Posted on October 1, 2025 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with no comments yet

The one that didn’t get away

With aplogies to my loyal readers. I’m getting readjusted to the Atlantic time zone and was too lazy to write something tastier than this 12 pound chinook. I’ll be back next week with something meatier… or fishier!

 

GONE FISHIN’

 

If you want a great start to your day,

And if it’s peace you’re wishin’

Grab a boat, get on the bay,

It’s time to do some fishin’.

 

The morning sun is cresting,

The seagulls are all a squawking,

It’s pure heaven, I’m not jesting,

There’s no need for talking.

 

We leave the marina, the motor puttering,

The sea is calm and inviting,

The prospect of fish keeps our hearts fluttering,

A big chinook on the line is exciting.

 

We pick up speed, we’re in waters deep,

We drop our lines along with downriggers,

There’s only so many fish we can keep,

The small ones returned, we want the biggers.

 

The fishing line dips and dances,

Waiting for a tug,

Fishing is a game of chances,

Once you get the bug.

 

The tip of the rod is bending,

A big one is on the line,

I take the wheel, a hand I’m lending,

A fat 12 pounder, life is fine.

 

Some days the fish are smarter,

They’re not too keen to take the bait,

Today is a non-starter,

We simply sit and wait.

 

Sitting quietly ain’t so bad,

Even when the fish aren’t biting,

Time spent with son and dad,

Is a poem well worth writing.

 

 

 

Posted on September 24, 2025 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with no comments yet

The Metchosin Massacre

 

It’s official.

The paint is dry.

If you are a first-time reader, you will have to read my three previous posts for this to make sense.

As you read this, I will be winging my way back to Nova Scotia. My time in rural British Columbia has been therapeutic. My arm has healed nicely and while not 100%, I can function perfectly well. I won’t be able to toss the caber anymore but that’s ok! There is still some residual bruising from both falls.

However, there is a deeper bruise that concerns me.

I haven’t played golf for almost two decades. There was a time that I was reasonably accomplished at this sport. A bad back, poor vision, and a lack of interest were all contributors to my retirement.

So it was with some astonishment that during my rehab here in Metchosin, I picked up one of Peter’s golf clubs as part of my therapy, to stretch the shoulder muscles. I gently hit wedges into a net no more than ten yards away. A week later, I went to the local driving range and hit a half bucket of balls. My therapist assured me that this form of exercise wouldn’t do any harm.

I then progressed to a small part three course. No hole was longer than 125 yards. My expectations were low, and they were met. Years of rust, in addition to the injuries to my arm, provided the backdrop to a less than stellar performance. I was playing by myself, so no one had to endure the plethora of horrible shots.

And then came the dreaded request.

“Dad. Will you come with me to play 9 holes at the Metchosin Golf Club?”

To this point, I had only been hitting pitching wedges. For those of you not familiar with the game a pitching wedge is a club meant to be hit a short distance (circa 100 yards). If I acquiesced to Peter’s request, I would be playing holes in excess of 400 yards.

It was a spectacular evening when we teed off. We had the course to ourselves. It was sunny but dusk wasn’t too far off. We had the spectacular Olympic Mountains as a backdrop.

I am going to spare you the gory details.

Mark Twain once wrote “Golf is a good walk spoiled”. That just about sums up the two hours of torture that my son and a gaggle of geese had to endure. To say that my performance was brutal would be an understatement. My shots flew off in every imaginable direction, with many of them dribbling a small handful of yards down the fairway. I truly believe that I hit more bad shots in that one round of golf than I had in my entire golf career.

Darkness set in with two holes remaining. This was a blessing for Peter and the geese. They were unable to see my wayward shots. It got so dark that we had to use the flashlights on our phones to locate and hit our shots.

The bruising on my arm was bad enough. Now I had to deal with a bruised ego.

I discovered that, unlike riding a bike, you just can’t hop back on the first tee of a golf course after a 20-year hiatus and expect to be good at this sport once again.

I played a few more times with similar results.

I won’t be joining the senior tour any time soon unless it’s a winery tour.

Here’s a small poem I penned to mark the occasion:

FLOGGING GOLF

 

I took up golf at the age of ten,

When dad took me to the course,

I didn’t hit any balls close to the pin,

But the game took me by force.

 

I owned two clubs, a five and a putter,

My shots were not long and not always straight,

Like bowling, some ended up in the gutter,

Such is a golfer’s fate.

 

I played and practiced day and night,

My appetite was strong,

I wouldn’t quit without a fight,

I knew that I belonged.

 

A champion golfer at twenty-one,

I thought I had it made,

But there are many surprises under the sun,

I couldn’t hook but I could fade.

 

I must have played ten thousand rounds,

At my home course in the Nish,

I knew every bounce on the ground,

In the ponds, I knew the fish.

 

I played for decades and became quite good,

Maybe someday play on the tour,

But many a shot ended up in the woods,

I learned to holler “Fore”.

 

A lasix fix would improve my sight,

I no longer needed glasses,

But things didn’t turn out right,

My golf game burns and crashes.

 

I didn’t touch a single club,

For twenty some odd years,

I knew that I would likely flub,

If I played while drinking beer.

 

I broke my arm one April morn,

The recovery was quite slow,

Would I make a comeback soon?

To Metchosin I would go.

 

A woman healer lived nearby,

She thought that she could fix me,

The treatments nearly made me cry,

And it wasn’t because of her fee.

 

One day in my recovery,

I picked up Peter’s wedge,

I hit a few balls, a discovery,

One landed in the hedge.

 

I played nine holes at a little par 3,

Just down the road a bit,

My arm felt good as I stood on the tee,

A fire under me lit.

 

Is it possible that I’ll play again?

Is it real or am I in a fog?

On this paper, these words I pen,

Golf spelled backwards is flog!

Have a great weekend.

 

Posted on September 17, 2025 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with one comment

A tree hugging tree

 

I have passed the halfway mark in my month-long rehabilitation.

No. I’m not at some fancy resort trying to kick booze and drugs. I’m staying on a rural property that was once a farm here outside Victoria B.C. It still feels a bit like a farm and there are days when I feel like I’m involved in animal husbandry rather than trying to unlock a frozen shoulder. I had hoped that my athletic therapist could also unlock my frozen brain, but she confessed that she isn’t a miracle worker.

I’m a big believer in holistic healing. In addition to my regular therapy sessions, I have been walking at least 10 kilometres a day, doing my stretching exercises, watering the gardens and plants, driving to the feed store for chicken supplies, and harvesting some of the crops. As well as an abundance of chickens, there are two goats, and I have been threatening to join them in some goat yoga. Those two have quite the life. They spend most of their days on the roof of a small building sunning themselves and the rest of the time, just wandering around the property.

I believe that all of these activities aid in the healing process. I walk through old growth forests every day and it is simply awe inspiring. I’m definitely not a tree hugger but I could see myself becoming one!

Some of you are familiar with the ROMEO’s. It is a group of men who get together once a month to share a meal and camaraderie. The acronym stands for Retired Old Men Eating Out. They often have a guest speaker. After my trip to India in 2016-17, I attended one of their lunches as their speaker.

There is a similar group out here. I was talking with one of their members and he told me that they have a rule. Any attendee can only discuss one of his physical infirmities. As aches, pains, and war wounds pile up, any septuagenarian could rhyme up a half dozen complaints before soup was served.

And why do I bring this up?

Unfortunately, I had another rather nasty spill last week. While walking on Matheson Lake Trail, I stopped to take a picture. When I turned around to continue on the path, I tripped on a large root and down I went, landing on my arm. Yes, that arm. For a moment I was actually terrified thinking that I might have broken my arm again but fortunately I only suffered an ugly contusion just below the elbow… and a bruised ego.  A few days later, after receiving excellent medical care from my therapist, I was no worse for wear.

And that incident got me thinking.

I had to admit to myself. I was no longer just getting old but that I’m actually old.

Several of my regular readers receive my weekly wisdom (?) by e-mail. They are not on Facebook where most of you are viewing this right now. They have decided that dumpster diving is not for them.

While walking through the forest last week, I saw the most amazing configuration of a tree. I thought to myself’ “What if trees could talk?” I went straight home, sat down at my kitchen table and wrote a short poem with that as the title. I posted it in on FB and received a positive response. Since then, I have written a poem every day and have contemplated doing a book of poetry.

So. Here’s may take on aging:

SLIP SLIDIN’ AWAY

 

The fog is lifting o’er the bay,

The days are short, a little cold,

I don’t feel agile on this day,

The truth, we’re growing old.

 

There was a time not long ago,

Fleet of foot and bold,

But now I trip, my steps are slow,

The truth, we’re growing old.

 

Names they now escape me,

My memory, not solid gold,

These days, I’m talking to the trees,

The truth, we’re growing old.

 

Despite my aches and groans and pain,

I’m not about to fold,

There are trips to take along The Main,

Even if I’m old.

 

Like a house that’s weather beaten,

We’re showing signs of mold,

Age it can’t be cheaten,

Eventually, we’ll all grow old.

 

The truth is, I’m very lucky,

Treasured memories I hold,

Still feeling rather plucky,

Even though I’m old.

 

Life has been a terrific run,

Of this I’m completely sold,

I’ve had more than my share of fun,

It’s not so bad being old.

 

We’re in the later innings,

In the game of life, I’m told,

Grab hold of all your winnings,

And be happy that you’re old.

Have a great weekend and… stay young!

 

Goat yoga, anyone?