Posted on September 24, 2025 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with no comments yet

The Metchosin Massacre

 

It’s official.

The paint is dry.

If you are a first-time reader, you will have to read my three previous posts for this to make sense.

As you read this, I will be winging my way back to Nova Scotia. My time in rural British Columbia has been therapeutic. My arm has healed nicely and while not 100%, I can function perfectly well. I won’t be able to toss the caber anymore but that’s ok! There is still some residual bruising from both falls.

However, there is a deeper bruise that concerns me.

I haven’t played golf for almost two decades. There was a time that I was reasonably accomplished at this sport. A bad back, poor vision, and a lack of interest were all contributors to my retirement.

So it was with some astonishment that during my rehab here in Metchosin, I picked up one of Peter’s golf clubs as part of my therapy, to stretch the shoulder muscles. I gently hit wedges into a net no more than ten yards away. A week later, I went to the local driving range and hit a half bucket of balls. My therapist assured me that this form of exercise wouldn’t do any harm.

I then progressed to a small part three course. No hole was longer than 125 yards. My expectations were low, and they were met. Years of rust, in addition to the injuries to my arm, provided the backdrop to a less than stellar performance. I was playing by myself, so no one had to endure the plethora of horrible shots.

And then came the dreaded request.

“Dad. Will you come with me to play 9 holes at the Metchosin Golf Club?”

To this point, I had only been hitting pitching wedges. For those of you not familiar with the game a pitching wedge is a club meant to be hit a short distance (circa 100 yards). If I acquiesced to Peter’s request, I would be playing holes in excess of 400 yards.

It was a spectacular evening when we teed off. We had the course to ourselves. It was sunny but dusk wasn’t too far off. We had the spectacular Olympic Mountains as a backdrop.

I am going to spare you the gory details.

Mark Twain once wrote “Golf is a good walk spoiled”. That just about sums up the two hours of torture that my son and a gaggle of geese had to endure. To say that my performance was brutal would be an understatement. My shots flew off in every imaginable direction, with many of them dribbling a small handful of yards down the fairway. I truly believe that I hit more bad shots in that one round of golf than I had in my entire golf career.

Darkness set in with two holes remaining. This was a blessing for Peter and the geese. They were unable to see my wayward shots. It got so dark that we had to use the flashlights on our phones to locate and hit our shots.

The bruising on my arm was bad enough. Now I had to deal with a bruised ego.

I discovered that, unlike riding a bike, you just can’t hop back on the first tee of a golf course after a 20-year hiatus and expect to be good at this sport once again.

I played a few more times with similar results.

I won’t be joining the senior tour any time soon unless it’s a winery tour.

Here’s a small poem I penned to mark the occasion:

FLOGGING GOLF

 

I took up golf at the age of ten,

When dad took me to the course,

I didn’t hit any balls close to the pin,

But the game took me by force.

 

I owned two clubs, a five and a putter,

My shots were not long and not always straight,

Like bowling, some ended up in the gutter,

Such is a golfer’s fate.

 

I played and practiced day and night,

My appetite was strong,

I wouldn’t quit without a fight,

I knew that I belonged.

 

A champion golfer at twenty-one,

I thought I had it made,

But there are many surprises under the sun,

I couldn’t hook but I could fade.

 

I must have played ten thousand rounds,

At my home course in the Nish,

I knew every bounce on the ground,

In the ponds, I knew the fish.

 

I played for decades and became quite good,

Maybe someday play on the tour,

But many a shot ended up in the woods,

I learned to holler “Fore”.

 

A lasix fix would improve my sight,

I no longer needed glasses,

But things didn’t turn out right,

My golf game burns and crashes.

 

I didn’t touch a single club,

For twenty some odd years,

I knew that I would likely flub,

If I played while drinking beer.

 

I broke my arm one April morn,

The recovery was quite slow,

Would I make a comeback soon?

To Metchosin I would go.

 

A woman healer lived nearby,

She thought that she could fix me,

The treatments nearly made me cry,

And it wasn’t because of her fee.

 

One day in my recovery,

I picked up Peter’s wedge,

I hit a few balls, a discovery,

One landed in the hedge.

 

I played nine holes at a little par 3,

Just down the road a bit,

My arm felt good as I stood on the tee,

A fire under me lit.

 

Is it possible that I’ll play again?

Is it real or am I in a fog?

On this paper, these words I pen,

Golf spelled backwards is flog!

Have a great weekend.

 

Posted on September 17, 2025 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with one comment

A tree hugging tree

 

I have passed the halfway mark in my month-long rehabilitation.

No. I’m not at some fancy resort trying to kick booze and drugs. I’m staying on a rural property that was once a farm here outside Victoria B.C. It still feels a bit like a farm and there are days when I feel like I’m involved in animal husbandry rather than trying to unlock a frozen shoulder. I had hoped that my athletic therapist could also unlock my frozen brain, but she confessed that she isn’t a miracle worker.

I’m a big believer in holistic healing. In addition to my regular therapy sessions, I have been walking at least 10 kilometres a day, doing my stretching exercises, watering the gardens and plants, driving to the feed store for chicken supplies, and harvesting some of the crops. As well as an abundance of chickens, there are two goats, and I have been threatening to join them in some goat yoga. Those two have quite the life. They spend most of their days on the roof of a small building sunning themselves and the rest of the time, just wandering around the property.

I believe that all of these activities aid in the healing process. I walk through old growth forests every day and it is simply awe inspiring. I’m definitely not a tree hugger but I could see myself becoming one!

Some of you are familiar with the ROMEO’s. It is a group of men who get together once a month to share a meal and camaraderie. The acronym stands for Retired Old Men Eating Out. They often have a guest speaker. After my trip to India in 2016-17, I attended one of their lunches as their speaker.

There is a similar group out here. I was talking with one of their members and he told me that they have a rule. Any attendee can only discuss one of his physical infirmities. As aches, pains, and war wounds pile up, any septuagenarian could rhyme up a half dozen complaints before soup was served.

And why do I bring this up?

Unfortunately, I had another rather nasty spill last week. While walking on Matheson Lake Trail, I stopped to take a picture. When I turned around to continue on the path, I tripped on a large root and down I went, landing on my arm. Yes, that arm. For a moment I was actually terrified thinking that I might have broken my arm again but fortunately I only suffered an ugly contusion just below the elbow… and a bruised ego.  A few days later, after receiving excellent medical care from my therapist, I was no worse for wear.

And that incident got me thinking.

I had to admit to myself. I was no longer just getting old but that I’m actually old.

Several of my regular readers receive my weekly wisdom (?) by e-mail. They are not on Facebook where most of you are viewing this right now. They have decided that dumpster diving is not for them.

While walking through the forest last week, I saw the most amazing configuration of a tree. I thought to myself’ “What if trees could talk?” I went straight home, sat down at my kitchen table and wrote a short poem with that as the title. I posted it in on FB and received a positive response. Since then, I have written a poem every day and have contemplated doing a book of poetry.

So. Here’s may take on aging:

SLIP SLIDIN’ AWAY

 

The fog is lifting o’er the bay,

The days are short, a little cold,

I don’t feel agile on this day,

The truth, we’re growing old.

 

There was a time not long ago,

Fleet of foot and bold,

But now I trip, my steps are slow,

The truth, we’re growing old.

 

Names they now escape me,

My memory, not solid gold,

These days, I’m talking to the trees,

The truth, we’re growing old.

 

Despite my aches and groans and pain,

I’m not about to fold,

There are trips to take along The Main,

Even if I’m old.

 

Like a house that’s weather beaten,

We’re showing signs of mold,

Age it can’t be cheaten,

Eventually, we’ll all grow old.

 

The truth is, I’m very lucky,

Treasured memories I hold,

Still feeling rather plucky,

Even though I’m old.

 

Life has been a terrific run,

Of this I’m completely sold,

I’ve had more than my share of fun,

It’s not so bad being old.

 

We’re in the later innings,

In the game of life, I’m told,

Grab hold of all your winnings,

And be happy that you’re old.

Have a great weekend and… stay young!

 

Goat yoga, anyone?

Posted on September 10, 2025 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with no comments yet

No shower in the forecast

 

“I’ve been waiting, for a girl like you,

To come into my life.”

Waiting For a Girl Like You – Foreigner

Watching paint dry: Part 3

But wait. There’s more.

Ah! You’re showing your age if you recognize this famous tag line. How many of you knew instantly that this was the iconic pitch line of K-Tel? Millennials and Gen- Xers will just have to Google this.

If you haven’t read my two previous posts, this one won’t make much sense, dear reader. Truthfully, the other two didn’t make a lot of sense either.

I’m back in Victoria.

“But Len. You were there just a few weeks ago. What could possibly entice you to return so soon, even if the Air Canada strike was resolved?

A woman.

But before I tell you about the woman, first a brief anecdote from my plane trip. I travelled on Porter and after this experience, I doubt if I’ll use any other domestic airline.

A parent came down the aisle with two young teenagers in tow. They had identical hard shelled carryon bags, cherry red in color. The parent lifted the first one into the overhead bin. The handle was pointing out preventing the bin from closing. Craftily, they turned the bag sideways and, presto, it fit nicely. The parent lifted the second bag and placed it beside its twin, handle out. After careful consideration, the second bag was aligned with the other and the bin could now be closed.

The parent now crossed the aisle to put the third, and last bag, in the overhead bin. Handle out.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

I digress.

A woman.

Smart. Talented. Athletic. Sure and confident.

On my previous visit a fortnight ago, I discovered that Carly was a professional athletic therapist. Her impressive resume includes several years working with athletes at MacMaster University and seven years with the Hamilton Tiger Cats of the CFL, five of those as Head Athletic Therapist. She helped the team reach two Grey Cups. Her husband, Tim, played professional football in the CFL winning the Grey Cup when he was playing for the Calgary Stampeders.

The arm that I broke in early April crossing the Pyrenees… That would have made a compelling story but in fact, I tripped in the parking lot outside Sobey’s and fell on the sidewalk. The humerus bone has healed nicely but I ended up with frozen shoulder. I also suffer from frozen brain, but I don’t think she can help me with this.

She treated my arm twice before I flew home few weeks ago. I noticed an immediate improvement and decided that it was worth a trip back to receive intensive therapy for a month.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………My son, Peter, lives on the same acreage as Carly and Tim along with a few other families. I often call it “the commune”. One of the interesting features is an outdoor shower. It is located under a massive arbutus tree, a few feet away from Carly’s home office and the chicken coop. Even though Pete has a shower in his cabin, I was encouraged to try the outdoor shower once before I left for home.

It was a warm and windy day when I stepped inside the small wooden structure. It was simply divine. I’m no prude but the door to the shower kept opening due to the wind. I wasn’t worried about the hens being peeping Tom’s. I closed the door tightly and soon realized that the latch was on the outside of the building. “Grin and bare it,” I thought.

After finishing my ablutions, I realized that getting out might be a problem. Yelling would do me little good, other than ruffling a few feathers a stone’s throw away. I eventually stood on my tippy toes and with my good arm, was able to reach over the top and unhook the latch.

I saved myself from an embarrassing situation. Yes. I knew you would get it!

The paint is dry, but it might require a second coat.

Stay tuned.

“But wait. There’s more”.

Have a great weekend.

P.S. As a tribute to my late friend, Dan O’Connell, I decided to take a stab at the New York Times crossword puzzle. I used to get the weekend edition of the Globe and Mail on a regular basis but consume most of my news online these days. The last time I remember buying a copy of the Globe it was $3.50. This time around, it set me back $8.40. You’re worth it Dan!