Posted on September 6, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Getting my just desserts

 

 

“They call me mellow yellow …”

Mellow Yellow – Donovan

 

I met Otto Bernstein in the spring of 1977.  My dear friend, the late Pat Campbell, introduced me to this most amazing man.  Pat was a piano player and on many occasions she would travel out to Bluesky to accompany Otto, who was a better than average cello player.  I always had the impression that he was a Renaissance man.

As much as I enjoyed the music they made together that day, I was there on a very different mission.  Otto spent a good deal of the year in a southern climate and I was interested in renting his log house.

From what I could determine, he was way ahead of his time.  He had fashioned all kinds of gadgets on the property, including an indoor cistern and a dumb waiter.  He had wired the property so that the yard would light up at nightfall.  He even had a garage that would open by remote control.  Remember, this was 1977.  His house was a veritable antique shop and he had dozens, possibly hundreds of knick-knacks and paintings in the living room.  I was a bit leery about being responsible for all this.

I had every right to feel a bit nervous.

I had come from the East coast to teach school, and I was joined by five other guys who graduated with their teaching degrees from the same institution.  We were all in our twenties, single, with a bit of polishing required around the rough edges.  The boys enjoyed a good party and every so often things went a bit off the rails.

After one particularly raucous affair, we had left the apartment belonging to one of the guys a tad upside down.  Literally.  I remember with great clarity when he declared that someday he would exact his revenge, singling me out as the instigator.

Many months later I left town to attend a professional development conference in Banff.  Banff is a long drive from Bluesky, around 10 hours.  After two full days of endless meetings I hit the road for home on Sunday afternoon.  Somewhere between Edmonton and Grande Prairie, it hit me like a thunderbolt. Something bad awaited me upon my return to Otto’s log house.  I just knew that the boys had taken advantage of my extended absence.

I arrived home after dark and pulled into the yard.  The outdoor lights went on.  I pressed the remote control to open the garage door.  I wasn’t able to drive in because my bedroom was neatly arranged where the car would normally be parked.

I cautiously approached the cabin, and just as I was about to open the door, something told me to look up.  Perched precariously over the entryway was a bucket of water which promptly fell when I gently turned the knob.

The kitchen is the first room past the front porch.  I flicked on the lights and the ambiance didn’t look quite right.  And, little wonder.  The floor of the kitchen was completely encased in two inches of yellow Jell-O.  And so was every glass, every bowl, every pot and pan.  I removed my socks and made my way through the slimy mess and entered the living room.

It was empty.  Nothing.  Every piece of furniture, every piece of art and ornamentation had been removed.

Scattered on the floor of the kitchen were the discarded wrappers of photos from a Polaroid camera.  I realized that the intruders had the good sense and decency (!) to take pictures before and after the crime.

It was 2:00 a.m. when I had finally scrapped away the Jell-o from the kitchen floor and re-assembled the bedroom indoors.  Finding all of the knick-knacks would come later.

I arrived in the staff room bright and early on Monday morning. The co-conspirators were sipping their coffee waiting to see my reaction.  I pretended that nothing had happened.  I didn’t utter a word about the chaos that they had wreaked on my living quarters.

Slowly but surely I recovered most of the antiques, ornaments and paintings.  Some of them I found in the tall pine trees surrounding the house.  But I couldn’t be 100% certain that everything had been recovered.  I needed to see the pictures that they had taken.  Finally, on Friday afternoon, at the end of the school day, I confronted them.  I swore at them; they laughed and they gave me the pictures.  On the weekend I put everything back in its rightful place.

Every so often, I will see a dish of Jell-O sitting in a display cooler in a restaurant.  One of these days, I think I will try a bowl for old time’s sake.

Any colour but yellow.

 

 

 

 

Posted on September 4, 2014 under Thursday Tidbits with 2 comments

Bidding summer farewell

 

 

Well, it’s back to school and for most of us, the return to some form of normalcy. I truly think that we should lobby the  government to have September 1^st. as the first day of the year instead of January 1^st. Everybody is back into a regular rhythm. Kids are in school, the days are getting shorter and the Blue Jays are in a tailspin once again. Yup. Everything is normal.

I was very gratified with the response to “Happy Trails.” The Cabot Trail is special. I have some friends from Antigonish who were travelling in Alaska last year. They bumped into a couple from the U.S. who were on a two year voyage around the globe. They were into their 13^th. month and my friends asked them what was the most beautiful place they had been.  My friends hadn’t told these folks where they were from. They paused and said, “the Cabot Trail.” If you haven’t been there in a while, treat yourself, even if it’s only a day trip, and do “the Trail.” And don’t forget the butterscotch pie at The Clucking Hen restaurant!

So, we were having a family gathering on the long weekend. After gorging on sweets for most of the summer, I vowed publically that I was going to limit my dessert intake drastically starting September 1^st. Well one thing led to another and the topic of dieting came up. I had mentioned that my cholesterol was down for the first time in years at my last annual checkup in August. Of course, like a fool, my reaction was to go out and binge on greasy food and desserts knowing I had a full year before my next checkup. Why do we humans react this way? Why can`t we take this kind of news and redouble our efforts to do even better? Because we are weaklings and I am at the head of the list.

Just about everyone I know has at one time or another, tried to lose weight. We started talking about weigh ins and the lengths that people go to in the days and hours leading up to this nerve wracking event. One person confessed that she actually spit saliva into a cup on the drive into the weigh in. She boasted that she was still able to wear the earrings she wore as a teenager. Not sure if that is some badge of honour. I mean, have you ever seen an obese earlobe? As dangerous as this may sound, I am going to tackle the phenomenon of dieting. Soon. After I lose a pound or two!

Lots more stories to come including my trilogy about life working in a sawmill. The first two parts have been written. It’s amazing that a person’s brain can draw up images of the past including smells. I started my fleeting mill career working on a green chain. This was incredibly dirty and noisy work. You had to wear a leather apron and leather gloves ( a lovely ensemble! ) handling lumber that had just passed through a chemical bath. The smell oozed into your pores and you could taste it at the end of a shift. The good news is that there was a pub a mere 5 minute walk from the mill. I found ways to make that awful taste go away.

Coming up on Saturday is the story “They Call Me Yellow Jell-o.” Some friends “trashed” a cabin I was renting while teaching in Northern Alberta. You must read this one. It is 100% true. Many of the principals in the story have passed away so I feel no threat of reprisals.

Have a great week.

P.S. ( True Story ) A woman who was dieting , baked a pan of brownies. She and her husband shared one row of squares. The next morning , after he had left for work, she ate the remainder of the brownies in one sitting. Panicked, she hastily made another pan, let it cool and ate the first row. Her husband never knew the difference.

Posted on September 3, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

The Colindale Road, Cape Breton

 

 

“Happy trails to you, keep smilin’ until then.”

Happy Trails – Dale Evans Rogers

When was the last time that you had a day to call your own?

I decided to take a trip around the Cabot Trail.  Alone.  My wife had to work; otherwise she would have jumped at the opportunity.  No kids, grandkids, brothers, sisters, cousins, distant relatives, ghosts of relatives.  You get the picture.

I reckon I have been around the Cabot Trail well over fifty times in my life, but never alone.  I travelled to Ingonish every weekend of the summer back in the late 60’s with the family band, The Escorts.  I have made the trek with my own family, and like many Nova Scotians, have played tour guide to friends visiting from out of province

Only once have I ever regretted being on the Trail, and that was a trip I took in winter.  A snow storm descended on Cape Smokey.   Luckily, the vehicle in front of me was a snow plow; otherwise the outcome of that expedition could have been very different.

My ultimate destination on this voyage was Ingonish, to attend the wake of an old university friend.  The wake was scheduled for 6:00 p.m. at the church in Ingonish Beach.  I left Antigonish  early in the morning, crossed the Causeway, made the sharp left turn onto Route 19 and headed up the west side of Cape Breton Island.

And for once in my life, I wasn’t in a big hurry.

The early part of the journey was drenched in sunshine as I made my way through the small communities that dot the coastline.  I drove through downtown Port Hood and took the back road to Mabou, via the Colindale Road.  Like so many places in Cape Breton, the scenery along this stretch of road is awe-inspiring.  As I passed through West Mabou I felt the urge to get out of the car and start dancing.  I feared that the sheep in an adjacent pasture might call the authorities and report me, so I cancelled my performance and carried on.

I stopped in Mabou for a few minutes.  The Red Shoe was closed.  A little too early in the day for a pint anyway.   I decided to go to the graveyard and visit my dear friend Raylene, who rests peacefully in a quiet, sun dappled corner of the cemetery with the mountains keeping watch in the distance.  There was mist in the hills and a bit in my eyes as well.

I rolled into Inverness mid-morning.  Four years ago I could have navigated Main Street without meeting too many people.  On this morning, it was like Times Square in New York … minus the glitz.  The place was buzzing, with every parking spot occupied and the sidewalks alive with people.  The adjacent golf course, Cabot Links, is the magnet for all of this activity.

I spent two hours at the golf course.  They employ close to 200 people and once the new course, Cabot Cliffs, opens next year, that number is sure to rise.  I’m not usually one to hang around gift shops but the one at Cabot Links is unique as it is housed in a yurt.  I spent just about an hour chatting with Ann, one of the managers.  We hit it off immediately; kindred spirits for sure.   This was surprising when I found out later in the conversation that she is a Campbell.  We MacDonalds haven’t forgotten Glencoe yet.

When I’m away from home I like to keep in touch with family and work, so my cellphone is always nearby.  Inexplicably, my phone stopped working during my visit to the gift shop.  Initially I found this disconcerting because, like most people, I have become dependent upon technology.  When I realized, after a visit to a cell phone store in Cheticamp, that the problem couldn’t be fixed quickly, I tossed the phone on the seat and decided to enjoy the luxury of being “out of the loop.”

The drive through the Highlands did not disappoint.  I pulled over several times and simply enjoyed the majesty of it all.  I didn’t see a whole lot of wild life.  I saw a couple of Cape Breton screaming eagles … these ones weren’t wearing skates.

I hadn’t been to Meat Cove in 35 years and had this on my list of places to go.  I reached the intersection at Cape North and turned left.  My recollection was that Meat Cove was just a hop and a skip from there.   I drove and drove and drove.  I reached Bay St. Lawrence.  Desperate for coffee, I went into the Co-op and treated myself to a decent cup for the princely sum of $1.00.  I even bought a few “pull tickets”.  Lo and behold I won a buck, so I headed off with a cup of free coffee.  How good is that!

And then I drove some more.  After passing through Capstick, the pavement ended and I drove some more on a dirt road for 8 kilometers.  It was extremely windy as a storm was passing through.   A few of the corners, with very steep drops down to the ocean on my right, reminded me of navigating the narrow roadways of Ireland a few years back.   I was tempted to move to the opposite side of the road for old time’s sake.

When I reached my destination I disembarked and chatted with Rhonda MacLellan, an eighth generation of MacLellans who run the campground.  I discovered that Meat Cove got its name from a time when sailors would come into the cove to pick up meat and other supplies.  Besides their world class chowder, the other must do things in Meat Cove are whale watching and hiking.  Rhonda said that there are days when the whales come right into the cove and you can hear them from the campground.  Best of all, there is no cell phone service to spoil nature at its finest.

I stopped in at Country Crafts to buy my wife a beautiful pottery coffee mug.  I met two lovely ladies running the shop and confessed that my wife may be suspicious when I show up at home with a gift.   This is definitely out of character for me.

I had a few quiet moments in St. Peter’s church as I paid my respects to my old friend, Bobby.  It felt good to be there with his family.  I saw some old pictures on the memorial wall and spotted some long haired freaks from the bad old days at St. F.X.  I was amongst them with the world’s largest afro.  Bobby’s sister had a difficult time believing that this was the same person as the nearly bald man in front of her.

I had a bowl of fish chowder at The Clucking Hen, one of my favorite spots to eat on the Trail.  “No Fowl Moods” is their motto.  After consuming a piece of freshly baked butterscotch cream pie, I told one of the women that , should I die on the way home, she is to tell my family that I had a piece of heaven in my belly and a smile on my face.

It was the perfect ending to a beautiful day.  Thanks, Bobby.

“Happy trails to you, until we meet again.”