A MINI-MIRACLE

          I'm just turning 73 and depending upon one's view of age; to some, I'm utterly old, aged and decrepit and to others, if they're 90 years of age or older, I'm still on the young side of dying.  As for the way I'm feeling, there are days when I still think I'm just a spry young buck and days when I figure my time has almost run out.  Yesterday, was one of those days when I still felt sort of spry and my time upon this glorious Earth almost came to an end - I suspect elderly old men like myself should refrain from climbing ladders.  

          After arriving home yesterday afternoon, from the Woodstock Farm Market, where Sarah has taken over the little Market Cafe, I decided I had better get the garage door opened before my friend Gerry Ingraham arrived with a load of wood-shavings that I use after I've cleaned out the chicken coop - 72 chickens and one rooster can certainly poop a lot.  Remembering that the remote control door no longer worked properly, it would only go up and down a couple of feet every time I pressed the little button, I knew it would have to be lifted manually. I didn't think it would be much of a problem to remedy; just a matter of attaching a long piece of rope to a metal latch and then pulling the heavy door up and tying it off, so the dang thing wouldn't come down on our heads.  Since the latch is located at the top of the door, I had to climb up about 4' on an 6' ladder to reach it.  However, unsure that just tying a piece of rope to the latch was going to work, I decided to try pulling down on the latch, which had a very short, thin yellow, polyester rope was already attached to it. Steadying myself on the ladder, I applied some pressure to the rope and it looked like it just might work but it would need 2 hands.  So, the ladder seemed to be sturdy enough when I grabbed hold of the rope but what I didn't realize was that the rope hadn't been tied securely to itself, forming a loop, it had only been taped together with some black electrical tape and the glue had dried up, so that short piece of polyester rope was just an accident waiting to happen.  

          If I'd known I was to become a one-man, slap-stick comedy act when I pulled down hard on that blasted hunk of polyester rope, especially with no one watching my antics, I would have just sat down with a cold bottle of beer and waited for my friend Gerry to arrive.  As imagined, when I hauled down with all my strength, the black electrical tape pulled off the end of the rope and as I began to lift off the ladder like Superman doing a backflip off a tall building, I tried to grab hold of the top of the ladder to steady myself.  However, the law of physics being what it is, me and the ladder took to flight.  It all happened so quickly and I was flying to the ground backwards, without any way of breaking my fall, I suddenly felt and heard a loud smack to the backside of my head when I landed in a heap on the floor.  Everything went black for a second or two and I was afraid to move.  Falling 4' feet is not a great height but when the garage is filled with work tables, feed barrels, a snow-blower and other dangerous paraphernalia when one is in flight looking up, rather than looking down, I was a little fearful about getting up.  So, while I was laying on my back, my head ringing like a church bell on Sunday morning, I checked to make sure my legs, arms and neck were still able to move properly.  Except for the growing bump on the back of the head, everything else seemed to be in proper order.

          What I really found amazing was just how comfortable it was laying on the garage dirt floor.  And what was really amazing was when I stood up and looked down to where I'd fallen; the location momentarily took my breath away.  I had landed between a metal work bench and the snow-blower on a bunch of empty feed bags I'd stuffed between them.  When I was flying through the air ass-backwards, my head just missed by mere inches, the steel corner of the table on one side and on the other side, another steel corner of the snow-blower.  The smack I received to the back of the head was from the handle of a snow-shovel, which had been leaning against the snow-blower; how lucky was that?  To me, it was like a mini-miracle, a couple of inches either way and I would have been critically injured or killed.  My wife Sarah was upset with me because she said it most likely would have been a long time before anyone found me and she wasn't too happy either when I said, "But Gerry arrived about 3 minutes after it happened, so I wouldn't have laid there very long and if I was dead, it wouldn't make any difference."

          Amusing or not, after Gerry and I unloaded his half-ton truck, which consisted of 2 huge bags of wood-shavings, I decided it was time for a cold beer - actually, being so grateful that everything ended so well, no trip to the Emergency Room at the hospital, no broken bones and no undertaker needed, I toasted to my good health by knocking back 6 cold beers - cheers, eh!

        

ELEPHANT BALLS (AMARULA) AND OTHER CREATIVE JUICES

          It seems that some of the people who read this blog were somewhat curious what I meant when I wrote about "elephant balls".  Well, let me tell you, there's just nothing like a hot mug of coffee on a Sunday morning, especially when it's fortified with a double shot of Amarula Cream.  I was first introduced to this delicious tasting liquor at my brother's 60th birthday party, which lasted for 3 days, about 4 years ago.  A mutual friend of ours (Mark) invited me into his motor home for a good-morning-coffee, which he called "elephant balls".   He apparently likes this drink so much, he buys it by the case, so lucky for me, I spent quite a lot of time visiting Mark; there just wasn't enough coffee-breaks in the day.  From what I understand, elephants have been known to get drunk munching on the marula fruit, once it becomes fermented.  I have an idea how much I would have to consume in order to become somewhat tipsy -, but an elephant - I suspect a 45 gal. drum filled with Amarula Cream might suffice and then again, maybe not.  Hard to imagine a drunken elephant staggering around the African plains and leaning against trees would not be a good idea either; more than likely knock them down.  Can you imagine the hangover an elephant would have the next morning; talk about a mind boggling headache - makes my head throb just thinking about it.  Unfortunately, this Sunday morning (today) when I went to the liquor cupboard to accent my coffee, I discovered the bottle was empty - maybe like my friend Mark, I should consider buying it by the case - I wonder if it costs a little less then?

           Sarah opened up our little coffee shop in Fosterville this long rainy weekend, which was odd because we kept hearing on the radio, how sunny it was but it must have been somewhere else in New Brunswick.  Quite a few people came in over the past two days but I expect the weather was somewhat of a detriment because not as many showed up as they did this time last year.  However, the Community Centre held a bacon and eggs breakfast by donation yesterday, so I'm sure that would be another reason for the lack of customers.  But that's the way it goes here, one never really knows how many people will grace our doorstep on any given day; some days there's hardly a soul and others, there's sometimes a line.  

          I had a couple of black flies buzzing around my face a couple evenings ago; must be scouts reconnoitering for the impending hoard that will soon be attacking in full force.  Time to don the mosquito netting and arm myself with a fly-swatter or wear a turbocharged fan on my head to blow the pesty insects away.  Oh well, not too much I can do about them and at least it's basically warm again; there isn't any snow to shovel. 

          Tomorrow is a holiday but to me, it just seems like any other day.  Although I don't have a regular job, it doesn't mean I don't have jobs to do.  However, that being said, if it's still pouring rain, instead of doing some of the outside chores, I do believe I'll do some spring cleaning in my studio, like put a lot of stuff away and washing the floor, including the stairway - tramped in a lot of chicken shit and mud over the course of the winter.  I'm so pleased that I'm able to let the chickens out now; their coop stays so much cleaner and drier too, so I don't have to clean it quite as often as during the winter and, they are laying a lot more eggs.  

          Lately, I've had a real itch; an itching to get a little creative once again.  It's been almost a year since my painting juices were flowing with ideas and it will be good to pick up a brush once again.  Although, that being said, my wife Sarah and daughter Jessica have just put dibs on my last two blank canvases; seems the creative mood is catchy; but that's a good thing isn't it?  However, I have a large painting that I started several years back that I should finish.  I've put a helluva lot of time into it and I'd hate to die before it's done and have someone else attempt to complete it - I have a hard time rolling over now and I expect it's even harder when I'm lying 6' under, if I didn't like the way they finished painting it.  Guess it's time to attempt to sidestep the raindrops and head into the house - I can't enjoy my "elephant balls" but I do believe a Caesar is in order - cheers, eh!           

SUNDAY SERMONS AND WITCHES

          Sunday morning is here once again.  At this age and having been a long time since I had a job-job, you know the kind I mean; 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, Sunday just seems like any other day of the week.  There was a time, so long ago now, but I still remember those Sundays, when my stepmother would make me scrub myself squeaky-clean, put on my best clothes, give me a dime for the collection plate and send me off with my two sisters to church.  As I sit here, just closing my eyes and feeling the warm sun shining through the window and thinking back to those times, I can almost see the United Church minister dressed in black, wearing a white clerical collar as he leans over the altar looking down at a row of us little boys and girls saying, "It's time to sing, "Jesus loves me!" and hear the soft rumble of people beginning to stand.  In those early years, Sunday School was a must and even then, I had doubt and questions concerning whether there was really a God or not?  My eyes still shut, I drift a little further ahead to when I was about 12 or 13 and my sisters and I went to stay with their grandfolks at New Sarepta, Alberta for our summer holidays. I really enjoyed that summer on their large farm, filling my belly with Saskatoons, riding large workhorses and playing Huckleberry Finn on a small raft I discovered floating at the edge of a large pond.  

          My mother's parents had come from Germany and still had very heavy accents, at times, difficult to understand, especially when they got mad at me.  One day, not sure if it was a Sunday or not, while poling my way across the tea-coloured pond on the dilapidated raft, I noticed a huge black cloud approaching from the west.  Filled with lightning and roaring its discontent, realizing I would most likely soon be caught in a deluge of pelting rain or perhaps even hail, I leaped off the raft and ran towards the safety of the huge barn that was situated a short distance from the house.  Just barely missing the rain, I raced inside the large open doorway and quickly clambered up a wooden ladder to the hay loft.  As I lay in the soft broken bales of hay, looking out a small doorway used for loading the loft with bales of hay and straw, at the almost black sky punctuated with slashes of lightning, listening to the cracks of thunder and pounding rain overhead, I heard a strange moaning sound below me.  After quietly creeping to the edge of the loft, I carefully peered over to see what was making the eerie noises.  Being an inquisitive boy with an imaginative mind, expecting to perhaps see some sort of a monster or wild animal below, I was more than a little taken aback when I saw our grandmother kneeling on the ground, her hands tightly clasped together and pointing towards the heavens.  For someone who believed in God so much, I couldn't and still don't understand why she looked so frightened and frightening at the same time.  However, probably because she was soaking wet, her extremely long black hair containing streaks of grey, which was pasted to her tiny, skinny body and the tears that were streaming down her deeply lined face while she writhed around on the dirt floor, to me, she looked like a witch screaming incantations in German.  The storm blew away in a very short time and as much as I wanted to immediately return to the raft, I waited until I knew I was completely alone.  I never mentioned what I had witnessed to anyone, especially not my sisters, because the last thing they wanted to believe was that their grandmother was a wicked witch. 

          To this day, I'm not sure what I believe about God and have on occasion gone to church to sing the hymns and pray the prayers.  I usually have a good feeling when I come away from a church after mingling with the people; there's something about family that comes to mind.  And speaking of family, this fine Sunday morning, it's time to go into the house and greet my wife, who I'm sure by now has a a hot pot of coffee percolating on the stove.  Yes, there's nothing quite like the aroma of coffee in the morning and adding some "elephant balls" to it, gives coffee a whole new meaning - time to chug one back - cheers, eh!

EXTRACTING TEETH AND PORCUPINE QUILLS - NO FUN

          Last Wednesday was sort of a painful day for me, and in the early morning, very painful for our dog Duncan.  I had two upper teeth extracted and the remainder cleaned and the dog had a rear leg and paw shot full of porcupine quills.  I of course moaned a wee bit afterwards since the upper partial plate doesn't quite fit correctly, so eating is somewhat difficult when I can't chew properly.  At first, I attributed the pain to the swelling around the injured area but since that is no longer the case, it looks as if I will have to make another appointment to get the plate readjusted or slightly reshaped.  Hopefully, although I would like to make the appointment on a much earlier day, since it is a long way into Woodstock from our home and we go to town on Fridays to the Farm Market; that would be satisfactory (the price of fuel these days tends to make a person think twice about traveling any distance).  My visit to the dentist was somewhat when I had to say goodbye to my teeth; we've been on a rather intimate basis for over 50 years and especially since I only have 5 remaining living upstairs, which still makes the partial plate a possibility.  And I still have a problem with a couple of wobbly teeth in the front lower portion of my mouth; appears as if I will have to say good-bye to one of them or maybe both, come next visit in 3 months time.  I'm a little concerned about them because I have 2 speaking engagements coming up regarding my Limited Edition book Arctic Odyssey and I'll have a rather large gap, unless I can get a snug-fitting partial plate that won't float around in my mouth.  Hmm, I wonder if I'll have an accurate spitting range with the gap; just might come in handy should there be any hecklers in the audience.  But enough about this old man and his old broken down falling out teeth; let me tell you about Duncan; it's a lot more interesting.

My Pal Duncan

          Lately, because of a lot of aches and pains and then having my teeth hauled out, I haven't been sleeping too well.  So about 2am on Wednesday, I'm awakened after just falling into a sound sleep by loud yelping noises just outside our upstairs bedroom window and my wife saying, I think there's something wrong with Duncan.  Since the weather is a lot warmer these days, I've been letting Duncan stay outside rather inside my studio and I'm hoping his yowling is more complaining because he's outside and wants inside the studio but I sense there is a much bigger problem with him and of course, since he didn't yelp when he got stunk up by a skunk; the only other time when I finally discovered him trapped in a trapper's snare, I knew it was serious.  And rightfully so, I expected a confrontation with a porcupine or a hungry bear.  

Approx. 40 Porcupine Quills Extracted from Duncan

          Since Duncan is a very playful, fun-loving and friendly dog, I expect he found the slow porcupine a great animal to play with.  He was probably running circles around it, perhaps even leaping over it in merriment because instead of having a snout full of quills, they were imbedded in his hind leg.  I pulled out 40 of the blasted things with a pair of pliers until the pain was so unbearable, he began snapping at me.  Realizing, that I could still see a least a dozen more quills and there were probably others stuck within his long dark hair that weren't visible, I decided he would just have to suffer it out for the remainder of the night until we could get him to a vet.  

          Like extracting my teeth, extracting the last remaining quills from Duncan's back paw and knee was painless because he had been mercifully put into dog dreamland.  The vet pulled about another 20 quills out of Duncan and several were completely embedded out of sight, deep in the flesh that I never would have been able to get out with a pair of pliers.  As we were about to leave the vet's office with our still unconscious dog, after paying almost 300 bucks for services rendered, the vet mentioned that we shouldn't be surprised if a few more quills started working their way out.  This morning Duncan is his happy, happy self once again and is running, albeit with a slight limp, but running just the same.  Do I think that Duncan has learned his lesson after his painful frolic with the porcupine, the answer is no,  Knowing Duncan, he most likely thinks that his unplayful companion was probably just cranky and the next one will be a whole lot more fun - cheers, eh!

CLOUDY SKIES, SLY LIES AND ELEPHANT BALLS

          People I haven't seen too much over the winter are like spring flowers beginning to pop up all around; their smiles as warm as the first breath of summer.  They ask what I've been doing over the winter; have I been doing any painting to which I reply, "Nothing creative, just the walls and cupboards in the upstairs bathroom/bedroom renovations."  For the balance of this year, I'm planning and hoping to finish off the major construction jobs such as the upstairs and the new extension on Sarah's little coffee shop; I just aint getting any younger and the old joints and muscles appear to be complaining more than usual.  And then, after that, hopefully next winter, I'll pick up the artsy-fartsy brushes and splash a little paint around - attempt to do something a little more creative - maybe even publish a book or two or at least write some more stories that seem to continually spin a yarn inside my head.  I hate to say it, but my old body is in a downright rebellious state; just keeps on complaining and complaining and I'm getting rather tired of it.  

          So here I sit this slightly breezy May morning, looking out my studio window at the nearby ridge where soon the greyness of winter will turn to green; at least our stand of forest hides the hideous large clear-cut portion, a giant scar across Green Mountain (I expect its name could change in the not too distant future since most of the trees have been axed).  I try to look at the bright side of life with a goodly portion of positive thinking in my stride but after hearing what our no-brain Premier Aldred who just cut a deal with Irving, giving them the go ahead to level the forests until they deem it's not profitable anymore, which will be when the last tree standing has fallen, it's difficult not to be cynical.  I generally don't complain too much or get overly upset but the events that are taking place across our country to help perhaps the dumbest government I've ever experienced since I began voting over 50 years ago to cover their blatant ineptness and total disregard and respect for the people and the creatures abiding here, an abomination of our planet, it's difficult to have a bright and bushy-tailed demeanor and attitude for our future, especially the younger generations'.

          We still have a 12 year old daughter at home and the education, in comparison to what I experienced when I was her age, is downright disgraceful - she's at least 3 to 4 years behind.  I sometimes wonder, since China is the huge manufacturer of asinine crap for slave wages and conditions if the corporations here in the west have a conspiracy against education, so that the younger generations will only have enough brains to sit at a long assembly line for 6 days a week for 16 hours a day for a mere pittance of a wage.  It appears to me that the world began a huge digression at the time of the Industrial Revolution, and never before in history, has it been more rapidly descending.  The planet is running out of resources, which has been largely used for destruction and the mind-set hasn't changed.  The armies continually keep blowing everything up and the infantile junk that's lined up on shelves built to the ceilings in dollar-stores is a huge source of our diminishing resources - it's as if our planet is becoming a gargantuan junk yard, where soon the whole of civilization will be living like rats and gnawing on each other's bones for sustenance.

          It's impossible to blame one individual or a handful of individuals for the state of our world; we are all, every last one of us to blame, including myself.  I've wasted forest products, metal objects and have purchased useless ornamentations and when I drove during my younger and careless years, took meaningless rides on my motorcycle just for the shear pleasure of feeling the wind flowing through my hair and the excitement of the speed and now, I'm paying like the rest of us for our own pleasurable indulgences; we're down to squeezing fuel out of sand.  And all this crap we've (the more so called well-off individuals) have bought into at a certain age, that we've actually earned the right to a large pension that affords us to jump on jets, gigantic cruise ships to sit our fat asses down at some resort pool, with unlimited margaritas to knockback and be waited on hand and foot by people who are most likely living in hovels with a family to feed - how ludicrous is that?  

          Well, it's Sunday morning; the sky is cloudy and I wouldn't be surprised if it rains soon but I hear many birds singing in the forest and even though they no doubt know the weather better than I, their cheery melodic notes tell me that there's nothing we can do about it but enjoy the fact that the rain slakes not just our own thirst but every other living thing's thirst.  And speaking of thirst, at least my own, I do believe it's time for me to head inside the house and have a hot cup of coffee with my wife; a good shot of "elephant balls" tossed in to give it that added flavour and medicinal benefit will be much appreciated as well - cheers, eh!