Posted on May 1, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Real men don’t eat quiche.  But they do make their own dough.  No, not that kind of dough.  I’m talking dough that turns into real, home-made bread.   It is Saturday morning.  My beleaguered wife is a tax preparer and while she slaves away seven days a week during the initial rush, I take over the domestic chores.  The first load of laundry is on the go.  Ditto for the spaghetti sauce.  Love letting it sit all day in the slow cooker.  And just last week I dusted off an old recipe and have decided to make my own bread.

I flick on the local radio station just as I am kneading the bread for the first time.  On any given Saturday you will get either Joe or Gerard as your host.  These guys have been at the helm since around the time of Adam and Eve.  And they are old pros at their craft.  I don’t know their ages for sure but I’m guessing they are my vintage because they happen to play the music that I grew up with.  As I wait for the bread to rise, I grab a coffee and the New York Times crossword puzzle and settle in, with “Take it to the Limit” by The Eagles playing in the background.

If you want to feel the rhythm of a small town, turn on the radio on a Saturday morning while you’re doing your chores.  It is a pleasant mixture of music, news, local events and announcements.  Nowhere else but in small town Canada will you hear that bingo has been cancelled due to a death in the community.  They must sell a lot of cars on a Saturday because invariably there’s a live feed from one of the car dealerships.  And then I hear the Dave Clark 5 pounding out the lyrics to “Glad All Over”.

No Saturday would be complete without the buy and sell segment.   And when spring rolls around, my wife and her ilk wait breathlessly to hear about the yard sales.  Only in a small town would you get the “lost dogs” report.  Spencer Davis belts out “Gimme Some Lovin’”.

Is the entire globe fixated on weather?   Back when I was growing up, weather just happened.  You knew there was bad weather by looking out your window.  Nowadays, it appears to be an obsession.   And despite all of the sophisticated weather tracking devices, my arthritic knee is the best gauge of all.  Just after the umpteenth weather report, the Beach Boys ramp things up with “Help Me Rhonda”.

One thing is absolutely certain on a Saturday morning.  You’re not likely to hear any rap music.  Joe and Gerard just don’t seem to be rapper kind of guys.

As I’m taking the bread out of the oven, Anne Murray is crooning that old favorite “You Needed Me”.   I look at the bread and the bread stares back at me as if to say “You kneaded me”.  Is there anything better than warm bread just out of the oven?

Yes.  Joe and Gerard.  Like an old pair of slippers; familiar and comfortable.

Posted on April 29, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

We just returned home from a busy weekend in Halifax to share in the joy of the birth of out third grandchild, Leah Rose. Mother, father and daughter are all doing well.

I have several stories just about ready to go. One is about listening to the local radio station on Saturdays while doing chores. There’s nothing more interesting than to listen to the heartbeat of small town Canada through the airwaves, especially on a Saturday.

And even though it’s not hunting season, I heard a story while having a trim the other day at the barber shop that is worthy of sharing.

Have a good week. Looks like it’s going to be sunny and warmer.

Posted on April 26, 2013 under Storytelling with 6 comments

Men are, by and large, a stoic lot.  They are not prone to outbursts of emotion and rarely if ever cry.  Some would say that this is both a blessing and a curse.  Maybe we are dour Scots and it’s just not in our DNA to weep in public.  As I get older and the trips to the bathroom and to doctors’ appointments are more frequent than trips to the grocery store, I think about these types of things more and more.  When is the last time you saw a grown man cry?

There is only one sure fire way to bring tears to my eyes and that is cutting onions.  How can something so tasty be so aggravating to prepare?  When my wife is getting ready to prepare the stuffing for the turkey or the gravy that goes with it, my job is to cut the onions and sauté them in the old cast iron frying pan.  When we were sorting out job descriptions, I drew the short straw on this one.

I love music and occasionally I can feel a tear welling up when I hear an inspiring piece of music.  Church music sung by a choir in four parts is probably as close to heaven as I’ll get.  And is there anything more joyous than listening to a symphony orchestra live and in person?  Some current pop music makes me cry but for a whole different reason.

But there is probably nothing more emotional for a man than to witness the birth of his first child …. once he gets over the utter shock of labor and delivery.  I remember carrying my son from the case room to the nursery.  I was overwhelmed as I sang “The Massacre of Glencoe”.  I was quite choked up.  In retrospect, it is hard to believe that the first words your son would hear were about the slaughter of his forefathers.  I carried him in fear and trembling lest I drop him.  A few days later, we took him home. And then it happened.

Back then, my wife was a student and I was earning a meager income in the non-profit sector.  Resources were tight and there were several luxuries we could ill afford, including alcohol.  However, you can rationalize just about anything after the birth of your first-born and I somehow juggled the budget to allow for the purchase of a forty ounce glass bottle of rum.  I was planning a gathering of a few of my friends to toast the continuance of the clan.  I didn’t invite any Campbells.

You hardly need a liquor cabinet when you can’t afford to buy it so I stored the rum under the kitchen sink.  My sleep-deprived wife happened along and went to get some dish soap or Mr. Clean from under the sink.  I was in the adjacent room beholding the miracle of birth.  And that’s when I heard a crash followed by a gasp.  No longer was I marvelling at my four day old son.  Now I was staring in disbelief at the broken rum bottle and its contents gracing the surface of the kitchen floor.

As tears welled in my eyes, I went down the hallway seeking consolation from my son.  I grabbed my Stones collection and let the needle drop on the vinyl and listened to the lyrics to “As Teardrops Fall”.

We will be married thirty one years soon but for a split second on that fateful night so many years ago, our young marriage was sorely tested.  We passed that test. Barely.  The first of many to come!