Posted on October 17, 2015 under Storytelling with one comment

Pushed to the braking point

 

 

It’s never easy losing a loved one especially when it’s your partner, travelling companion and best friend. The sense of loss is profound and everything changes. Old routines are replaced by new ones and shared chores now become a solo responsibility. Three weeks after the death of her husband, Judy was dealt a second blow when her dog, Mousse died. She was a 9 year old dog that was known as the “Yorkshire Terrorist.” This sounds like a bad joke or the lyrics to a country and western song. It was neither.

As September approached, she felt that she needed to get away from everything so she planned a trip, by car, to Ontario to visit a sister and several nieces and nephews. It would be a chance to relax and unwind and reassert her independence. When Judy got married, she said she traded in her driver’s license for a marriage license. Now she was going to hit the road, solo. It’s a good thing she packed her keen sense of humour.

Shortly after leaving Quebec for Ontario Judy heard a sound and quickly discovered that she had brake issues. This wasn’t a big surprise, as her vehicle was almost three years old and parts eventually wear out. She stopped at a service station and had the front and rear brakes repaired.

Judy had a great visit with family in Guelph, and on Labor Day weekend she headed out on the return trip, with a stop planned in Ottawa to see a friend. She was cruising in the express lane on the 401 just outside of Toronto. Hankering for a coffee, she noticed a sign for McDonald’s at the next exit. She risked life and limb by crossing eight lanes of traffic but safely reached the “Golden Arches”.   Reinvigorated with caffeine, she backed out of the restaurant’s parking lot. Luckily she was moving slowly as it became evident that she had no brakes at all.

She called a tow truck to take her to the nearest dealership. She was informed that her car would be looked at on Tuesday when they reopened for business. It was Saturday. The thought of a three night stay in Toronto didn’t hold a lot of appeal for Judy. When the service truck arrived, she jokingly asked if he might tow her to Ottawa. After checking with CAA and reviewing other coverages, she discovered that her out of pocket costs would be a measly $40. Off they went with Judy enjoying a relaxing conversation with the tow truck operator.

The car was dropped off at a dealership in Ottawa and she had a great visit with her friend. On Tuesday, her patience was put to the test when she found out that there was a complete rupture of the brake lines and that she would need a brake booster vacuum line, a master cylinder and one other obscure part. It was not like she had a lot of options so she signed off on the repairs. And then they informed her that the parts weren’t in stock and that it might take anywhere from 2 days to 2 weeks to get them. The service manager was fortunate that there was a counter separating him from Judy.

After several days of questionable communication (translation: little to none), Judy went back to the dealership. They had two of the parts and were waiting on the last. She informed anyone who cared to listen that she was either going to drive the loaner vehicle to Nova Scotia or fly home and have them deliver her car, if and when they fixed it. To make a long story short, they extracted the missing part from a brand new vehicle and, 10 days after this ordeal had begun, she was on her way back East.

She wasn’t much in the mood to tackle Montreal so she took a circuitous route through some gentle farm land to avoid the ungodly chaos of that city, with its never ending road construction. Not far from Levis, just across the river from Quebec City, she could tell that she had a flat tire. She got out of the car on a rural road and, sure enough, a screw had pierced the rubber. Luckily she had cell service and was able to find an English speaking tow truck driver, for which she was very grateful, as her lack of conversational French would have made communications difficult.

Having been shown the ropes by her father when she was a teenager, she had no trouble jacking up the car and removing the tire. Just as she was getting out the small donut sized spare, “Raymond to the Rescue” showed up. After a quick inspection, they realized that the spare tire would only be good for 40 kilometers and she had many miles to go before she slept. He agreed to put her car on his flatbed and tow it to a hotel adjacent to a garage.

Before he could move the car, he received a call. There was an emergency just up the road and he was instructed to go there immediately. Not wishing to leave a damsel in distress, he suggested that she climb in the cab with him and go for the ride. When they arrived at their destination they were met with a phalanx of police officers, police cars, sniffer dogs and other emergency responders. Yup, it became obvious very quickly that Raymond and Judy were at the scene of a major drug bust. The QPP seized the vehicle of the drug lords and instructed Raymond to deliver it to a private compound. Judy got an unexpected tour of that fine facility a short while later.

It was now late and getting dark. Raymond called his boss and a lengthy discussion in French ensued. They returned to Judy’s car to find a mobile service station parked behind her. Raymond’s boss fixed the tire with a patch kit and refused to take any money.

Judy had hoped to make it to Edmundston as she slipped on to 20 East at 10:00 p.m. She hadn’t driven very far when a wall of fog enveloped her car. The only objects she could really see were the warning signs for moose. She pulled off at the very next exit and found a motel.

After what seemed like an eternity, Judy arrived back at her beloved home. But, oh my, how the grass had grown in her absence. Despite the enormity of the property, she wasn’t worried as she had treated herself to a brand new ride on mower earlier in the summer. She jumped in the seat, flipped the switch and heard the gentle sound of the motor.

She put it in gear and started to make her first pass, but not before trying the brakes … just to make sure.

Posted on October 10, 2015 under Storytelling with 4 comments

One of a kind

 

 

As I do most mornings, I head off to The Landing for an early walk. It is a place of beauty and serenity. And it is a place of friendship. The regulars are there just about every day except in the winter, when the river overflows its banks, turning the gravel covered trail into a skating rink. Today is different. It feels different and it looks different. A fog hangs over the water. It is hard to see a hundred yards ahead. I am looking for a familiar face, a barrel chested man who walks his trusty canine, Bailey. He is one of the regulars.

Often on my morning walks I can hear him before I even see him, as he greets other walkers. Benny is as gregarious as they come and has a voice that is jovial and distinctive. But not today. His voice has been stilled. And even though the sun comes up part way through my walk, the fog has not lifted in my head. How could someone so vibrant be gone?

I got to know Ben Druhan through running. He wasn’t a marathoner like his decorated wife, Charlene.  He would laugh when I suggested that he try to qualify for Boston … maybe a Boston cream pie, he would say, but certainly not the famed road race. Benny was the best one man support team that you could hope for. Eternally optimistic and cheerful, he would hop in his truck with Bailey and drive the backroads when a group of us was out on one of our long runs. He would grab the morning paper and stop every 5k or so just to make sure his charges were doing OK. I travelled to the Boston Marathon with him and Charlene on two occasions, trips that I’ll never forget. I can still see him at his familiar perch along the side of the road just outside of Fenway Park.

He was a pillar of strength in his home parish of St. Joseph’s, serving as a reader at church, and was one of the driving forces in bringing the Community Centre project to fruition. It seems only fitting that his friends and community came there yesterday to share tears of sorrow and laughter with his family.

Benny was a well-known collector of old Volkswagen vehicles and made many trips across the continent to buy cars and take them home to be restored. He and his close buddy, William, were fixtures at the Highland Games Parade. These cars were his pride and joy and on warm summer days you’d see him driving around with the top down, accompanied by Charlene and Bailey, enjoying one of those simple pleasures in life.

He was an engaging personality and a terrific story teller. And that laugh of his was simply infectious. He loved going to the camp with his buddies and enjoyed recounting the legendary bacon saga. Apparently they had a massive cast iron skillet at the camp, and one morning Benny was on cooking detail. He grabbed a large package of bacon, heated up the pan and within minutes that distinct and wonderful aroma filled the cabin. He and his two buddies sat down a short while later and plowed through a feed of bacon and eggs. Benny seemed to think that there was more bacon than usual. Upon investigation, the fellow who had purchased the groceries reported that he had bought two pounds of the salty delicacy.   Ben went to the garbage and hauled out the discarded package. The label clearly stated that the three of them had just consumed 2 kilograms of bacon!

Benny was extremely well read and could carry on a conversation with anyone on any topic. He had the common touch. We had many conversations about politics, business, sports and religion on Saturday mornings after a run, when we would congregate with our spouses for cinnamon rolls and coffee. This was a routine that we all enjoyed.

Benny was generous with his time and was also not reluctant to pull out his wallet to support worthy causes. I know of many acts of charity that will never become public. That was just his style. He “paid it forward” long before that catchphrase became fashionable.

And did I mention sweets? Benny and I were forever discussing the merits of sweets, in particular, pies. No, not that kind of pi.  Although I’m sure if you asked him about π, he could tell you what it was and likely had a story about it in his incredible memory bank. Any time we got together to share a meal, I made sure that we didn’t skimp on dessert. I am trying to picture us arm wrestling for the last slice … he with those powerful forearms.

Ben was a great guy, plain and simple. He worshipped his family, especially the grandkids. He loved all small children and could engage them just as easily as he charmed the grownups. I have seen him down on the floor with that big grin on his face, just hanging out and playing.

The fog will eventually dissipate, but the memories of Ben Druhan will forever linger.

 

Posted on October 7, 2015 under Storytelling with 2 comments

There’s no cure for this malady

 

 

If a person lives long enough, they will come down with some form of affliction or another. I bumped into a buddy in the automotive section of the Canadian Tire store the other day, and he told me his knees were shot and one of his shoulders was always achy. I suggested to him that, like an automobile, the warranty on our bodies eventually expires.

We all get colds and the flu, despite our best efforts to ward off evil spirits, with many of a certain age resorting to an annual flu shot. Heck, some people try to ward off evil spirits with evil spirits in the form of a hot toddy laced with dark rum.

There are more serious illnesses that pose risks, including diabetes and heart disease. Cancer continues to be a scourge on the health landscape. And despite mankind’s best efforts, there are some conditions that can be managed but remain incurable.

I was out for my morning walk a few weeks ago and met a friend going in the opposite direction. His wife is normally on the walk with him and, upon inquiry, I found out that she was under the weather that morning. She has Irritable Bowel Syndrome and on days when it strikes she has to stay close to home. While not wishing to minimize her discomfort, and at the risk of seeming heartless, I quipped, “It could be worse. She could be suffering from Irritating Husband Syndrome.”

And what, you ask, are the tell tales signs of Irritating Husband Syndrome? Rolling of the eyes is a dead giveaway that a gal suffers from this condition. Other clues include heavy sighs, both hands gripping the hair, hands on the hips and, the most dreaded of all, the silent treatment. Yes, men, when you have rendered your wife speechless you know that the doghouse can’t be far behind.

I polled several of my female friends to try to get to the bottom of this epidemic. I discovered the following as the most egregious offenses: putting laundry in the dryer when you should know it has to be hung to dry; yelling and burping and farting while watching sports on television; failure to notice the tub when you offer to clean the bathroom 5 minutes before company arrives; leaving stubble clinging to the side of the sink after shaving; and finding any excuse to miss a social function that calls for more than jeans or sweat pants. I guess there’s no cure for a pain in the arse.

But the single most aggravating thing that a man can do is wield the remote control with impunity. We try our best to explain that it is not easy to watch golf, football and baseball, at the same time, while avoiding all advertisements; even with split screen TVs.  My wife has discovered that it is almost impossible to pull her hair out with her hands on her hips.

Let’s face it. There is simply no cure for IHS. As long as men and women continue to cohabitate, this plague will persist. Thankfully there are support groups – just bring wine and your sense of humour.

The other day, my bride of thirty three years and I decided that it was time to review our estate plan. We did some minor tweaking to our wills, powers of attorney and personal health care directives. As is often the case, we discussed mortality and what life would look like if one of us died. “Do you think you would marry again?” I asked innocently enough. “Êtes-vous fou?” was the quick rejoinder. She can speak French when she needs to. “I have spent 33 years training you. I’m not about to start training anyone else.”

We briefly touched on the notion of eternity. My guess, without asking, is that living with IHS is as close to eternity as most women want to get.