Posted on October 8, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

The Air Canada flight reached cruising speed when the passenger pulled out a novel that he had purchased prior to the flight.  He was in high spirits, having just completed a successful road race the previous weekend.  He may have been in the best shape of his life as was evidenced by his lean physique.

He carefully removed the silk bookmark, a souvenir from the race.  The bright red letters said it all: 1^St place; The Great Sooke Footrace.  He left the bookmark in a conspicuous place, on the arm of his seat, an aisle seat at that.  As people wandered back and forth to the washroom, their eyes were drawn to the ribbon which had success written all over it.  A young brunette in the opposite aisle seat looked at him several times during the flight, obviously impressed with his running prowess.

I used to live in Victoria and, during that time, visited the small, idyllic community of Sooke on several occasions.

Two things stand out.

Back then the Sooke Harbor House was a well-known restaurant … and quite pricey.  It’s an old converted heritage farmhouse situated at sea level on a beautiful shoreline.   The vista was spectacular and was only surpassed by the gourmet food prepared and served by the chef and his wife.  I had taken a young woman there for dinner, a meal that I could ill afford, but when you are trying to impress, cost is never a factor.  We managed to get through drinks and appetizers before I realized the inappropriateness of my choice of restaurants.  When the main course arrived, my date asked for ketchup to splatter over her magnificent fish dinner.  Our next, and last date, was at Burger King.

Sooke is also famous for a series of waterfalls cascading down a mountain stream.  It resembles a staircase with a pool forming at the bottom of each waterfall.  Hence the name “The Sooke Potholes”. My friends and I decided to check it out one weekend.  The lower pools are not deep and are frequented by parents and small children.  As you go higher up the mountain, the pools get deeper, the water gets colder and the bathing attire changes drastically.  The very last pool is for nudists only.  While I protested vehemently when we reached the top, the other members of my party insisted that this pool was our final stop.  Being a team player, I agreed to stay.

The Great Sooke Footrace is a gem.  It is primarily a trail run and is broadly supported by the local community.  Most races provide race kits which contain the standard fare: notices of upcoming races, coupons for a variety of things, gels and power bars.  The swag at Sooke is quite different.  It is not uncommon to get a can of creamed corn or possibly a bar of Irish spring soap.  Checking the” best before” dates on these products is advised.

The race began on a cloudless summer morning as my brother Tom towed the line with about 400 other runners.  It was hard to ignore the pre- race buzz.

The race could not have gone much better as he manhandled the course.  At around the three-quarter mark he came upon a man who was running the race, incredibly, with a wooden leg.  Just as he began to overtake him the man stumbled momentarily, allowing Tom to pass him.  My brother peered back and he seemed no worse for wear.

The awards ceremony was held at the conclusion of the event.  Tom was outwardly pleased but was inwardly shocked as he approached the stage to receive his first-place medal.  He had never been a front runner in his age division prior to this stunning turn of events.  When the man with the wooden leg accepted the second place medal and there was none awarded for third place, it dawned on him that he and the man with the wooden leg were the only participants in their division.

The passengers on the plane would never know the difference.

 

 

 

Posted on October 7, 2013 under Monday Morning Musings with 2 comments

                                                              ( Dave Brosha Photography )

Gosh. It’s hard for even a world class photographer like my nephew , Dave to make me look good. Of course he shoots landscapes and he hasn’t seen one quite like this in the north.

We’ll call this “Mistaken Identities 2 .” On the weekend I was attending Homecoming events at St.F.X. I went to the class dinner for the Class of ’73. I entered a room and it was filled with a bunch of old farts, until I realized that they were my classmates. Holy crap.  They’ve gotten old while I have somehow managed to remain so young looking. Yes, we have all changed and if you need any evidence, scroll to the bottom.  It is quite sobering to look around the room and realize that you are one of those old geezers that you used to look at when you had your 10th. reunion. We had a great time and Betty and I hosted them at our house for an evening of camaraderie and a few tunes. But not before a mixup.

Hands. How many people remember the movie “Cool Hand Luke?” Thought so. There is a famous line in the movie where the warden is speaking to the prisoner ( Paul Newman). Best line in the movie, hands down: “What we got here, is a failure to communicate.” The class picture was, how can I say this politely, a shit show. Poor Bernice, the photographer, was patiently (?) trying to get 40 or so reasonably lubricated senior citizens to organize themselves for the photo. It was just chaos, pure and simple.

 Knowing we had company coming to the house shortly, my wife decided that her time could be better used at home getting last minute things ready. Gee, why wouldn’t she rather hang around with a bunch of besotted people she didn’t even know? So off, she went leaving me carless… just one letter shy of careless. When the photo session ended, I hightailed it on foot, a pleasant walk of 2.5 kilometers. The streets were littered with students who had been drinking since early in the morning. I gave them a wide berth as I worried about a swarming. When I got home, I was surprised to see that the car wasn’t in the driveway. My guess was that Betty  was out getting some last minute items.

That is, until I entered the kitchen to find her there. She had taken a cab. I will spare you the discussion that ensued. Use your imaginations.

I walked down to the cathedral Sunday morning to pick up the car, only to discover that mass was on and that my car was completely boxed in by Christians. Penance for not listening closely to my wife the previous evening.

On a slightly more serious note, I attended the Georgetown Conference this past week on beautiful P.E.I. It was a gathering of people from every corner of Atlantic Canada who came on their own dime to address the challenges we face in our region. The conference theme was “Redefining Rural.” Many small towns and villages are in serious trouble with the decline of our once vibrant primary industries coupled with the out migration to the West of our citizens, young and old. We heard from many speakers about what they were doing in their communities to re-invent their economies. I have a piece coming out in this week’s Casket and would respectfully ask that you take a look at it.

I have a running story coming at you tomorrow. It is a true story…sort of. Well, it’s partially true except for the parts that I made up. All you runners will get a kick out of this. At one point in my running career, placing well in my age group was always a badge of honor until I realized that absolutely nobody, not even your wife or your dog, gives a shit about where you placed. This story is called “Pegged For Success.”

So, why would my fellow classmates not be able to recognize me after 40 years?

Posted on October 5, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Have you ever arrived at an event when you just know that you’re not in the right place?  It could be as simple as going to a wedding in an unfamiliar city and arriving at the church, the wrong church, not recognizing a single soul.  Or going to a conference at a major convention centre and viewing a power point presentation on the sex lives of snails, when you were expecting pre-retirement planning.

In a small university town, two friends were hosting an evening of story-telling in aid of a local charity.  Ticket sales had been brisk and the demographic was skewed in favor of an older crowd.  In the same campus building, just down the hall, was another production geared to a slightly different age group.  The poster on the wall, not far from the notice advertising the charity event, blared out the words highlighted in fuchsia …

“Sex Toy Bingo”

An elderly couple approached the entrance to the building, running a little bit behind schedule.  The man, slightly hearing-impaired and brandishing a cane, was assisted by his devoted life’s partner.  While her mobility was excellent, her vision was in decline.  To make matters worse, they had not purchased tickets in advance, much to the wife’s chagrin.

They stepped into the lobby of the building, a very busy and confusing place as the two events were being held simultaneously.  To their left was the sparkling new auditorium where the readings were taking place.  To their right, several paces away, was the room rented for sex toy bingo.

A flirtatious young couple, arm in arm, approached the building for an evening of amusement and titillation.  They had decided that a few drinks prior to the experience were in order, just to get them in the mood.  They had wisely purchased their tickets in advance, as these shows often sold out.  They entered the lobby and were met by a smartly dressed young usher, a nice touch but seemingly unnecessary, considering the type of entertainment that they were expecting.

The older couple took a hard right and the young couple entered to their left, having been directed by the usher to the entrance for people already holding tickets.

The young couple found the video montage very entertaining as they took their seats.  They didn’t spot the bingo apparatus or any other equipment for that matter as they stared at a stage with two stools and a podium.

The elderly couple tendered their money to a scantily clad woman holding a whip.  “What do you think that strap is for, Joe?”  Joe’s eyes wandered oh so briefly at the cleavage at eye level.

The lights dimmed in the auditorium as two men, hair thinning, approached the stage.  Introductions ensued followed by the first reading, an amusing tale about a local restaurant.

Across the hall the bingo caller announced that the first prize of the night, for completion of a line in any direction, was the latest edition of “The Joy of Sex”.  The old folks were slightly bewildered but decided not to make a scene.  But when an array of colourful curiosities made its appearance, they realized that they were in the wrong place.

Meanwhile, the young twosome had fallen fast asleep after listening to two of the most boring speakers they had ever heard.  They were politely asked to leave and stumbled up the stairs into the lobby.

They saw a pair of seniors coming down the corridor.  They looked an awful lot like her grandparents.