Posted on January 26, 2015 under Monday Morning Musings with no comments yet

Sundown somewhere in Texas

 

 

As we brace for tomorrow’s big storm, I thought a picture of a Texas sunset was in order. So far, the winter has been a bit on the tame side. Snow enthusiasts must be licking their chops along with people who make a living plowing snow.

Several of you got a kick out of the story “ Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread.” ( published last Saturday ) I told a friend that I would love to write an entire book about being brought up Catholic. She thought that I might risk eternal damnation if I did this but I don’t have to write a book to achieve this lofty status.

There’s only one thing worse than being stood up for a date. And that is being the one who stood up their friend. So last Friday, I’m chilling at the Tall and Small waiting to meet one of my best old friends. ( You’re not old, M.! ). The minutes are ticking by and it’s obvious by 9:15 that my friend is not going to show up. No big deal. There were other people around and I slide easily into a conversation with an undertaker. (  Go ahead. Finish that sentence ).

Well a few hours later I receive an apology. She thought we were supposed to meet at 8:00. I checked the calendar on my phone. Nope. It was supposed to be nine. I decided to go back to the private message she had sent me when the date was set up . 8:00. Yup. Right there in black and white. Jeez, is this what I have to look forward to?

I listened to Maritime Connections on CBC radio yesterday afternoon. They were discussing hockey parents and how they were about to be banned from the rink in some jurisdictions for boorish behavior. I happened to be driving down Church Street at the time, looking over wistfully at the Salt Ponds where we spent so much times as kids playing hockey in the winter and pick up football in the summer. No parents. No supervision. They were far too busy trying to put food on the table to worry about our whereabouts.  Bring back unorganized play!

And did you see where a parent was charged with some misdemeanour in the U.S. for allowing their child to walk home from school unattended? Folks, the world is in bad shape.

Do you remember your honeymoon? What a stupid question. If you don’t remember your honeymoon, then you either had way too much fun or it was so bad that you’ve suppressed it. I’m sure that there are books full of honeymoon tales. We were out for a walk the other day and bumped into an old friend. He told us a story about his honeymoon. He and his bride and another couple, drove to Arizona. Now this was back in the early 60’s when travel was quite different. Something funny happened along the way and I thought it deserved my full attention. Coming soon look for “Honeymoon Heat.”

Have a great week and enjoy a blast of winter coming at you tomorrow.

Posted on January 24, 2015 under Storytelling with one comment

Our daily bread

 

 

People are living longer.  Due to the marvels of modern medicine, many of us are also leading healthier and more active lives.  According to statistics, centenarians are among the fastest growing members of the population.  For most of us, living to the age of 80 while remaining sharp, fit and well would be an honorable goal.  But what if you worked in the same profession for 80 years?  Now that would be something to boast about.

The call to religious life in Nova Scotia was very strong sixty to seventy years ago, when joining a religious order was revered and, in many households, expected.  It was not uncommon to have at least one son called to the priesthood and a daughter seeking a spiritual journey as a nun.  It was a source of pride for the family and the community.  In many cases, young people went directly from high school to the seminary or the convent.  Families were large back then and after marriages, ordinations and final vows, there was still a spinster or bachelor living at home to look after Father and Mother in their dotage.

Consider the case of Sister C.  She joined the Congregation of Notre Dame when she was twenty, and recently celebrated her 100^th birthday.  She devoted her life to her congregation and the countless lives she influenced along the way.  She had a variety of skills sets which she shared willingly.  Cooking wasn’t one of them.

It is not totally surprising for someone like her not to have picked up some cooking skills along life’s road.  But that’s the way it was when she found herself cooking a meal for the rector of a parish in small town Alberta many years ago.  They had known each other for a long time, and when she stopped by one day on his housekeeper’s day off, she offered to prepare supper for him.

And, what a meal it was.

She decided that a full roast beef dinner with all the trimmings would suitably impress Father Leo.  She busied herself with the preparations as he tended to his duties in the community.  He arrived home to wonderful smells emanating from the kitchen.  The dining room table was  fit for royalty, with a centerpiece, crisply pressed table cloth and matching napkins.

Candles were lit, grace was said and the meal commenced.  Sister C. had thought that a nice goblet of red wine might be appropriate.  Years earlier, on frequent trips across the border, she had seen friends and family members purchase wine and beer in grocery stores.  Such was not the case in Canada as she was soon to find out.  They toasted each other, wishing mutual good health.

Father Leo drank deeply and before the contents of the glass hit his stomach, he knew that something was terribly wrong.  His eyes watered slightly.  Sister C. expressed alarm and wondered if he had been stricken with some malady.  He politely asked her what brand of wine she had purchased.  She grabbed the bottle off the kitchen counter and brought it to the table.  He peered over his progressive lenses and read to himself: Aged Red Wine Vinegar.  He declined a second round as they moved on to the main course.

The presentation of the roast beef dinner would have impressed the folks at the Michelin Guide, who rate fine dining establishments.

Father Leo cut into the beef and made sure that it had a healthy dose of gravy.  Once again, he recoiled, resisting the urge to gag.  “Sister.  Did you put any flour in the gravy to thicken it?”  “Why, certainly, Father.  The bag is right over there on the counter.”  “His head spun around and his eyes became the size of saucers.  The other day he had been doing some home repairs in the kitchen.  He had filled some holes with Pollyfilla.  He had forgotten to put the bag back in the box.

Thankfully she had purchased dessert from a local bakery.

On a return trip years later, Sister C. offered to cook again.  Father Leo didn’t have the heart to say no. When she offered him some homemade bread as a starter, he quietly bowed his head, reciting the Lord’s Prayer.  When he came to the part that said “Give us this day our daily bread”, he lifted his eyes skyward and said quietly, “Only if it’s made with flour”.

Posted on January 21, 2015 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Hardly waiting room reading material

 

 

“Life is a highway, I wanna ride it all night long”

Life is a Highway – Tom Cochrane

A long road trip in a car provides a lot of time for reflection.  Recently, I took a 10,000 kilometer transcontinental tour with my thirty-something son, Peter.  We chatted, we listened to tunes; we marvelled at the ever changing landscape and, for long stretches, were left with our own thoughts.  And there were surprises along the way, some of them welcome and others, not so.  Having some sort of mechanical problem is almost a given on a trip of this length.

It is every parent’s dream to take a road trip in the company of an adult child.  Perhaps more challenging but no less rewarding is an adventure with a teenager.  One of the more famous accounts of such a journey was penned by Robert M. Pirsig in his classic 70’s book entitled, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”.  Prior to our trip my brother handed me his copy of the book to read while we traversed the continent.

In this book, the author takes an extended journey, by motorcycle, with his 13 year old boy.  It is an interesting read dealing with travel, the intricacies of maintaining a motorcycle, and his growing understanding of this adolescent.  Yes. It is the classic story of bonding between a father and his son.  But it is much more.  It delves into many deep philosophical topics.  By times this book can be heavy slogging.  I probably should have taken more than one philosophy course at university.

We had just crossed an amazing stretch of the bayous in Louisiana and were nearing the border with Texas when we heard a sound emanating from the back left wheel area of Pete’s vehicle.  Fortuitously, we were only a few miles away from the Visitor’s Centre of the “Lone Star State”.  Luckily, one person in the car some familiarity with auto maintenance.  (Hint: it wasn’t me!)  Peter quickly found the culprit.  A bracket that holds the shock absorber to the body of the car had become detached.

Through the magic of technology we were able to take a picture of the problem and forward it to three friends who are “do it yourself” mechanics.  Within minutes we ascertained that the best course of action was to take the car to the nearest town and get it fixed.  Beaumont, Texas was a short 20 minute drive away, so we hit the road secure in the knowledge that our problem wasn’t major and could probably be remedied quickly and easily.

One small problem: this all occurred on New Year’s Day and the chance of finding a mechanic was as unlikely as finding a needle in a haystack.  We checked into a hotel and humoured ourselves by making a few phone calls, hoping for a miracle.  None was to be found.

The next day, we were given the name of a reputable automotive shop and were at its doorstep when it opened for business.  The manager was a great guy.  Much to our relief, he confirmed that the problem was fairly minor and that the remedy was straightforward and not terribly expensive.  Those two words were music to my ears.  He called the three local auto parts dealers and regrettably, none of them had the part in stock.  It required shipping from Houston and would be delivered by 3:00 P.M. that very day.

I went back to the motel to read some of my book while Peter found a nine hole golf course just down the road.  After checking out of the hotel, we still had a bit of time to kill so we grabbed a coffee at McDonald’s and headed to a driving range, conveniently located two minutes away from the repair shop.

I like my coffee black.  It usually takes several minutes before I take the first sip, as the beverage is usually served scalding hot.  I had the cup perched between my legs while searching for something when someone cut in front of us, forcing my son to apply sudden and unexpected pressure to the brakes.  Evidently the brakes were working fine.

The contents of the cup hurtled forward, landing on the back of my right foot.  Within seconds, a large red welt appeared.  While painful, the thought of where that cup could have landed gave me a great deal of solace.

The call came from Dustin, the manager of the auto repair shop.  He let me know that the part had arrived and was ready for installation.  While Peter honed his technique at the driving range, I drove across the street to wait while the car was fixed.

The waiting room was large and every seat was filled. It was obvious that I was the only “come from away” in a roomful of locals. I needn’t have worried that the other customers were even remotely interested in my presence.  No.  They had much bigger fish to fry.  They were watching the television, a large flat screen with the volume cranked.  And what were they watching with rapt attention?  The Maury Povich show.

Now, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” takes a fair bit of concentration to read.  Each page has to be consumed and digested.  The preferred place to study a tome like this would be the public library or a deserted island.  I was having a very difficult time concentrating on the deep meaning of life with two women screaming “You’re nothing but a whore!” as Maury revelled in the role of referee.

I retrieved the car and headed back to the driving range, enjoying the smooth, quiet ride.  Perhaps daytime talk shows should come equipped with shock absorbers too.