Posted on May 9, 2015 under Storytelling with 2 comments

Stickhandling through life

 

 

Most people greet spring with a mixture of hope and anticipation.  The layers of winter are gradually peeled back, revealing the first crocuses and snowdrops.   A hint of warmth in the sun brings smiles to people’s faces.  Fishermen can’t wait to drop their lines in a river or lake for the first time in the new season.  Small children make their way to their favorite playgrounds.  Birds sing and the peepers peep.

For Mike Campbell, spring is a necessary evil.  You see, Mike is an avid hockey player in the winter and he loves to mow grass … cemetery grass in particular … in the summer.  When there is no hockey and no grass to mow, Mike is restless.  He doesn’t like to be idle.

Mike plays hockey three times a week during the winter.  And once the dandelions poke their heads out, Mike can be seen with his trusty push mower, trimming the grass at the cemeteries for the parishes of St. Alphonsus and St. Joseph, a task he has been doing for thirty some years.  I asked him why he took up this volunteer work.  “I was told to.”  Enough said.

Oh.  Did I mention that Mike is just a few months shy of 90?

I’m sitting at his kitchen table (where else but in Cape Breton!) alongside his wife and best friend, Marilyn.  It takes all of two minutes before we make an Antigonish connection … the MacKinnon clan.  We’re off and running and two hours later I’m on my way back to the Mainland with a frozen apple pie and a bag of cinnamon rolls.  Marilyn assures me that they will be thawed by the time I get home.  I assure her that they may not make it across the Causeway intact; frozen or not.

Mike remembers the “Grand Banks Earthquake” of 1929 as if it were yesterday.  It appears that Mike can recall just about everything in his long, healthy, active life.  I am surprised that he couldn’t tell me the exact time of day the quake hit.  (It was 5:02 P.M.  Newfoundland time).  He was a child of four at home with his mother.   The plaster walls of the house remained cracked for many years afterwards.

He knows a lot about the dynamics of large families.  He came from a family of 16 and he and his first wife had 11 children of their own.  He and Marilyn became a team several years after their first spouses passed away.

A number of his brothers fought in WW11.  One operated a Spitfire and escaped a serious strafing only to die many years later while jogging.  Another brother was an officer on the minesweeper HMCS Bayfield.  He died years later while skating close to home.  Mike wasn`t making light of these tragedies; but rather, the quirkiness of life.

He grew up on a farm in Low Point.  He and his siblings discovered the meaning of hard work and self-sufficiency at a very early age.  It wasn`t always easy; it was just the way it was.  He said that if he ever met a cow on Charlotte Street, he wouldn`t speak to it, so fed up was he with chores by the time he left home.

He spoke glowingly about his father who was quite the wordsmith.  “When Dad spoke, every word counted.”  Most of us could take a lesson on that front.

Besides his legendary physical fitness regime, Mike is an avid reader and possesses a keen wit.  Several times during the conversation he hit me with one-liners that would make Leno or Letterman proud.  We talked history, politics, religion and sports.  I was a bit leery going down the history path.  I had considered tucking a claymore under my coat on my way to Mike’s house, for fear of the ghosts of Glencoe interrupting our conversation.  The Campbells and MacDonalds didn’t always get along nearly as well as we did on this beautiful Cape Breton morning.

Much of the conversation was about sports.  Mike still plays between 75-80 games of hockey a year.  I downplayed the fact that I am a life-long Habs fan when I heard of his passion for the Leafs.  He seems fit enough that the Leafs might want to call him up.  Mike hopes to once again see Toronto hoist the cup.  I remarked that his longevity might be sorely tested.  He chuckled and told me, “It’s pretty bad when even the mascot wants to get traded.”

Mike spent many years underground.  We talked about coal at some length.  His father was in New Waterford on June 11, 1925, when William Davis was shot and killed during a mining strike.  He still watches the boats bring imported coal to the Lingan power station.  He doesn’t think that coal will be king anytime soon since much of the rail infrastructure has been torn up.

Among Mike’s other passions is baseball, a game he played until he was nearly 70.  And he has an amazing collection of scrapbooks.  He meticulously records everything, including obituaries.  I am hoping that I don’t make it into that particular album any time soon.

He never smoked or drank but he has his vices like the rest of us.  He can’t resist Marilyn’s baking.

Diet, physical activity, mental exercise and a healthy dose of humour have served Mike very well during his time on this planet.  He plans to stay vigorous and engaged for as long as he is able.

The apostle, Paul, notes that those who waste their time in idleness or in a non-productive manner are easily led into sin.  I saw no signs of the devil lurking near Daley Road.  I asked him about this and he said, “All you do when you’re sitting around with nothing to do is find fault.  You don’t even like the way the crows fly.”

“Lang may yer lum reek, Mike.  And keep your head up crossing the blue line.  There’s only one thing tougher than a Campbell and that’s a MacDonald with a long memory.

Posted on May 5, 2015 under Storytelling with 2 comments

Sweet Cravings

 

 

We’ve all done it.

Sometimes we have an insatiable urge for a particular food and, if it’s not in the house, we will go to any lengths to procure it.  There was a time in my life when the craving for a feed of “the dirty bird” (KFC) was every bit as strong as nicotine.  (I used to be a smoker and I know what that feels like.)  Ditto for a slice of Wheel pizza, Chinese food or a large slab of chocolate cake with 7 Minute Icing.  And when the craving hits, we often leave the house within moments.

I was involved in Scouts for a brief period of time and remember the motto: Be Prepared.  According to the Scouts, that means that you are supposed to always be in a state of readiness in order to do your duty.  When your spouse says that going for an ice cream treat is imperative, that is one duty that cannot be ignored.  And I remember my mother telling me: Make sure you are always wearing clean underwear in case you’re involved in an accident.  You would hate to end up at the hospital in the X-ray department wearing two day old Stanfield’s.

It was a rather cool evening when the well-respected businessman left the comfort of his house in pursuit of two banana splits and a Blizzard from the local Dairy Queen.  He was wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, a t-shirt and slippers.  After all, it was Saturday night and he was only going through the drive thru.  The DQ doesn’t mandate business attire.

He was pleased to see that there was just a single vehicle in the lineup.  He expected to return home with the treats in short order.  But, just like a grocery store queue, sometimes looks can be deceiving.

He placed his order and waited his turn for the pick-up window.  After 5 minutes of idling, he began to tap his fingers on the steering wheel with impatience.  The car in front of him wasn’t moving, despite the fact that the occupants had received their order.  The driver of the car got out … no mean feat when you consider the space between the car and the delivery window … and approached the businessman.

“Can you give me a boost?  It seems like my battery has died.”

A few more cars had joined the lineup by this time but there was just enough room to put his car in reverse and edge around the stalled car. He made a U-turn and manoeuvered his vehicle so that his hood was abutting her engine.  He grabbed the cables from the trunk and emerged to assist the damsel in distress …. in his pajamas and slippers.  He hadn’t thought much about his garb.  He attached the cables and instantly heard the adjacent car spring back to life.

And then, a light snow began to fall.  Despite the fact that it was late April, Mother Nature had refused to loosen her grip on winter, prolonging a long stretch of miserable weather.  The brutish winter had led to an unusually cold spring.

He put his car in reverse and heard the blare of a horn.  It appeared that the car that he had just boosted had fallen silent again.  The snow was now starting to accumulate as he once again applied the cables. The lineup in the drive thru had lengthened considerably.  Was it his imagination or were people staring at him?  After a third futile attempt at resuscitating the vehicle, he told the woman that she needed more than a boost.  He backed out of the drive thru and watched as a few good Samaritans pushed her car out into the parking lot to await the tow truck.

He was just about to pull away when he remembered that he hadn’t picked up his order.  The restaurant was crowded inside.  The people in the drive thru had already seen him in his bedtime attire.  He exited his car and shuffled to the drive thru window with his eyes downcast. He sheepishly poked his head in and asked for his ice cream.  He noticed a teenage attendant with a cell phone pointed in his direction, and wondered if he would see a YouTube video on Facebook by the time he got home.

It had become a full-blown snow storm when he pulled into his heated garage.

His wife and daughter stared at him inquisitively.  He thought it best to “eat now and explain later”.  He opened the bag to discover that two thirds of the order had been filled … the banana splits.  “Where is the Blizzard?” he wondered.  He looked out the living room window and grinned as small drifts appeared in his driveway.

He grabbed a bag of chips from the cupboard to munch while the gals got their ice cream fix.

Posted on May 2, 2015 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Computer crash???

 

 

 

 

I’ve been everywhere, man I’ve been everywhere, man I’ve crossed the deserts bare, man I’ve breathed the mountain air, man Of travel I’ve had my share, man I’ve been everywhere

I’ve Been Everywhere – Geoff Mack (as sung by Hank Snow)

During the past eight months I have taken three significant road trips.  Most of my travel has been in the continental United States, with lesser amounts in Canada.  All totalled, I have put over 22,000 kilometers on two different vehicles.  That same mileage has been put on this old body.  Most of the driving has taken place on Interstate highways.  I would agree that it’s not the best way to see North America, but it does give one an appreciation for the scope and magnitude of the countries on either side of the “longest undefended border” in the world.

I am an old road warrior from my long-haired university days.  Back in the 70’s I drove across Canada on numerous occasions with a variety of traveling companions.  I have plenty of stories in the memory bank.  Lately, I have had the pleasure of traveling with my son.  He is young and has nerves of steel.  He has navigated (at rush hour) Los Angeles and Chicago, and easily maneuvered through Toronto and Montreal as if it were a trip from Dominion to Glace Bay. We encountered a few car problems along the way and only slept in one seedy motel.

Our latest expedition, just completed a few weeks ago, took us through the Northern United States.  We saw the Rockies and the Great Plains and even deked into Mt. Rushmore for a little history lesson.  Our second last day was the longest, including re-entry into Canada by way of the tunnel at Windsor.  Fifteen hours were under our belt when we checked into a Comfort Inn just off the 401.

Needless to say, our fatigue level was in the “very high” range.  We settled into our room and, within minutes, I had my laptop up and running.  With a deadline looming for one of the papers I write for, I needed to post the story before shutting things down for the night.  I reckon that I have been in approximately 24 hotel rooms since last October, and getting connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi is a routine procedure, done in minutes.  At least that’s what usually happens.

With me, fatigue and computer problems are similar to gasoline and matches in the hands of a small child: dangerous.  My son, who is quite tech savvy, was unable to help.  I grabbed the laptop and headed down to the front desk.

It was now close to midnight (approximately three hours past my usual bedtime) when I appeared in front of a young clerk.  I gingerly set the computer on the counter in front of her and ask if she could help me get hooked up to the Wi-Fi.  She fiddled with it, as I had done, but to no avail.   She apologized and said that there was nothing she could do.  I cast a glance her way.  No, it was more like a withering stare.  She had obviously taken “anti-terrorism” training.   She looked me up and down, observing two beady eyes that were drilling a hole right into her forehead.   I remained silent while she assessed the threat level.  “I will call tech support,” she said.  I agreed that that was a very wise thing to do.  I suggested that she do the talking with the tech geek.

The minutes seemed like hours as I watched late night traffic whiz by on the 401.  I started to do the countdown in my head.  “If this problem is not fixed in 10 minutes, I am going to walk the computer out to the highway.  I will place it in the middle of the road and watch gleefully as one eighteen wheeler after another turns it into bits and bytes.”

“Mr. MacDonald, your computer is now logged on to our Wi-Fi.  Enjoy the rest of your stay.”  I snapped out of my trance.  Bingo.

The next morning we departed.  Even though my computer was safely stored in the trunk, I couldn’t resist looking at the surface of the 401 for debris …