Posted on June 1, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment
Do you remember going to high school dances? Do you remember the thrill of having that special person ask you on the floor for the last waltz? And the incredible excitement of getting to walk them home, hand in hand? My palms get sweaty just thinking about it.
At an earlier age, when hormones weren’t raging, it was kosher to hold hands with the opposite sex when playing “Red Rover”. “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Johnny right over”. The object of the game was to break the link of the opposing team. It was the first real attempt to discover the “weak link” and, considering some of the characters on my team, the “missing link”.
Our parents’ generation were famous hand holders. Just the other day I took my mother to visit a dear old neighborhood friend who commented on how my mother and father were always holding hands.
These days, it seems that most couples hold hands the first and last time when they utter the words “I do”. This is followed by a lifetime of serious arm twisting which is an entirely different sensation.
I met my buddy Phil at the library today. He is a retired university professor, a wonderful story teller and a bee keeper of some renown, certainly on Church Street Extension anyway. We were meeting to start planning a fundraiser for the St. Vincent de Paul Society in the fall. My hidden agenda was to get my hands on some of his liquid gold, churned out by thousands of bees. Phil came bearing an unmarked, five pound plastic jug. Phil’s motto: “Only the beekeeper gets stung when you buy your honey from Phil.”
When we had concluded our business, I took my leave and headed back to my office. Along the way, I made a few stops. It was “cheque day” and I stopped by the Credit Union to get my hands on some of that hard earned Canada Pension Plan money. People in the lineup were polite but some inner sixth sense told me something was amiss. The next stop was at a convenience store to pick up a sandwich. More odd looks.
I distinctly remembered having showered that morning and my hair could hardly be out of place, so I ruled out my appearance as an obvious staring point.
I returned to the office and climbed the stairs to the reception area. Two staff members were chatting. I greeted them and plunked down the container of honey on the counter. “Would anyone like a taste of this? It’s delicious”. Now the stares were those of horror and profound disgust. They respectfully declined.
And then it struck me like a thunderbolt. Without any labelling, the container could easily pass as a giant urine sample. Why I would be carrying one that large, in public? It looked like I had just come from the racetrack after taking a urine sample from a thoroughbred horse. Or perhaps I look like a World Anti-Doping Agency sleuth.
I assured the staff that the specimen in the bottle wasn’t you-know-what and that it was none other than the nectar of the gods. And, like Winnie the Pooh, they dipped their fingers in for a taste. As Winnie says, “The only reason for making honey is so I can eat it”. Walking with my honey has taken on a whole new meaning.
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