Posted on April 8, 2015 under Storytelling with no comments yet

I employ the “hunt and peck” method of typing

 

 

“And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer”

Paperback Writer – The Beatles

Despite all the advances in technology, there’ still something very special about curling up with a good book.  You know.  The kind that has actual pages; where you can use a scrap of paper or a parking ticket as a book mark.  It has become difficult for authors to get their books into circulation without going head to head with the behemoths in the industry.  And it has also become next to impossible to operate an old fashioned bookstore, heaped to the rafters with books, books and only books.  Most chain stores are bland and antiseptic and cluttered with riff raff.

Molly was an avid reader and a member of her book club, which has been meeting monthly for fifteen years … and counting.  In the lead up to an upcoming gathering she decided to go to the bookstore to purchase the volume that was to be reviewed.  Because she was coming from out of town, she piggy backed her trip to the book store with several other appointments, including an annual checkup with her doctor.

She entered the mall and went directly to Coals, the sole bookstore.  She had exactly one hour to find the required paperback and catch a bite to eat in the food court.   The appointment with her physician would follow.

The last thing Molly recalled before she heard the door closing and the lock clicking was the young sales clerk walking toward the exit with her eyes focused intently on her phone.  She hadn’t noticed Molly, who was at floor level checking a book on the bottom shelf.  It was lunch time and it became abundantly clear that this employee was taking a break.  And it was also evident that Molly was locked inside.  And she was hungry.  Quite hungry, in fact.

What exactly is one supposed to do when they get locked inside a store?  At first Molly was mildly amused by the turn of events, but then she felt her blood pressure rise, ever so slightly.  She worried that a mall security person might see her and call the cops.  She stood at the window and started to wave her arms at the mall shoppers.  They waved back.  She tried flailing her arms to denote an emergency but that yielded similar results.  She grabbed her purse to call someone on her cell phone before remembering that she had left it on the seat of her car.  She thought about using the bookstore telephone but, recalling a recent episode of CSI, decided not to leave fingerprint evidence.

Forty-five minutes later the young clerk re-entered the store.  Her cell phone was affixed to her ear and she was having an animated discussion with someone.  Molly was so distraught by this time that she left the store without buying any books.  To this day, the clerk doesn’t know what happened and didn’t even see her customer enter or leave the premises.

It was only a short walk down the hall to the doctor’s office.  Mercifully her appointment was on schedule.  By this time, her stomach was in full rumble mode and her heart was palpitating.  Her doctor slapped on the blood pressure cuff and was somewhat startled with the reading.  Before she had a chance to explain why she was in such a state, her physician smiled reassuringly.  He knew that Molly was an avid reader, so he prescribed a trip to the book store to help her relax.

Molly’s heart began to race faster.  Does the mall have an electronics store, she enquired?  Perhaps it is time for an E-reader.  For those times when the bookstore is closed.

Posted on April 6, 2015 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Susan’s vast collections of giraffes

 

 

Dozens of giraffes.  Dozens and dozens.  All lined up on a table; an honor guard of sorts for the late Susan Eaton.  It seemed so appropriate.  After all, giraffes have great vision and the woman to whom they came to say farewell was a visionary in her own right.  As one of the eulogists said, “Giraffes can see far.”

I didn’t know Susan all that well but I knew about her.  When I ran for mayor in 2004 I had the opportunity to meet her as she was the chief returning officer.  Three things struck me immediately: she was smart, she was firm and she was impartial.  She was the perfect person for the job.  It seems that everything she did, she did well.  Simply put; she was a force.

She championed many causes and virtually every one of them had to do with dignity, equality and social justice.  She was a doer and a dreamer – the former fuelled by the latter.  She was a facilitator extraordinaire and had the uncanny ability to synthesize complex issues and turn words into action.  She didn’t just produce the road map.  She frequently led the charge, often brandishing a placard.  And when the going got tough?  She whipped out her kazoo and her wonderful sense of humour.

Speaker after speaker spoke of her glowingly.  There was music, reflection and a room full of respect.  If everyone who wanted to speak had been granted a few minutes at the podium the service would have run late into the night, such was the admiration for this amazing person.

Susan walked the talk.  She did things.  She took action.  And even though she had very strong opinions about many things, she was always respectful of the other point of view.  She fought a lot of battles in the trenches for the benefit of others.

I was one of a handful of men scattered among several hundred women.  It was the most amazing gathering I have seen in one place at one time. Strong women.  Smart women.  Passionate women.  Artistic women.  Caring women.  Spiritual women.  Nurturing women.  Practical women.  Irreverent women.  Funny women.  Big picture women.  We don’t often see them all together because they are out there getting the job done.

Susan often opined about solidarity. This was evident when everyone in the room raised their voices in song at the conclusion of the ceremony.

I think the giraffes enjoyed the afternoon too.  Susan’s brother offered a gift of one of Susan’s giraffes to anyone who wanted one.  Even in death, Susan was in full “sharing mode”.

Susan’s herd: the women and men left to grieve her passing.  Let us also rejoice in her life.  And the next time you have a chance to do something that needs doing – stick your neck out.

( The very last sentence was contributed by yet another smart, strong, witty woman….Betty! )

Posted on April 4, 2015 under Storytelling with no comments yet

A mournful dirge on the pipes

( Please note: this is NOT an original story. I have not been able to trace its roots. It was given to me by a friend and was asked  to put my own spin on it. )

 

 

“Yeah when I get where I’m going Don’t cry for me down here.”

When I Get Where I’m Going – Brad Paisley

In this part of the world, when a loved one passes away, it is an accepted practice to have music at the funeral.  Sometimes it is the magnificent sounds of a church choir accompanied by an organ.  You will often see members of the extended family of the deceased perform some old favorites, with nothing more than an acoustic guitar and beautiful harmonies.  Chamber music or the comforting strains of a violin or fiddle may bring comfort to the bereaved.   And, if your ancestors came from across the pond, a haunting lament played by a solitary piper is quite common.

Performing at a committal ceremony is another matter.

Recently Danny, a bagpiper, was asked to play at a graveside service for a homeless man.  This poor soul had no family or friends and was to be buried in a rural cemetery deep in the back woods of Nova Scotia.  The bagpiper was a good natured person and quickly agreed to give this person a rousing send off.  Despite his considerable musical talents, the piper was known to have a poor sense of direction.  On the appointed day he found himself driving aimlessly in search of the service.

He arrived an hour late to what seemed to be a new part of the graveyard.  The hearse was long gone, as what must have been a small group of pallbearers and mourners.  The only people remaining were the grave diggers, and they appeared to be on a lunch break.  He walked up to them and apologized profusely for his tardiness.  He went to the side of the grave and looked down.  The vault lid was already in place.  He didn’t know what else to do so he started to play.

And play he did.  He played his heart out for this poor soul who had no family or friends.  He played like he had never played before, so touched was he with the sadness of the situation.

The workers put down their lunches and began to gather around.  As the piper played Amazing Grace, tears were observed spilling down the cheeks of the workers.  When the piper finally stopped, he too shed a tear.  He took comfort in knowing that the deceased had been given a send-off fit for royalty.

Danny packed up his pipes and made his way to his vehicle.  He felt a sense of inner peace, having completed this small but important task.

Just as he was opening his door, he heard what sounded an awful lot like laughter coming from the gravesite.  It seemed somewhat disrespectful after the emotional outpouring of a few minutes earlier. He cocked his ear and overheard one of the workers say, “I have never seen anything like that before and I’ve been putting in septic tanks for twenty years.”

The chagrined piper drove off down the dusty road.  He flicked on a local radio station that plays traditional music.  The tune they were playing was familiar.

“Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling …” He wondered if the lyrics had been written by a plumber.