Posted on June 17, 2014 under Storytelling with one comment

A grave situation

 

 

It all started in a graveyard back in 1965.

My very first paying job as a teenager was mowing grass at the local cemetery. I was hired by Joe Mike, the caretaker, and for the princely sum of $1.00 an hour I mowed for eight hours at a stretch. Along with a scheduled lunch break, the only other time the mower stopped was when it rained, or when there was a funeral.

We bought our very first home from my buddy Phil. At the time, he was renting the house to a lovely couple. They had some health issues and when we took possession of the house, the grass was several feet high on parts of the lawn. Before even attempting to mow, a friend of mine and I went at it with a scythe. We could have baled it and sold it.

When we were banished to the country, after our chickens became a nuisance in our neighbors’ gardens, lawn mowing took on a whole new dimension as our real estate expanded to more than an acre. How appropriate that we moved to Cloverville. We were rolling in clover. This was the apex of my lawn mowing career. It usually took about four and a half hours to complete the chore. In June, when the dandelions made their brief appearance, it was not uncommon to see them reappear on the front of the lawn moments after finishing the back.

The present house we occupy is large but, thankfully, it sits on a relatively small piece of land. So small in fact, that my wife thought that we could make do with an old model push mower. We would take a leadership role in the environmental movement. The Briggs and Stratton gas mower lay dormant for a week or so while we tried out the new green machine. A push mower and dandelions together won’t kill you but they can surely frustrate you to death. Why can’t a push mower level those noxious weeds?

After a long life of yeoman service….and poor maintenance on my part, our gas mower finally bit the dust. With the thought of the push mower looming, I agreed to accept an offer of an electric lawn mower that my mother-in-law was giving away.

I have often pondered how I might die, but until this point in time strangulation or electrocution were not on the list. I tried to employ logic, but soon discovered that there is no way to mow a lawn with an electric mower without using the “f” word. Can’t be done. Every time I had to flip the extension cord out of the way I found myself flipping the bird at the bloody machine for good measure.

Just before the end of the mowing season last year, my wife announced that we (she) had acquired a new electric lawn mower using Air Miles. I tried to restrain my joy. Luckily I wouldn’t get to use it for another six months or so. We picked it up a few weeks ago and, I must say, mowing has become fun again. This electric mower is light as a feather, powered by a rechargeable lithium battery and doesn’t need an extension cord. And the best part is the charge lasts for 25 minutes, just enough time to finish our small lawn and return to the Golf Channel.

We are about to come full circle. When we sell our house, there is a good chance that we will live in a mini home or an apartment. If there is grass to cut, a reasonably sharp pair of scissors should do the trick.

I bumped into a friend the other day and we were comparing lawnmower stories. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Why are husbands like lawn mowers? “ Beats me. “They are difficult to get started, and then they don’t work half the time.”

When my time comes and my quest for the perfectly mown lawn comes to an end, it might be appropriate to finish the job where it all started.

Grab a few blades of grass and toss them on my grave.

Will the grass be greener on the other side?

 

 

Posted on June 16, 2014 under Monday Morning Musings with no comments yet

 

 

I saw this ad in the paper last week and had a good chuckle. It got me to thinking about my own lifetime of mowing lawns. The very first lawn I mowed was not a lawn at all. It was a grave. Several graves, actually. I had a summer job mowing graves at the cemetery when I was 14. Some of you would remember “Joe Mike.” He hired me. What a sweet man. I earned $1.00 an hour. When I saw the ad, I thought that this would be an easy story to write. So, bright and early tomorrow morning, I will be posting the story, “ The Grass is Greener.”

I still can’t quite figure out why some stories just take off and get a huge viewership. “Privacy in the Privy,” which was published here on Saturday, was one of my top five responses… ever. I liked the story but didn’t think it was anything special. I know my “regulars” read just about every bit of nonsense I post, but some people obviously make a judgment call in the first few lines, whether or not they will continue to read the piece. Regardless, thanks for reading this story. It will definitely be in my new book, based on the feedback.

I met a lovely lady at the ATM the other morning. She told me she was 86 and that she reads all my stories in The Casket. She has a wonderful sense of humour. She was telling me about a recent visit to the hospital where she was sitting beside a 92 year old woman who had a multiplicity of health issues. They were comparing notes and the 86 year old looked at her and said,” the only thing golden about the golden years, is the color of my pee.” ! What a great line. I think having a sense of humour is one of the keys to a happy life. This lady is living proof.

I am putting the finishing touches on my story about piping and drumming. I have done just enough research to get myself into trouble, weighing in on a subject about which I know nothing.  “Pipe Dreams” is a story about the Antigonish Highland Society Pipe band and an interesting collaboration that they have going with a band from Great Village.

I absolutely gorged myself on golf this weekend. When I wasn’t in church ( twice! ), I was dialed in to the U.S. Open golf tournament. I was particularly interested because I had the pleasure of playing this course a couple of times, many years ago on a vacation to the Pinehurst resort. This was the same trip that I had the incident with my kilt in the dining hall of the 5 star resort on the complex. ( see “Right up Yer Kilt” ).

Had two of the grandchildren around this weekend.  What a Father’s Day gift.

I had a great time as a guest on Maritime Connections on CBC radio yesterday afternoon. If you would like to listen to it check out this link: http://www.cbc.ca/maritimeconnection/ If you don’t have time to listen to the whole show, you can fast forward to 43:40 on the tape.

I saw this the other day and thought I would share it with you: “ Instead of John, I’m calling my bathroom Jim. It sounds better when I say that I went to the Jim first thing this morning.”

Have a great week.

Posted on June 14, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Locked in the loo

 

 

It is Lord Baden-Powell who gets credit for the famous Boy Scout’s motto: “Be prepared”

My wife would be one of those people that Baden-Powell would absolutely adore.  She pays attention to detail and she heeds weather warnings with the best of them.  When there is a threat of a power outage due to an impending storm (hurricanes are her favorite), she goes all out to make sure that our household is adequately equipped, should the blackout last several days.  She gets out the candles and candle holders.  She gets every flashlight and checks the batteries.  She brings in enough five gallon jugs of water to keep us going for days.  Possibly months.  And she makes absolutely certain that our MotoMaster Eliminator “power pack with inverter” is fully charged.  If the power goes out, there must be a working outlet for the coffee maker.

When the first flurry of snow falls from the sky in late November, she heads to the trunk of the car.  Along with a bag or two of sand and a small shovel, she puts together the emergency kit consisting of extra clothes, the aforementioned candles, matches, some dried fruit and granola bars … and one of the five gallon jugs of water.

But despite mankind’s best efforts to be ready for anything and everything, some things you just can’t prepare for.  Like getting locked in a hotel bathroom.

Hotel bathrooms have come a long way over the years.  Most modern complexes have bathrooms that are more like spas.  Most,  but not all.

On a recent trip to Prince Edward Island, we stayed at a venerable old hotel.  How old, you say?  As far as I can tell, the Fathers of Confederation probably stayed there during their deliberations on the creation of Canada.  The hotel was quaint and charming and the staff could not have been more pleasant.

We were on “The Island” for a getaway weekend.  We even managed to have an old fashioned date night consisting of a movie and dinner.  The last time we recall doing this was in June of 1982 when we saw the movie “E.T., The Extra Terrestrial” followed by a home cooked meal at the Armview in Halifax. This was before the arrival of children.  Actually, come to think of it, that was the last movie we went to together until our recent tryst.

Betty was in the bathroom dolling herself up while I plodded away at the New York Times crossword puzzle.  My train of thought was interrupted by a clunking sound.  I peered off in the direction of the bathroom and saw the door knob sitting on the floor.  Its counterpart on the other side of the door had met a similar fate.

I initially ignored the muffled voice in the bathroom as I pondered the clue for 5 down.  However, I soon realized that there was a damsel in distress.  An evil grin crossed my face as I thought about the endless possibilities.  Maybe I would go for a stroll down Queen Street and treat myself to a Cow’s ice cream.  I was quickly jolted back to reality as my bride’s demands escalated.  Between the two of us, me pushing from one side and her pushing from the other side, we were able to get the mechanism to work.

We both had a good chuckle and began to wonder what would have happened if I was out for a game of golf and the “do not disturb” reminder was hanging from the door knob to our room.  What would she have done to while away the hours?

Henceforth, we will carry an emergency kit and take it with us when we frequent older hotels.  It will be comprised of an iPad, a smart phone, a small automatic coffee maker and a few small pouches of coffee, along with a Maeve Binchey novel.

Throw in an old claw foot tub and she may never come out.