Posted on September 9, 2013 under Monday Morning Musings with no comments yet

“The hills are alive, with the sound of music.” Eat your heart out Julie Andrews. I took this picture of Betty at “Ridge Lookout” on a hike this past weekend. I posted this picture on Facebook and have decided that I should put a picture of Betty with every story I write considering the response I received.

For you locals, if you are interested in seeing one of the most spectacular vistas in the county, here`s what you need to do. Head out the Cloverville Road and at the fork veer right onto the Fairmont Road. Continue along heading towards the back road that eventually comes out at Jimtown.  You will pass the Walsh Post Road and Brophy Road. Continue along Fairmont Road and you will see a sign on the right hand of the road for access to the Fairmont ridge trail. Don`t attempt this if you have a weak heart as the grade on the logging road is quite pronounced. We encountered one flat section of the road that had a huge puddle ( maybe 40 feet in length ). The road ends and then you have to locate a small trail leading to the lookout. It is reasonably well marked with orange ribbon but I wouldn`t do this walk anytime near dusk. In total it takes about 30 minutes to get to the top. Take a picnic. You won`t be disappointed.

Admit it. Cleaning your own house prior to moving is one of the most soul destroying exercises imaginable. However, there are things far worse. How about cleaning up after one of your children who has occupied a sublet with some buddies over the summer months. Or cleaning a mess left by complete strangers. Coming this week is the story `Down and Dirty` which explores this topic in all its sordid detail.

I was chatting with my buddy Phil the other day and  was reminiscing about growing up next door to the radio station. I started to tell him some stories about the early days of the station and some of the colorful on air characters. This is definitely a local story but I`m sure that anyone who comes from a small town that has a radio station can identify. Let`s see if you remember these names: The old timer; Armand; Danny Gallivan; Dr.Cecil; John a Go Go; Gus; Ray Mac; Freeman; and some of the more contemporary voices like  Kenny, Rhonda and Marilyn. The story is called `In The Shade of The Chestnut Tree. “

I received a lot of feedback on the lottery ticket story. While I made light of the situation, it definitely hit a nerve with a lot of people. Seriously, there has to be a better way for the lottery commission to manage the whole lottery ticket business. I am not the only person who finds this aggravating in the extreme. And I even heard back from a convenience store owner who invited me to spend a day on the other side of the counter. Pardon my French but can you imagine what a shit show that must be, dealing with lottery ticket freaks all day long.  Just hit me with a stick and put me out of my misery.

Have a great week.

Posted on September 7, 2013 under Storytelling with 3 comments

Once again, marijuana is stealing all of the headlines for all the wrong reasons.  The leader of the Federal Liberal Party, the man who might be our Prime Minister someday, announced truthfully that he has smoked marijuana.  Now there’s shocking and ground breaking news.  He may have even inhaled.  Maybe we can apply under the “Freedom of Information Act “and ask his respirologist, just to be on the safe side.  If this is his worst vice, let’s call an election tomorrow.

I was pondering all this chatter in the news these past days as I stood in line, embracing my wholesome sandwich.  “Who did and who didn’t” seems to be all the buzz.  I noticed that the lineup wasn’t moving very fast.

Have any of you read the classic story “Pride and Prejudice”?  The opening sentence goes like this: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man of good fortune must be in want of a wife”.   Jane Austen must of have been smoking something when she wrote this.  A single man with money wants to stay single and keep his money.

I have my own version of this famous quote. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that I will always choose the wrong lineup in a store”.  This is especially true when there is only one cashier.  The law of averages is not working in my favor when this happens.

I have parted ways with many of my vices.  I eschewed all smokeables over 35 years ago.  I haven’t had a drink of alcohol in years and recently I gave up the worst vice of all: sweets.  I attend mass twice each weekend and at this rate will soon be considered a candidate for a monastery if I give up the last of life’s great pleasures… lottery tickets.  Gotcha!  I know what you were thinking.

On this particular day, I didn’t have time to pack a lunch so I ran across Main Street to pick up a delightful sandwich at a small convenience store.  I took my place in a small lineup and within minutes the lineup swelled to six people.  Unfortunately, the first person in the lineup was clutching lottery tickets.

I don’t have anything against lottery tickets but there ought to be one place in the town where all the lottery ticket freaks can hang out.  It is painful enough watching people spending the equivalent of a week’s grocery money on lottery tickets and smokes without having to watch them lay out their tickets and have each and every one validated.  You think they don’t know already exactly to the penny how much they’ve won?

After an exasperating ten minutes of watching this charade, it came time for payment.  The combination and exchange of cash, debit and lottery winnings would have befuddled the governor of the Bank of Canada.  I was all but ready to sacrifice my sandwich to a sound flogging of the customer.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and the ordeal ended.  That is, until the next person in the lineup fumbled with her purse and hauled out a wad of lottery tickets.

Someday, I expect the store manager will find a mouldy turkey breast sandwich, sitting amongst the “Guns and Ammo” magazines.

Posted on September 6, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

“Only 194 more days of making lunches”, thought the harried mother of three on the eve of the first day of school.  She tucked them in the fridge and headed to bed anticipating an uneasy sleep.  She wasn’t disappointed.

She awoke, distracted and distraught knowing that the youngest was starting school for the first time, which represented a passage of sorts.  It is always bittersweet watching the youngest head towards freedom.  And, for the first time, the three children would all be attending different institutions but luckily within a stone’s throw of each other.

She walked the youngest to the bus stop and shed a tear as he climbed on the bus.  She couldn’t resist the urge to see how things would unfold at the other end so she and her husband jumped in the car and surreptitiously made their way to the elementary school, hoping that they wouldn’t meet any of their neighbors.  When they arrived, they counted 19 other parents who lived in the same subdivision.

The buses pulled in and sure enough bus number 402 was amongst them.  The toddlers disembarked and the anxiety level crept up a few notches.  This turned into full blown panic when their son failed to emerge.  One of the children indicated that their son had somehow managed to pass himself off as a junior high student and was over at the junior school about 100 yards away.  She ran at a speed that would have left Usain Bolt in awe.  She nearly steamrolled a bulky male physical education teacher in her quest to save her son from the perils of junior high.  That would have to wait another 6 years or so.

The crisis avoided, she dropped her husband at work and returned home to pull herself together after a stressful few hours.  Not even a double-double at Tim Horton’s could salvage the start of this day.

She drove into the yard and returned the composter to its rightful place, this being garbage day, another minor inconvenience.   She looked at her tear stained blouse in the hall mirror and walked into the kitchen.

It was at this point that she noticed the three lunch kits lined up like little soldiers on the counter.  “There goes my Mother of the Year award”, she thought, momentarily.

She hurriedly dressed and made her way to three schools.  Do you have any idea what it is like on the first day of school?  Finding your child would be akin to seeking and finding the Dead Sea Scrolls.

She arrived at work, twenty minutes late, looking very much like someone who had just survived a twister.  The receptionist, a good friend and parent as well, casually asked how the send-off went.  She couldn’t even muster a smile or a grunt but merely gave a subtle raise of the eyebrow.  It was one of those gestures that say “Don’t ask”.

She sat at her desk and exhaled.  She flipped on the radio which happened to be playing oldies.  She heard the familiar strains of Gloria Gaynor, a disco queen her parents played often back in the ‘70’s.  The song she was singing … “I Will Survive”.