wet grass, including our daughter’s gift to my wife.
I gathered everything up and came home. My wife was on the phone. I dropped the purse on her desk in front of her. Her face wore a look of shock I will never get tired of seeing. I might have scored a kiss out of the deal, I don’t remember. Finder Man had struck again.
And this was my biggest find of all. In a city in which at least twenty, one-hundred acre farms, could fit, I found a purse, about four inches by three inches, in one of several hundred parking lots.
My reputation will outlive me. Monuments will be built, awards given in my name, books written, movies made, newborn babies named after me. But none of that matters.
They say Hell is going through life concerned only with your own welfare. Heaven is helping to make someone else happy. It has taken me a long time to find that out, but I did, because, after all, I am Finder Man.
