Posted on August 18, 2015 under Storytelling with one comment

All signs point towards the cow parachuting capital of the world

 

 

The elderly American couple, Ruth and Peter, had just completed a trip around the world-renowned Cabot Trail. Retired history professors, they made many side trips, visiting landmarks such as the Fortress of Louisburg, the Big Fiddle and Rita’s Tea Room. They saw a moose on MacKenzie Mountain and were startled at the enormity of the magnificent animal. They also saw eagles soar on the Mira and enjoyed a whale watching tour in Cheticamp. They thought that they had seen some of the most intriguing sights and wildlife imaginable.

That is, until they took the off ramp at Exit 33 near the town of Antigonish.

It was nearly dusk when they decided to get a room for the night. They were dog tired as the car decelerated on its approach to one of the newly constructed roundabouts. The large tourist sign ahead indicated the usual amenities like hotels, gas and lodging. However, in the far right-hand corner, there was an image that was very much out of the ordinary. Although they both saw it neither mentioned it, chalking it up to a mistaken impression due to twilight and fatigue.

After a better than average sleep, Peter was on the go early. He was intrigued about the whole sign business from the night before. Maybe his eyes had played a trick on him in the waning light. He decided that he must put the matter to rest so he grabbed his car keys and headed for the door for a second look. “Where are you going?” queried his bride of 45 years. “I’m going to go through the drive through and get us a cup of coffee.”   He thought that clarification of the sign might initiate a lively discussion at the breakfast table.

He headed for the highway and in the clear light of day and well rested, to boot; he stopped the car, turned off the motor and stood in front of the sign. There, as clear as could possibly be, was the picture of two cows, suspended from parachutes. He looked at the sign and viewed the landscape around him. He didn’t have the foggiest notion what the sign meant. He drew upon all of his years of academe and drew a total blank. He grabbed his cell phone and snapped a picture.

He quickly returned to the hotel.

“Where’s my coffee, dear?” In his haste to solve the mystery, he had completely forgotten about the “other” reason for his little outing.

“Honey, did you notice the sign that we saw just before we entered the roundabout last night?” Ruth nodded in the affirmative. “And did you find anything peculiar about the sign?” “Yes. I thought I saw a picture of parachuting cows but I didn’t want to say something and have you think that I was losing my marbles!” she replied.

He whipped out his phone and clicked on the “picture” icon and there, as large as life, was the small herd of cattle (2 to be exact), floating gracefully down from the heavens.

A quick “Google search” revealed nothing. In recent years they had become avid users of social media. If you’re going to keep in touch with the grandkids, this is a given. They immediately turned to Facebook, that great amalgam of humanity and wisdom.

And the feedback poured in. Someone opined that the Republicans might be parachuting in a candidate for our upcoming federal election. There was a suggestion (credible) that this type of signage was common in Scotland to warn people about cattle crossing areas. Perhaps the logo indicated that some cows had been abducted by space aliens and managed to escape. Maybe “cow parachuting” was a new sport found only in this neck of New Scotland. Or could Banksy have visited our small town?

The debate raged on for much of the day with no clear resolution.

Just before heading west on their journey home, Ruth and Peter circumnavigated the town just so that they could view the sign one more time. “Students” muttered Peter. “Economics students”. “You have two cows …” replied Ruth.

In some clever marketer’s eyes, cows can fly.

Surely pigs can’t be far behind?

Posted on August 15, 2015 under Storytelling with one comment

School daze

 

 

“See you in September,

See you when the summer’s through …”

See You in September – The Happenings

The first “Back to School” flyer sets your stomach churning.

It’s not even the end of July and already the big chain stores are out with all guns a blazing as school looms on the horizon, a scant five weeks away. If you are a seven year old, this scarcely registers on your radar screen as your endless summer moves languidly along. If you are a parent, the mere thought of preparing lunches again is enough to make you reach for a second (or third!) glass of wine.

If you are a teacher, you have barely deprogrammed yourself from yet another hectic school year when the fall term appears on the horizon like a funnel cloud.

Marilla (not her real name) was pondering the academic year ahead. It was both exciting and a bit nerve wracking, having accepted a posting at a new elementary school. Even though she was a veteran teacher, the prospects of a new school and a new administration always presented an element of doubt.

An accident at the roundabout on the first day of the new term was an ominous sign. Traffic was backed up in every direction. She arrived at the school with barely a minute to spare. She said cursory hellos to her colleagues as she hurried down the hall. She turned the corner and approached her classroom.

Bedlam.

Class sizes are always an issue with teachers. With rationalization, consolidation and school closures, more students are being added to already large classes.

As she entered the classroom, she couldn`t count the number of students but it was well beyond the twenty that she had been promised. Yes, there were indeed 20 desks but there appeared to be in excess of thirty small human beings. What was worse, far worse, was the fact that most, if not all, of the children’s anxious and overzealous parents were pacing in the classroom at this very minute …. and vying for her undivided attention

She rubbed her eyes in disbelief as she also noticed that the desks were full of garbage … last year`s garbage. Rotten orange peels and half-eaten, moldy sandwiches were everywhere. Congealed pudding and juice festered underfoot. Total chaos.

Marilla quickly sized up the situation. She had once thought about becoming a stand-up comedian and decided on the spot that this was a good time for a career change. She thought about trying out a few jokes on the throng in front of her, a group that now included the principal who had heard the din emanating from her classroom. Prudently she decided not to burn any bridges.

She grabbed her purse and lunch bag and raced for the exits. She could smell freedom in the air until she realized that her car keys were still on the desk. She hastened back into the school and made one last surreptitious trip down the hallway.

The throng that she had left in her wake a few minutes earlier was still gyrating as it swiftly encircled her, refusing her safe passage to the parking lot. The menacing crowd moved closer and closer and the uproar louder and more intense.   She was trapped and could see no way out …

Boom!

Beads of sweat were glistening on Marilla’s forehead … as she awoke to the sound of rolling thunder. She glanced at the calendar on the bedroom wall and saw that it was only August 1^st.

As she sipped her morning coffee her mail dropped through the slot in her front door. Although three full months away, the first Halloween flyer lay on the floor, a grinning skeleton taunting her. And there were several brochures from politicians, trying to secure her vote in the upcoming federal election.

Perhaps the nightmares were just beginning.

Posted on August 6, 2015 under Storytelling with one comment

Don’t mess with Michael!

 

 

The first thing you notice when you meet Michael MacDonald of Red Islands, Cape Breton, is his hands.

They are the hands of one who has known hard labour. They are the hands of a stevedore, an auto body repairman and a fisherman. They are the hands of a man who still cuts his own wood to heat his home. They are the hands of a one-time pugilist. They are also the hands that gently caress a fiddle.

These are Michael’s mitts.

Honest toil. Like many people of his generation, he grew up without electricity and many other comforts in life. That’s just how it was back then and it was the norm. It was a hard life. But Michael does not lament these times. “The harder your upbringing is, the farther you go. Life was not handed to us on a silver platter.” He chuckles when he hears about people going to gyms to get a workout. Mike is a great walker and loves the outdoors. “Exercise and fresh air is all you really need.”

Like many Cape Bretoners, Michael went “down the road” to Ontario in his youth. He worked in Ottawa and Toronto and it was during this time that boxing became a central part of his life. He was an up and comer in the boxing world. When asked how he got his start, Michael says that he honed his craft behind the Big Pond dance hall! He trained in the same gym as the legendary heavyweight, George Chuvalo. He says that he never went into the ring with Chuvalo “which explains why I’m still alive today.”

He was intrigued with the boxing world and retired undefeated. An accident while back in Nova Scotia, curtailed any dreams of making it to the big times. But rather than bemoaning this fact, Michael says it was a blessing. Many of his boxing contemporaries are no longer alive or have suffered from brain damage. He also became quite skeptical about the business, as most of the boxers were pawns. “For every boxer that got rich, there were a thousand who didn’t, much of the gate being taken by trainers and managers.”

In one memorable fight, as he made his way to the ring, someone came out of the crowd and put him in a headlock. “I’m Neily John the Widow and I’m your mother’s first cousin.” This was a subtle reminder not to forget ones roots in Cape Breton and not to let fame get to Michael’s head.

It was much later in life, when he returned to Red Islands, that Michael pursued in earnest his life-long passion for the fiddle. Throughout Cape Breton, fiddles remain the anchor of kitchen parties and community dances. At the age of 12 he took his one and only fiddle lesson from none other than Johnny “Rye”. Johnny was from St. Peter’s and was a gifted musician. According to Johnny, a fiddle out of tune was a fiddle that couldn’t be played, so he taught Michael the ABC’s of fiddle tuning. Johnny would tune the fiddle and then “untune” it, repeating the exercise a half dozen times until Michael could do it perfectly.

Michael enjoys playing in public. He says that funerals are one of his mainstays. “You don’t get much criticism from the guest of honor when all you do is play at funerals.”

Not only does Michael play but he also repairs and builds fiddles. When asked about how he learned to build a stringed instrument, he said he simply learned by doing … part of his ingrained self-sufficiency.

Like a cat with nine lives, Michael has survived some major health scares in recent years. A short while ago he was gravely ill and spent the better part of a year in palliative care. “The nursing staff finally gave up on me when I wouldn’t die and shipped me back home.” During this period of time, Michael nearly threw in the towel on more than one occasion. He describes “the most peaceful feeling imaginable” as he entered the tunnel. When pushed for detail, he said the only other thing he could compare it to was when he won a fight and raised his gloves in the air.

Michael has no regrets. “It is the best life I ever had,” he quips. His greatest pleasure is to jump into his boat and spend time on his beloved Bras D ’or Lakes.

The conversation is wrapping up when Michael goes over and opens the fiddle case. He gently holds the instrument in his broad, rough hands. Far from the fury of a boxing ring, while staring out at the water, he plays “Niel Gow’s Lament” and “Ashokan Farewell”. His love of music and the place he calls home is apparent.

His bright eyes sparkle. There will be no more “going down the road” for this Cape Bretoner.