Posted on April 1, 2015 under Storytelling with one comment

A bit grainy… but you get the picture

 

 

Do you remember the days when news was news and weather was weather?   Nowadays, weather is news.  With every tropical depression or every flake of snow that hints at falling to the ground, the newshounds sound the warning.  These weather prognosticators follow the forecasts in breathless anticipation of impending Armageddon.  Farmers rely on the weather.  Fishermen rely on the weather.   Why, then, are the rest of us subjected to 24 hour a day coverage when Mother Nature does what Mother Nature does?   Because Canadians are addicted to weather and pity help the day that the media stops reporting it.  What would we have to talk about, now that most of our engagement with other humans comes in the form of hand-held mobile technology?

It seems that every winter storm that drops more than 25cm of snow is dubbed “the storm of the century”!   Well I am here to report that my friends and I witnessed a once in a century storm some forty years ago.   I can actually pinpoint the date with great certainty.

It was March break in 1971 when four of us boarded a train in Antigonish, headed for Montreal to catch a Habs game and some culture.  Okay.  We were headed to Montreal to party and go to a Montreal Canadiens hockey game.  Our grandfather, a retired Montreal city councillor, had arranged tickets to the hockey game and a place of refuge at his home.  We chose to sit up for the entire trip as befitted our status and means at the time.  By the time we reached Truro, an hour and a half from our home town, the air was blue with cigarette smoke and the beer was flowing.

Sometime during the night in the wilds of Northern New Brunswick it started to snow.  At Levis, Quebec the next morning the tracks were impassable.  We hadn’t slept much as we had discovered the bar car when our supply of beer and rum had been depleted.  By now “the Storm of the Century,” as it would be dubbed later, was in full fury.  Heavy snow and hurricane force winds brought the region to a standstill.  However, after a lengthy delay, the rail liner resumed its trek and pulled into the bowels of Central Station later in the day.

Chaos.  Pure and simple.  Thousands of people were stranded.  Those who had arrived from points east and west had nowhere to go and those hoping to leave the city by train were stranded as well.  Let’s just say that our foursome was just a bit on the seedy side after small doses of sleep and large doses of alcohol.

One floor above the station, at street level, stood the venerable Queen Elizabeth hotel which could be accessed without going outside.  There was really nowhere else to go so we followed the throngs and entered the lobby of the hotel.  It was utter pandemonium as people jostled each other in impossibly long lineups, desperately trying to acquire lodging at any price.  I think our luggage was in green garbage bags so we didn’t have much bargaining power.  We spotted a pay phone and placed a call to our grandfather.

I am not the most religious person in the world, so I rarely use the word miracle except for, say, “Miracle Whip”.  Grandpa had anticipated our problem long before we arrived in the city and had booked a suite at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel.  He told us to proceed directly to the “Executive check in”.  All of the other check in lineups had hundreds of people in them.  There were only a few well-dressed business types in ours.  When it was our turn the attendant looked at us and probably wondered if we were the maintenance crew or a group of street people.  We all had excessively long hair, wore tattered blue jeans and smelled like a bar at closing time.

No one has ever offered before or since to have someone carry my garbage bag to my room in a hotel.  You can just imagine the withering stares we were getting from the rest of the irritated masses.  We respectfully declined the bell hop service and took the elevator to our rooms.  Having consumed all of the sandwiches we had made for the trip we, of course, ordered room service.

When we awoke the next morning, the only things moving on St. Catherine Street, the major artery of downtown Montreal, were a handful of snowmobiles.  The combination of a heavy snowfall along with hurricane-force winds had created drifts that were two stories high.  There were two major news events on the television as we dined on eggs benedict.  Our Prime Minister at the time, Pierre Elliot Trudeau, had married the much younger Margaret Sinclair the day before in North Vancouver.  However, the much bigger story was that the hockey game at the Montreal Forum set for that day had been cancelled.  This was the first time a game had been called off in fifty years.

While we were disappointed that we would miss the game, at least we had the 20 hour journey back home on the train to look forward to.  We eventually made it to Grandpa’s and, to the eternal gratefulness of the train passengers; we were able to do our laundry before boarding the train for the return trip.

Posted on March 28, 2015 under Storytelling with one comment

The starting point for our return trip on April 11th.

 

 

Tip # 19: Do not announce your arrival at a border crossing

Crossing the border into the United States or Canada always provides a small amount of angst for most travellers, even if you have nothing to hide. When you are traveling with a car loaded down with music equipment, there is always the possibility that you will be noticed.  But occasionally it’s not what’s inside the car that draws the attention of border officials.

In the space of 24 hours, I had spoken with two fine young gentlemen who trace their routes to Heatherton, Nova Scotia.  Go figure.  After a tasty breakfast, Pete, Dave and I walked the streets of Portland.  What we discovered is that this city is known as the craft brew capital of the U.S.  It also has more food trucks than anywhere on the planet and, per capita, must have the most strip clubs in the galaxy.  And … it is the home of Voodoo Donuts.  Apparently this is a must see while in Portland, and being good sports, we thought it best to support the local economy.

We passed through Seattle during supper rush hour.  This is the home of the reigning N.F.L. champs, the Seahawks.  Lots of vehicles had flags attached and you could tell that this was a source of civic pride.

And finally, after close to 10,000 kilometers, we could see “our home and native land” off in the distance as we neared the Peace Arch border crossing into Canada.  We stopped momentarily at the Duty Free shop and then queued up in a very short lineup.  It is about 50 feet from the Duty Free to the border and it was there that the muffler decided to give up the ghost.  Rather than announcing our arrival like a purring kitten, we pulled up to the booth with a deep throaty roar.  It was almost like we were proclaiming “We’re back!”

We arrived in Vancouver, in the rain.  A welcome shower to cleanse the dust of many miles off the car!

Tip # 20:  Choose your travelling partner wisely

Travelling with anybody for 17 days, with much of it confined to a car, isn’t easy.  It requires a lot of patience and compromise as you learn about each other’s idiosyncrasies.  If you choose the wrong partner, it may be a very long trip.  But if you choose well, it can very well be the trip of a lifetime.

We had a fantastic supper with my brother Don, at a small Indian restaurant in his neighborhood.  I think Vancouver may have the best selection of ethnic restaurants on the continent.

The final leg of our trip started with a detour into Delta so that Peter could pick up a couple of speakers.  The purchase had been arranged a few weeks earlier online.  I was wondering how on earth we could possibly fit a single sheet of paper into an already jam-packed vehicle, let along two fairly large speakers.  Obviously I am not a professional musician, as they are used to finding ways to make gear fit anywhere.

After a short ferry ride, the city of Victoria emerged on the horizon.

Not everyone gets a chance to drive across a continent, and even fewer have the opportunity to do it with one of their children. It takes a confluence of events, perfect timing and a very understanding spouse.

I am one of the lucky ones and I am proud to say that Pete and I completed the trip of a lifetime with our friendship still intact!  Make no mistake.  It was a gruelling journey and even the best of friends will have moments of frustration, especially when there is a generation gap involved.  As usual, we found much more common ground than disparity.  The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.

It was a wonderful history and geography lesson combined.  We saw a lot, did a lot and ate a lot.  There is a basketful of memories and some gorgeous pictures documented through Peter’s eyes and camera lens.

Yes indeed.  As Tom Cochrane so aptly sings, “Life is a highway. I wanna ride it all night long”.

( We will be making the return trip from Vancouver to Halifax on April 11th. through the Northern U.S.  Stay tuned for pictures and stories. )

Posted on March 24, 2015 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Busting a move

 

 

It all started in the Garden of Eden.   Since the beginning of time, men have been fascinated by their female counterparts.  Nowhere is this more prevalent (and dangerous, I might add) than when men dare to comment about a woman’s appearance.   In the this age of enlightenment and political correctness, it is a brave man indeed who pays a compliment to the fairer sex, unless he has been married to her for over 50 years.  (You’re a few years short of a home run, buddy … The editor.)

So most guys have to figure out other ways to earn respect on the domestic scene.  Thinking of becoming an explosives operator?  Try laundry duty if you really want to earn your danger pay.

Have you ever offered to wash your wife’s clothing?  Her undergarments, specifically?  I vividly remember my wedding vows.  When did “to have and to hold” turn into “to wash and to fold?”

My wife is a tax preparer and at this time of the year she is going flat out, which means that I take over a lot of the household chores.  I do a reasonably good job at putting a basic meal on the table and I am more than happy to do the dishes and other tasks.  This includes the laundry.  This is not a big deal as I did my own all through my twenties before getting married.  Washing men’s clothing is straight ahead.   You can pretty well fire everything in the wash machine, use hot water and let ‘er rip.  Take everything out of the wash machine and toss it all in the dryer: high heat.

Several years ago I surprised my wife by completing the weekend wash while she was at work.   I used the same tactics as I had employed years ago with my own dirty clothes.  This is when I found out that doing laundry, especially a woman’s unmentionables, is a very big deal indeed.  It didn’t take me long to figure out that only a fool (a man, of course) would knowingly launder his wife’s undergarments.

Most guys I know have a passing knowledge of bras.  Many could have discovered them for the first time while flipping through the Sears catalog.  Yes, as our fingers tripped through the pages, anxious to get to the sporting goods section, we would take a quick peek at women’s lingerie.  At least that’s what I’ve been told.

So, in order to save some of you poor slobs from suffering humiliating indignities, let me give you a few pointers about laundering bras:

Do not wash them in hot water. Never do this.  Ever.

Wash them all at once.  Apparently a solitary bra will die of loneliness unless it is washed with every other bra of its owner.  I have coined a new term for this: bra bunching.  This leaves me wondering what women wear when all the bras are in the wash at once.

Do not put them in the dryer… ever.  (They are called “delicates” for a reason – The editor)

I have been told by good sources that Victoria’s Secret sells women’s lingerie.

And what, pray tell, is Victoria’s secret?  Stick to your Stanfields, big guy.