Musings from Idle Acres

Ah Spring! At Last!

2007-05-27T22:00:00.000-04:00

This was the first opportunity I had to enjoy the whole day at Idle Acres to soak up the sensations of spring. I was up at six to hear the warblings of the birds making their mating sounds. After a shower, I put out my blankets on the clothesline. There’s nothing better than the fresh smell of blankies after being baked in the sun with a spring breeze blowing through them. Mmmmm!

Between loads of laundry, I started the routine of bringing out the lawn furniture. “Oh good, the glass table didn’t get broken” as I wheeled it out onto the patio. “Only minor spider webs in the umbrella. Uh oh, one of the arms on the ‘brelly doesn’t look right. Umf, there we go, it’s okay now”.

Next was to haul out my very unique picnic table. I built it with a young friend of mine, who was never taught imperial measurements. Well, he knows them now! I would give him the tape measure and tell him, “okay, mark three and a half inches”. Partway through assembly, I quickly ascertained that his measurements were a tad off. After a good laugh, and explaining to him what had resulted, we carried on in that mode and I am very proud of my one-of-a-kind picnic table.

The swinging bench was next and after cleaning the chaise lounge it was time for a break. As I sat there, under the protection of the umbrella from the glaring sun, I was thinking that there may be a few red faces showing up for work this Monday. We tend to forget the power of the sun when it first makes its energies known in spring. Just witness our friends that get sun burnt on their first day on a tropical vacation.

As I was relaxing, and trying to gauge how much time I would have to enjoy paradise before the black flies made their omnipotent presence known, I was jolted back to reality. It was only 9:30 Saturday am and the local kids were already roaring their ATV’s up and down the road. “Cripes, guys, you have hundreds of miles of trails around here! Why do you insist on driving on the road?” Methinks that their parents figure it’s safer for their under-age, non-licenced children to drive on our back roads than on the trails, where the police may be more prevalent.

At 10 am, nimrod neighbour fires up his chainsaw. MIGAWD!!! I still have clumps of snow on my property and the busy beaver next door gets into preparing for next winter! For the brief breaks between the cacophony of the saw and bikes, what do my wondering ears hear but someone running a rototiller!

Shortly after, another chainsaw fires up down the road. Great!
Now, I have harmony! Oh no! Now that it’s accepted, buddy on the
other side of my property is at it. Not exactly The Three Tenors!

I notice that buddy across the street is doing his part to be green – he’s fertilizing his lawn. So, it will grow quicker and he will have to cut it more frequently! And make more noise!! And his stereo is blaring!!!

My family and friends wonder why I enjoy winter so much. Well, it’s very quiet.

I admit defeat and put on Z Z Top. At full blast!

Teenagers !!!

2007-01-25T17:40:00.000-05:00

As a “born again bachelor” (meaning that I was single again), I felt that a single boot mat at the back door would suffice. Until my daughter became a teenager, got her driver’s licence (I rarely see my car anymore) and brings home her entourage. They toss shoes and boots all over the place, that generally end up in the main freeway of folks walking in and out of the door. I am constantly amazed that with this great diaspora that none of their boots make it to the mat.

So, I experimented. I bought a much larger boot mat, which I put right beside the door. I moved my boot mat with my two sets of boots across the hall. All to no avail.

I tried placing their boots onto the new mat, so that they might get the idea of what it was for. Months of observation have also produced nil results.

What do these kids do in their own homes?

After every gathering of the hordes, I end up with a plethora of clothing and accoutrements. I could hold a garage sale with their leavings. I have several “hoodies”, two sleeping bags, a snow shovel and a couple of axes all unclaimed for several years now.

Do their parents not induce upon them the value of possessions?

A group of my high school chums used to congregate at buddy’s cottage near Bobcaygeon every September for a couple of decades but we hadn’t for the past eight years. Since moving to Idle Acres, I had been lobbying them for years to come up here for something different.

Surprisingly, it all came together and five of them showed up here last weekend for a reunion. We had an absolute riot. My stomach hurt for days from laughing so much.

In cleaning up Sunday afternoon, after their departure, guess what I found? A pair of white snow boots, a pair of hiking boots, a pair of gloves, a toque, two CD’s and a guitar pick.

I Almost Died Twice In Hawaii

2006-12-23T17:24:00.000-05:00

Okay, so how difficult can surfing be? Very! Believe me.

There I was in Hawaii in 1983 and I was in prime physical condition. Years of hiking up and down the mountains of B.C. plus bicycling, whitewater canoeing, backcountry skiing and windsurfing. Man, I was buff. Hey, stop laughing out there!

Friends took my consort and I to a “private” surfing spot where just the locals went. As soon as we got there, I quickly ascertained why. There were several outcroppings of ugly black lava rock rearing up from the surf. “Don’t worry, Willie, I’ll show you how to go between them” piped up my newly appointed coach.

“Remember when we body surfed off Cape Cod?” I asked sweety. Which was an absolute riot. “I gotta at least try this” I said as she shook her head in disgust then asked me for our keys and all my money and credit cards in case I didn’t return from this latest misadventure. “Gee, thanks for your confidence in my athletic abilities, DEAR!”

I was so pumped as I windmilled my arms to paddle out to the surf. “Um, those waves look a lot bigger out here than from shore!” I yelled to buddy. He showed me how to duck under the first few then
turn around and hop on the board as The Big One caught it. That part was no problem. It was my steering that was the problem. I naturally headed straight to the beach only to be thrown off by the wave.

I lost track how many times I attempted it. My shoulders were getting quite sore from the paddling but I just had to carve one wave before I quit.

“Okay, Willie, this is the one. It’s got your name on it. You’re gonna surf this bastard!”, I convinced myself. I got up and tilted my feet and WHOA I was riding the wave! I beamed a big smile to my coach. Then, getting a wee bit cocky, I started to wave to sweety and friends on the beach. Big mistake as that distracted me a tad from the job at hand as I got tossed. And violently! I’ll never forget being somersaulted several times and seeing the razor teeth of the black lava rock race inches past my eyes ready to rip my face and body to bloody shreds for the sharks to feed on. I kept waiting for the tempest to cease but it kept going and going. My lungs were close to bursting and I fully expected to be smashed onto the rock.

Finally, I hit the shallows! I could stand but I cut my feet on the rock trying to stabilize myself and get my bearings. “Yee haw, I’m alive! Did you see that? I was surfing!” For all of a few seconds, but dammit, I can proudly say that I surfed.

As if that wasn’t enough excitement, I decided to try parasailing.
Almost died again.

Moored off of Wakiki Beach, was a large inflatable raft. The unsuspecting “victim” would stand in the centre, get strapped into a
parachute harness and, as two assistants held the parasail, the “victim” was to run towards the edge of the raft as the boat sped away. The wind would fill the sail and pick up the “victim” who was then pulled around the bay for some panoramic views for a few minutes, then a gentle landing on the raft. All for the low, low fee of US $ 100.00.

“Watta ya say, honey? Ya wanna go for it?” My consort was rather nervous about the whole thing but, gamily, she said, “If you go first I might follow”.

So I slapped down my money and we got shuttled over to the raft. As the boys were strapping me in, I noticed that there was not a spotter in the boat. “Um, guys, why don’t you have a spotter? I’m an old water skier and I refuse to ski without a spotter.” “Don’t worry, see all those mirrors? The driver can keep an eye on you.” “Oh, okay, I guess.”

One of the guys hosed down the raft so it wouldn’t get too hot.
Sweety was trying to be calm, but I could tell she was getting quite distraught. Okay, showtime! The guys held up the sail and I started to run to the end of the raft but I slipped as it was too wet and dove headfirst into the ocean just as the boat took off, which dragged me faster, and deeper, into the denizens and towards razor sharp corals. Water was being forced down my nose and mouth as I struggled to get out of the harness and direct myself up. Thoughts of sharks in the bay filtered through my panic state. It seemed to go on for minutes and just as I was nearing my limits before drowning, the idiot boat driver finally realized he had a tad more drag on than normal and stopped the damn boat. Milliseconds before I was about to be smashed into some ugly coral!

I surfaced spluttering and coughing up sea water, choking for air. As the boat finally reached me, I could hear Sweety screaming away on the raft. The driver hauled my near-dead carcass in and we headed to the raft. Sweety was apoplectic with grief, thinking I was a goner.

After I coughed up a few gallons of the bay, I turned to the boys
and pronounced, “Let’s try again, guys, but my girl is in the boat as my spotter!” This time it went perfectly. I was airborne! I quickly learned how to pull the ropes to move up or down and swing back and forth. I was a natural! Then the moronic driver started to slow down; to the point that my feet were mere inches above the surface of the water. I could see those nasty corals then, gulp, a shark!

I flashed both of my thumbs up! In water ski sign language, one thumb up is “speed up slowly”. I hoped pinhead at the wheel understood to speed up quickly as I was not ready to lose a leg to Jaws. Sweety relayed the urgent message to him and got me up again, then I signaled to return to the raft, where I made a perfect landing. The 21st Ariborne Regiment could’ve signed me up right then and there.

That was enough excitement for one day.

The Dance

2006-12-23T11:11:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, as I sat by The Pond, I was enraptured by the dance of the gusts of wind upon the water's surface, as they weaved amazing patterns. Whirl, swirl and twirl and at different locations across the pond. It seemed like a choreographed dance. Albeit, very complicated. It was quite breathtaking.

It reminded me of the first vignette of Disney's Fantasia, where the animators let their imagination flow to create simple, but colourful, images that related to the music.

What I was observing, in the fading daylight and the autumn overcast, was monochromatic. Nonetheless, I was enraptured. By The Dance.

The temperature was dropping and hovering just above freezing. I was curious as to what the new-formed ice might look like, if the wind continued.

I found out yesterday, as I made the pilgrimage back down to The Pond. I was in awe!
The water had just started to freeze and those whorls were now ensconced in the thin brittle layer of ice. I no longer had to constantly roam my eyes over the great body to view The Dance, as I had to before it was frozen. Now, I could comfortably scan the intricate patterns woven from the interaction of the wind and water.

The endless beauty of nature never ceases to amaze and entertain me.

Shark Bait

2006-11-25T16:11:00.000-05:00

I have always been enamoured by the ocean. As a child, my favourite TV show was Jacques Cousteau. I bought all his books and read them cover to cover. I taught myself all about the denizens of the deep – the unique flora and fauna.

As a teenager, I took a diving course and did all of the basics but I never had a chance to do the open water dives to complete it.
For years, in visiting friends at their cottages, the oft asked question was “Where’s Willie?” “Oh, he’s off playing Lloyd Bridges.” Lloyd from the 60’s TV show Sea Hunt. I would explore everywhere under the water until I’d check my fingers and see that I was getting waterlogged before finally surfacing.

It gave me great joy to introduce this amazing world to others.
My favourite was teaching my daughter, when she was seven. We were standing in water just up to her waist and I put her face mask on
the surface of the water for her to look through and see how clear everything was. “Look at my toes wiggling, Daddy!” She was in awe!

The tough part is learning how to use the snorkel without choking to death, if you get water in it and into your mouth. She mastered this, after a few coughs and splutters, in learning how to keep relaxed and blow the water out, “like a whale, honey”.

We took a break for some food and, upon our return, we couldn’t find her mask. She knew right away what had happened. “Mr. Snapping Turtle took it. He’s getting old and his eyesight isn’t too good so the mask helps him to see better.” “Yes, honey, you must be right.”

I had three dreams that I needed to accomplish: one – play the bagpipes in Scotland; two – ski in Austria; three – dive the Great Barrier Reef. Yes, I have had the great fortune to do all three!

After traveling Europe from 1982 to 1983, I headed off for a six month tour of the South Pacific. With a lady friend in tow, that later became my wife – hey, if we were still talking after living out of a knapsack after all those adventures, I guess there was something there.

One stop was Sydney, Autstralia, to reconnect with some friends I had made in Austria. While there, I decided to take a diving course and M’lady rather reluctantly agreed to join me. The school was owned by the son of a very good friends of my mother’s. They had built a small lagoon, by piling rock into walls, about the size of two Olympic sized pools, off the shore and into the ocean that they used for the practice exercises.

My instructor was most impressed with my knowledge of the equipment and my efficiency in the “doff and don” routine. For non-divers, this is where you go to the bottom and take off all of your equipment – mask, snorkel, fins and tank. Considering the chill in the ocean, we were, gratefully, allowed to keep our wetsuits on. Then you surface, take a few breaths and dive down to put it all on.

Once he was assured of my abilities, we went on a leisurely tour of the perimeter, checking out the myriad colours of fish and anenomes. The instructor stuck his hand into a grotto and pulled out an octopus. Just a wee one with a spread of about a yard. He played with it in his hands then looked at me and held the mollusk up to me with it arms flailing around. As soon as I took it into my hand, it jumped up and wrapped it’s legs around my head in a death grip. In horror, I saw its beak for a mouth, tapping at my face mask. My first thought was the horror movie, “Alien”!!!

I didn’t panic. I recalled all my readings and Jacques’ teachings. This octopus couldn’t really hurt me – it was just in panic mood and trying to defend itself from this strange large creature. I calmly started to pull its legs off my head and as it sensed I was being gentle, it loosened its grip. I held it in my hands and caressed the head then handed it back to my instructor. He just shook his head, in
astonishment, and pointed up. When we surfaced and took out our oxygen valves, he was quite incredulous that I didn’t loose it. We hit the bar and he bought me a few. I think he needed them more than I,
as he kept commenting about it. “Man, if that had happened to me…”

Next up was a deep dive. The school had also built a mini-reef, further offshore, which was teeming with life. At about 65 feet below sea level, the instructor showed me how to pick up an urchin, turn it over and chop it open with his knife. A plethora of small fish quickly gathered to gorge on its innards.

Then, he introduced me to “Max”, their pet moray eel. We didn’t shake hands but I did feed him by hand, slightly nervous about those razor sharp teeth. I was recalling that their constant opening and closing of their mouth doesn’t mean they are about to bite; that’s just how they breathe.

My only concern with diving was sharks. I was constantly a tad on edge worrying about them. Especially after watching the movie Jaws!

It was my turn to chop open an urchin and I was swarmed with fish eating out of my hand. Then I felt a huge presence come up behind me. “OH, NO!!!” I screamed inside myself. I slowly turned my head to see a very colourful six foot long grouper, who had decided to
join in the feeding frenzy. I instantly recognized him as “Gus”, another mascot of the mini-reef, from his pictures in the school rooms. What an experience that was!

M’lady did not have such a good time as I did. When I got back
to the school, I was told that she had run out of air and, after a few minutes of buddy breathing, she panicked and shot to the surface. I
gave the instructor crap as to why he allowed her to run out. He should’ve been checking her gauge.

Later that night, she complained of chest pains. I hailed a cab and we went to the barometric unit at the local university, which was the best one in the world to deal with diving accidents. After x-rays and checking her over the specialist said that her lung had a small rupture but that it had self-healed. He’d never seen this and called it a miracle that she was alive.

On my next dive I popped an ear drum. No more deep dives for us. There is still a lot you can enjoy from snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reer.

We carried on up to the Gold Coast of Queensland. The reef
starts at about Brisbane on its south end and extends up just past
Cairns (pronounced “cans” as in beer cans, the locals would tell us).
We spent six idyllic weeks cruising that long stretch. Camping
where we wanted and snorkeling when we wanted. We took one cruise where we rented an underwater camera and got some amazing shots of six foot wide clams, manta rays, pipefish and a multitude of undersea life.

I had informed my family of various mail drops for my tour and picked up a note from my mother. She had just watched a TV show about the horrors of the Reef and was in absolute terror as to me spending months there. I immediately phoned her to assuage her fears in that “I have done my research, Mom, in that this is winter on the Reef. The blue bottles, blue ringed octopus, jellyfish and sharks are very, very rare at this time of year. Plus, it’s cheaper to travel as a tourist!” I think she finally calmed down.

A most memorable event was when we signed on for a sailboat cruise that dropped us off on an atoll, along with three other couples. After setting up our tents, they all strolled over to our site. “What are you doing, Willie, tying up your food over that branch?” “Well, in Canada, if we don’t do this, the critters will take our food.” They all laughed at me. Uh, huh.

We all went snorkeling in a lovely lagoon. I popped my head up to hear one of the group yelling, “SHARK!”. We all made like Jesus – running across the water to shore. His description was of a baby nurse shark. Then one of the girls screamed. “Oh, no, now what?”

She came running up to the group yelling, “There was a huge lizard that took all of our food!” I sent the other couples to check on their sites and they had all been raided. At that point, when they were all sobbing, I spied a goanna, a six foot long lizard ambling off in to the bush. I started to laugh, much to the amazement of the group.

“What is so funny, Willie?” they asked incredulously. “You’ve been ripped off by a goanna. Now you know why I tied our food up over that branch. Why don’t we get it down, crack some champagne and relax. Don’t worry about the goanna as it is harmless to humans.”

We spent a most enjoyable few days on that atoll before the
sailboat picked us up to carry us on to the next adventure.

Did I mention the nude beaches in Oz?

Game Boy

2006-11-05T11:22:00.000-05:00

As a kid, I was a sponge for games. Card games. Board games. Dice games. I recall daylong battles of War at Pierre Berton’s house with his son, Paul, and various others that would pass through the Berton home. With my neighbours we would carry Monopoly games on for weeks at a time.

I considered myself a master at checkers, as few could beat me, once I learned some unconventional initial offensive moves. I was good at chess but I never got caught up in it, as some do. To this day, I couldn’t tell you why chess does not appeal to me.

I grew up watching my father whip all comers at cribbage. He had an uncanny ability to know what the cards were. He conscripted me to work in his drug store when I turned fifteen. There was a constant parade of other business owners in the mall that would take a break and play crib with my father and myself. Ron, from the IGA, plus Manfred, who owned the Deli, and Oscar, the shoe store guy, were the regulars. Plus, the occasional cameo of my future (little did I know at the time) father-in-law, Chuck. Few ever won against my father and Chuck always accused my father of stacking the deck or using marked cards.
My mother has a classic picture of my oldest friend, Greg, and I at the table our father’s would play crib, at a Muskoka resort. This was circa 1962. We have such earnest faces on but we didn’t have a clue how to play the game – we were just trying to emulate our fathers.

Then there was poker. I was very good at it. But, when I started to watch my friends blow their weekly pay cheques, I realized that this was a dangerous addiction and quit the game at 15. I haven’t played since.

I taught my daughter my favourites and, unfortunately for my ego, she quickly picked up on the refinements of the games and has generally beaten me soundly. Monopoly, Rummy, Rummoli, Life, Cribbage, Backgammon and even, gulp, mini-putt. She has taught me several new card games, all of which she thoroughly thumps me. After cutting me some small slack for the first few rounds. She is merciless!

Backgammon – now there’s a game. I was introduced to it by a good friend, when I was about 19. I was entranced by the nuances of defensive and offensive maneuvers within the framework of the odds of the dice.

Whenever I’ve gravitated to a sport or game, I would try to play against someone better than myself. To maybe pick up some of their tactics or style and massage it to make it mine. Like playing crib against my father and his friends.

With backgammon, I became an addict. For years, I’d ask new acquaintances if they played. If they knew the game I was in heaven, as I’d learn their methodologies.

Just when I was starting to get cocky with my knowledge of the game, I got my legs kicked out from me. I was taking a ski instructor’s course in Austria. It was a very intense three weeks, which taught me why they are the world’s best skiers. One of my fellow students was Austria’s Junior Backgammon Champion. I had a little magnetic board that we would use in the lineups for the gondola lifts at the ski hills.

His moves absolutely blew me away! At the time, they were totally unorthodox to me. And, there I was, thinking that I was a “seasoned player” of only a mere four years. I quickly made his moves part of my repertoire and started to blow others away.

For the past 25 years, I’ve been happy as a teacher of the game. There have been a few that have picked up on my aggressive stance, after my patient tutelage, and have cleaned my clock. But I have not had that thrill of playing against someone several degrees better than I than that time in Austria.

Until I was introduced to zone.com.

A young friend, whom I had taught the game, showed me how I could play against people around the world on the Internet. I was skeptical at first. Until he showed me how simple it was.

He was laughing at me, as I would get quite vocal and emotional in my battles with competitors from England, Spain or Turkey. “Oh, you lucky bastard!” “Take that, you swine!” “Aargghh, not doubles again!” “Hah, enjoy your stay on the bar and watch me work my magic!”

I felt like Toad in the story “Wind in the Willows”. “He has a new addiction!” New opponents!

I finally got my home computer to connect to this portal of fun and frustration. But, I very quickly was able to determine that there are a small number of players and they have gotten to know the “Intermediate from Canada”.

As soon as “Expert from France” recognizes my sign-on he leaves the game before starting. We’ve had some battles. Or there is “Intermediate from Portugal”, who bales before we get to roll the dice.

I do enjoy “Beginner from England” as he is definitely a beginner but he doesn’t give up and is ready to go for another game after losing. I sometimes do some stupid moves, to hopefully teach him and, maybe, allow him to beat me. I guess that’s the teacher in me.

Anyone wanna play a game?

Beware Self-Closing Hotel Room Doors

2006-10-14T10:53:00.000-04:00

For one of the annual conventions of our buying group, I had to go to Toronto and stayed at the old Skyline Hotel. The place changes its name every few years but I still fondly remember it as The Skyline - home of 25 cent drafts in the Men’s Only pub and where the Pub & Whistle show was performed and filmed for TV.

Traditionally, the suppliers would try to take us out in the evenings to wine and dine us and, hopefully, get more of our business. I try to keep a low profile for these activities, as I want my wits about me during the day. It amazes me how many of the suppliers are hungover the next day and proudly proclaim the early hours they finally made it to bed as if this is a badge of honour.

One evening, I went out with a good supplier just for a couple of
drinks and some appetizers. I was back to my hotel room by 7:30 pm to do some reading. The temperature in the room was intolerably hot and I rang for maintenance to fix the thermostat. He wasn’t able to and they couldn’t offer to move me to another room as the joint was booked. So I stripped down. After maintenance guy left, of course.

By nine I was feeling rather peckish so I rang up room service to order a sandwich. I quickly remembered to put on shorts and a
T-shirt before receiving the food. As soon as it was delivered, I stripped down again. It was scrumptious and when I was finished I noticed a little note on the plate to put it outside my door and it would be picked up.

I thought it prudent to at least put on shorts to open the door
and as I’m leaning down to slide the plate around the corner, the
door closed behind me, giving me a little bump to my behind.

Oh crap! Now what? Okay, all the adjoining rooms are people in our group. I’ll just start knocking on some doors to ask to ring the front desk for a key to be delivered to save me from this predicament, and this way, I’ll only embarrass myself to one person. After several
door knockings, I realized that at only 9:30 pm, everyone was out on the town.

I had to face the inevitable. I took a deep breath, sucked in my gut and proceeded to march down the hall to the elevators. Now, keep in mind, that this was in February and everyone in the lobby was heavily clothed, while I had nothing on but a pair of shorts. As I popped out of the doors and started strutting across the huge lobby, I saw mothers shield their children. I heard gasps of shock from old ladies and could see appreciative eyes of younger ladies follow my near-naked form. I had to wait in line at the front desk for a few moments, much to my growing embarrassment. So, I nonchalantly started to whistle, all the while watching furtively for the cops or the boys from the rubber room inn to surround me.

I’ll never forget the face of the girl at the counter as she looked up and down my body, as she went from shock to embarrassment to mirth. I started off with “You’re not going to believe this, but…” As she coded another room key for me, she was having a hard time stifling a good laugh but she did manage a most benevolent smile as I uttered my gratitude and apologies for shaking up the clientele and
hiked back across the lobby to the sanctity of my room, providing more consternation and entertainment for the masses.

Day 4 of Bike Tour or THE FOG

2006-09-09T20:43:00.000-04:00

As I pedaled up through the Highlands I had hopes that my next stop would be Loch Ness. I had studied Nessie a lot. Since I was a kid. I had read all the stories, seen the pictures and movies and almost believed that she was actually a plesiosaur, trapped from the last ice age.

My travel agent, being moi, did not account for the length and time required to traverse Lock Linnhe and Loch Lochy to get to Lock Ness. Nor did I take into account the energy required the previous evening in showing the British army how to drink.

Approaching dusk found me on the lee shore of Loch Lochy. I had been pedaling for quite some time along a desolate stretch with no signs of civilization. Exhausted, I spied a bit of beach and hauled The Beast down from the road.

I proceeded to set up my bedroll, which was a mummy sleeping bag in a bivysac, which is a waterproof cocoon that breathes made with Gore-Tex. So I didn’t need to pack a tent.

Then I set up my wee campstove and heated up a can of stew and with some bread, for dunking of course, I started to read a book. I had bought it in Heathrow airport and it was a collection of horror stories with the first one was by Stephen King called The Fog.

No, it was nothing like the movie by John Carpenter with the same name about zombies coming out of the fog. Actually that movie did star Adrienne Barbeau, one of my favourites. I digress.

Picture this, if you will. I’m sitting on a beach about 20 feet wide and maybe a few hundred long. Behind me is a 30 foot wall of rock up to the road. I can see across the loch and I guess the opposite shore is only a mile or so. I have heard no traffic since I started to set up camp. Nor had I encountered any traffic for about an hour before I got off the road. I am on a beach along a long narrow lock that is at the bottom of a valley surrounded by Craig Meagaidh to the east, at a “mere” 3,700 metres high, and Craig Culvain, at a “lowly” 3,224 metres.

(Sidebar – As much as I detest the enforced metricism of my country by PET, I did have the honour of being a particular generation that learned both imperial and metric. As I went through university for forestry, the class before us was taught only imperial. Mine was taught both. The next year was brainwashed with metric only.)

Darkness descends quickly between these two crags and I’m already having to use a flashlight to cook and read.

The story starts off very restful - young family at their house on a lake with one son about 10. Then Stephen starts to introduce neighbours with their foibles and faults.

I watch the evening fog envelope the opposite shore.

They observe a wall of solid fog start to advance across the lake towards them during the day. No real concern. Then a wicked wind whips up and knocks down trees and blows out their windows.

I look up to see the fog half way across the loch !

Dad and son decide to go into town to get some supplies. Whilst they are in the grocery store the fog descends. And the occupants hear screaming from outside in the parking lot. It’s decided to lock the doors. Two army guys are in the store and start getting scared.

The fog is now up to my beach !!

It’s discussed that there is an army experimental station in the area and they had been working on some very strange stuff.

The fog is now up to my sleeping bag !!!

Horrible sounds are heard then awful things tried to break into the store. They found one of the army guys had hanged himself. He knew the terrors that were inevitable.

I CAN’T EVEN SEE THE BOTTOM OF MY SLEEPING BAG !!!!

THE FLASHLIGHT IS FADING !!! AWWW !!!

WHO THE HELL IS GOING TO HEAR ME SCREAM OUT HEAR !!!!!

I finished reading this awesome story to the end.
It is not a pretty ending.
In fact, it is a very scary ending.

I did wake up the next morning and pedaled off to see Nessie.

In the rain, of course.

Haunted House

2006-09-09T11:50:00.000-04:00

The first house I bought was a cute little old farmhouse in the Caledon Hills, north of Toronto. The missus and I moved there a mere week after our daughter was born.

Everything was roses. I had an exciting career, we increasingly enjoyed our new place and our daughter was an absolute joy to be with.

Until…things started to … subtly change.

The neighbours had advised us to lock up when we left the house due to some recent hooliganisms in the area. Upon our return from shopping, as one of us would reach for the front door with our keys, the door would slowly open!

“Um, okay, I guess we didn’t lock it properly, eh honey?” After the second occurrence, we gave that door a thorough inspection. Yes, we could definitely hear the locking mechanism engage. Next time we came home, same thing…the door was unlocked and partially open.

Okay, we tried coming home via the back door. Same thing.
Oh boy!

I was raised in a family with several women. Guess how many times I left the toilet seat up? Right, once! In this new home, every time I went to do a standup procedure, the lid was up when I walked into the bathroom!

For the first few times, I just assumed that I had left it up after my previous visit. But, NO! I never leave a seat up! And there was no way that the missus would’ve.

But wait…there’s more!

I had bought a rocking chair for the nursery, for the missus and I to feed and rock our daughter. One day, the missus went upstairs to see the chair rocking! Exactly as if someone was in it! The window wasn’t open for any wind to be moving it.

We finally asked our neighbours if they knew the history of the house. Previous to the young couple we bought if from, there were two spinster sisters that had lived there for several decades. Their family had once owned several hundred acres in the area. As their parents and siblings had passed away or moved on, they sold off the property to be left with the wee house on an acre and half.

One of the sisters had died in her sleep. In my daughter’s room! After her passing the other sister moved away.

The missus and I discussed it. Outside, in case the Ghost was listening. We agreed that at least it appeared benevolent and certainly not worthy of any concerns of poltergeist-like activities.

The five of us, daughter, missus, dog, our Ghost and myself, spent a most enjoyable time living there.

Especially, as a man, to find the toilet seat already raised for me.

Crisis In The Kitchen

2006-09-09T11:48:00.000-04:00

Those projects that you keep putting off until they become crisis…

I woke up one glorious spring morning on a Saturday ready to tackle two pages of projects (lucky if I got two things done) to find strange noises in the stovepipe of the wood/propane stove. It is illegal to use the wood side, if the propane side is active with these contraptions, so I had been contemplating (for several months – you just can’t rush into some of these projects – it takes careful planning and copious quantities of beer to examine every possible result of an action) relocating the propane piping in order to move the stove back against the wall to allow more room for passage.

Then I heard scraping from inside the pipe and naturally assumed “mouse”. As I listened closer the critter sounded bigger and louder in its frustrations to get back up the pipe. So I thought “squirrel”. But the scratching and vocals were not either. Then I realized it’s a damn bird! Crap!

I started to block off the kitchen from the living room, in case when I removed the piping I can’t get the bird outside before it started to flit around inside. I blocked the back door and screen door open, put on all my safety equipment gear - head, body and gloves (Yah, I watched “The Birds” movie), got some blocks of wood to hopefully cover both ends of the pipe as I gently removed it from the stove and the permanent pipe and, lo and behold, I managed to get 6 feet of pipe outside when a starling popped out and took off without any obvious injuries. WHEW!

This little crisis predicated that I spend the next couple of hours moving the stove all the way out to check the condition of the floor underneath it. GAG! I’ll spare you readers the details but I’ll just state that there was a whole unique ecosystem under there. Mr. Clean and I worked our elbows raw cleaning up under there.

So much for replacing the rotting deck that day. But that’s another story.

My Luck With Football

2006-09-09T11:47:00.000-04:00

I spent grades three and four in anticipation of being on the junior public school football team. I knew all the CFL players at the time. I even had posters of some of them. I would watch the Grade 5 team practice and knew I would be an awesome player because I was fast and I could read plays of the opposing team. Whether we were playing at recess or what I watched on TV, I knew what was going to happen.

Near the end of grade four, I still recall looking out the classroom window onto the football field as the boys practiced for an upcoming game. All of a sudden, there was a mass rush to the centre field! Then I watched as the phys ed teacher pointed to the school and one of the boys dashed towards us. He pounded down the hall, past our class door and around the corner to the principal’s office.

A few minutes later, an ambulance arrived. One of the boys had broken his leg. The school board decided no more football team. Depression sets in.

Until I realize that the senior public school has a great team. I practiced hard for the next two years. My friends said that I had Spider Man hands as I could grab the ball with barely a couple of fingers. I was very skinny but fast.

I followed the grade 8 team and shared their successes and, occasional, failures. Then, during a practice, as I was about to finish grade 7, someone on the team broke a leg. No more football when I'm in grade 8.

Okay, high school has a superb football team. Near the end of my grade 8 guess what happens? Someone broks a leg. So no football for me for my duration of high school. Well, by now you’d think that I'm totally jinxed (or karma says I'm not to participate).

I go off to university. First year I live on campus where they have a touch football league. GREATTTTTT! My first game I'm incredible as a receiver! But on defense the QB told me watch a guy that kept getting him. Next play I stop him. And break his leg! And this was only touch football!

Mini-Vampires

2006-09-09T11:46:00.000-04:00

So there I was, precariously perched on the top rung of the ladder, as I was filling in gaps around my newly installed air conditioner unit, when my brain started to send horrific warning sounds that a parasite had latched onto my back.

I could tell by the size of it’s jack-hammering into my skin that this was not some light weight deer fly, but a welter weight horse fly. These bastards have grown so smart, over several millennia of attacking humans, that they know our anatomy. Our weak spots where we are unable to reach behind to our back to smack them or how to bob and weave above our heads until they dive in for the kill.

I started flaying my arms to try to reach the parasite from over my shoulders to no avail. Then I tried to reach from underneath. Dammit! He’s just out of reach. Okay, I have a roll of duct tape! Hey, what else would I be using to seal up an A/C unit? Even with that extra six inches I’m unable to knock the blood sucking vampire off me.

I started screaming for my daughter. “CAITLIN!!! CAITLIN!!! HELP!!!”
Hoping that she didn’t have the stereo so loud that my pleas for assistance would be drowned out. She immediately ran out and I directed her to smack with all her strength the evil creature on my back.

Being the sensitive person she is, she hesitated. “I don’t want to hurt you, Daddy!” “Caitlin, I will try to be as calm as possible in this situation, BUT WOULD YOU PLEASE SMACK THIS THING AS HARD AS YOU CAN !!!”

She whacked it a good one and as I felt relief from it’s drilling into my back, I climbed down from the ladder to see it’s huge body on the ground. Caitlin claimed, “It’s dead, Dad”. “No, it isn’t honey. These bastards have an incredible resilience. If you were to walk away right now it would fly off to attack again. There is only one way to be sure”. I stomped on it with all my weight and turned my heel back and forth.

Us bush folks have to tolerate the black flies in spring, then the mosquitoes for awhile until they’re just pests at dusk. But one deer fly or horse fly can drive me nuts. I had one stalk me all summer. No matter which of my three doors I would exit he was there in seconds to torment me. I smacked my head so many times trying, in vain, to get him, that I felt like Mohammad Ali after
too many fights.

I feel like Van Helsing, the Vampire hunter with these beasts.

What do you think, dear reader? Am I a lone voice in the wilderness as
to their growing menace?

Day 3 of Bike Tour or It's a Small World

2006-09-09T11:44:00.000-04:00

One of my destinations, for my three-year world tour on bicycle, was Glencoe, Scotland. As it is an infamous location, due to my family, the Campbell’s, massacring the MacDonald’s.

Gratefully, the rain abated as I rolled into the town. I asked a local as to a possible bed & breakfast and was directed to a wee cottage. The couple that ran it were most kind and impressed that I was from Canada and riding a bicycle by myself. After getting settled, I wheeled up to the top of one of the mountains where I had a panoramic view of the Highlands.

As I sat surrounded by Scotch Thistles, I tried to go back in time to feel the horrible events of that day, several hundreds of years ago. Friends in Glasgow had actually warned me to not say I was a Campbell once I got up into the Highlands. I just laughed. But it’s true. They still harbour ill will over this event. Heck, the MacDonald’s did more killing of us than we did of them! We just got some bad press.

As my luck would have it, I blew a tire as I was speeding down the mountain. I had stupidly left all my pannier bags, including my repair kit, at the cottage. It was a several mile hike back to town.

I felt like a returning hero, home from a successful skirmish with the enemy, as I staggered into town, carrying my wounded compatriot, The Beast, over my shoulder with blood on my face, knees and elbows.

My hostess was most distressed at my arrival. I downplayed it. “Fret not, my fair lady, I have endured worse encounters. Why, did I ever tell you about the time I came face to face with a bear?” She insisted I have a wee dram of scotch to straighten myself out, as I was obviously rambling at this point.

After a shower and fresh clothes I was ready for some grub and grog. My hosts directed me to the only pub in town.

There were only two tables occupied as I took my usual seat of “back to the wall and facing the door”. I ordered a pint and fish and chips. Just as I started in on my meal, I heard a loud, raucous noise as a bunch of kids entered the bar. They were all in leather jackets and very short hair. “Skinheads”, I thought to myself. “Oh crap, they’re gonna swarm me!” Yup, they proceeded to sit all around me.

One girl started eating my chips and a bloke took a swig of my beer. I nonchalantly leaned back into my seat, with furtive, pleading glances at the barkeep to bloody well hurry up and call in the coppers.

There were five girls and eight guys. I quickly ascertained that there appeared to be one of each sex a tad older than the rest and about my age. Then, one of them spied my lapel pin of the Canada flag. “Are you from Canada, mate?” Well, it turns out, these were new army recruits out for some mountain climbing.

The lieutenant of the lads then asks me where I was from. “Toronto”.
“Oh, do you know the area of Maple and Woodbridge?”
“Grew up there!”
“Well, do you know the Ishoys?”
“Went to school with them!”

This lad had spent two years working at the horse stable where Jim Elder and Big Ben had trained! Probably the most famous Canadian equestrian duo, ever!

When they saw how I polished off my beer, they cajoled me into a pint race with their champ. I just laughed until this behemoth clears his way through the throng around my table. I gulped as I continued to scan my eyes up his towering mass. But I had enough liquid courage in me already to take up the challenge.

The poor boy looked quite downtrodden as I polished mine off before he was even half way through his goblet. Cheers rang out, pats on my back and I was made an honourary member of the unit.

They taught me all sorts of bawdy army songs as we continued to party into the night. Until, gratefully, the call rang out from the barkeep, “Time Everyone!”

The lieutenant asked me if I wanted to go mountain climbing with them the next day. “Shurr, matey, I’d luv to” I heard myself slur out. We made arrangements of when and where to meet the next morning and set our chronometers in preparation for this great sortie.

Neither my head, nor body, greeted six am at all favourably. I realized that I was not in the best shape for defying gravity at several thousand feet, so I opted for a few more hours of downtime.

I finally dragged my corpse out of bed and felt semi-human after a shower. I loaded up The Beast and as I headed out of town I had a bus pass me. With heads out the window all yelling, “Willie! Willie! Willie!” People on the street turned to see who was this demi-god amongst their midst.

“Go back to your lives, citizens. It is only, I, Bacchus, the god of excessiveness. Don’t worry about your women and children. I’m leaving town now.”

As I painfully pedaled out of town and into the next (mis)adventure.

Then it started to rain.

A Scritch Behind Her Ears

2006-09-03T12:12:00.000-04:00

A guest columnist: my daughter’s friend and residence mate - Jenette

Golden retrievers are highly intelligent dogs that have been ‘man’s’ best friend for years. This dog shows a great respect and love towards its friends, companions and owners. Although they are traditionally used on farms or as guard dogs, many own them merely as enjoyment or as a loyal companion. Golden retrievers possess traits such as short attention spans, friendliness, loyalty, total reliance on others, and complete happiness. In some cases, people can become the equivalent to a golden retriever. This person is usually full of energy and requires a plethora of attention and personal contact; however, this is not always an unpleasant occurrence.
In one case, a perfect example of a human golden retriever is my roommate, Caitie. Caitie, an energetic teenager, has an extremely short attention span, similar to a golden retriever. A small bouncing ball could deter her from working on a major essay for hours. Although this regular occurrence has become second nature, the other day she was distracted from an important conversation because of a “Canadian Monopoly” board game. This became the new conversation for approximately 15 minutes. Golden retrievers tend to notice the smallest details in life- as does Caitie. Despite the many distractions that this limited attention span causes, there is never a dull moment when Caitie is near-by; in fact, Caitie rarely sacrifices the spotlight, just like a well-breed retriever.
Golden retrievers are well known for being friendly towards all people, no matter the race, colour or gender. Friends come easily and are kept just as effortlessly. Despite the time restraint or obstacles, golden retrievers will go that extra mile to sniff, or in Caitie’s case say hello, to the elderly woman sitting on a park bench. Caitie prides herself in being friendly and courteous at all times. However, she is sometimes unable to take the hint that some people do not appreciate random addresses, but this never discourages her. Caitie displayed this characteristic one day when an elderly women was sitting by herself at the mall. Despite the errands that were priority, she sat and talked with the women until there was a smile on her face. Although there are much better things to be doing, both the golden retriever and Caitie will gladly sit with you and keep you company for no apparent reason. Time is precious, but friends are much more valuable.
Like many dogs, golden retrievers are extremely loyal to the ones they love and cherish. Despite the hardships and rough times, golden retrievers will stand by you and continue the friendship. Many claim that dogs are unaware of what is happening, yet I believe that they are quite aware of the fact. Through rough times, Caitie has always been there to support her friends through thick and thin; in fact, she will support you even if she disagrees with you. If need be, Caitie will stay up all night long and simply play video games with you, or even participate in a conversation about childhood television shows into the wee hours of the morning. This is a true friend.
One of a Golden Retriever’s unique characteristics (or any dog for that matter) is its complete and total reliance on another human being. Sadly, this is also the case with Caitie. The poor girl needs constant supervision and it has been deemed my lot in life to be the supervisor. She requires help with everything. When she first came to university she didn’t know how to make Kraft Dinner, and I ended up making it for her that night and every other time she wanted it. One day, she decided to be ambitious and make it herself. I told her I didn’t mind doing it, yet she was quite adamant about proving that she was finally ready to make it on her own. I succumbed and retreated into my room, expecting to be summoned for help eventually; however, the call for assistance came quite sooner than I anticipated. Not even two minutes into Caitie’s ordeal, was there a knock at the door - she couldn’t open the box.
Although cruelty to animals is something I do not support (I have two beautiful dogs, myself), cruelty to Caitie can be rather amusing. As most people are aware, when an animal is struck, or injured, they cry out or whimper. Caitie is the same way. Poor Caitie has a low tolerance for pain and bruises as easily as a haemophiliac. Not only will she cry out in pain, but also it is usually accompanied by some strange guttural sound or a noise resembling, “Ah-Geuy”. Although some may find this rather disturbing, this familiar whimper will often be followed by a girlish giggle, and then another and another. This comparison can also tie back into the loyalty a golden retriever has despite the abuse inflicted upon it.
When analyzing the characteristics of a friend, it is amazing to find the similarities between them and a golden retriever. Although some may find it insulting to be compared to a dog, the comparisons are quite flattering. The loyalty found in a dog is quite similar to the qualities found in Caitie, and you will never find a friend more loyal and loving as she. Many consider dogs as man’s best friend, but in my case, Caitie is my best friend, and there is less communication issues. With Caitie, there are fewer fleas and more laughs, and she even enjoys a good scratch behind the ears from time to time.

My Introduction to Guiness

2006-08-07T10:20:00.000-04:00

My first stop, on Day 1 of my three year world tour on bicycle, was a derelict castle along Loch Lomond. I asked a local to take a picture of me, and The Beast, with the castle and loch in the background. One of my favourite shots; mainly because I was close to packing in this adventure a mere few hours before.

Next stop was a hostel along the northwest shore of the loch. I wasn’t too comfortable there. But the host assured me he would lock up The Beast. I sauntered into town and found a resort on the loch. I started chatting with the barmaids and the chap who took guests out for water skiing and sea-dooing. When discussions turned to supper they opted for Chinese. “What Chinese do you like, Willie?” “I’m good with whatever you guys want. Just throw in an egg roll for me.” The three of them started giggling. “What?” “You want an egg rolled up, Willie?” “No, an egg roll is a roll stuffed with sprouts and sometimes meat and/or seafood”. “Oh, you mean a spring roll!” “Yeah, I guess so.” This was my first introduction to colloquialisms. And this was English!

The following day I tackled Ben Nevis or The Top of The World, in a drenching downpour, of course. As I’m struggling up the mountain, a couple of kids, on bikes that barely had 5 pounds of luggage, whipped past me. I think they were laughing at this old guy but, hey, I was only 24. So I dug deep into my reservoirs and pedaled up the steep gradient.

Upon reaching the summit, I was too exhausted to enjoy the grandeur of the scenery. There was a small trailer, manned by a chap selling coffee and chocolate bars. I staggered over and barely had the strength to utter, “A hot chocolate and a KitKat, please.” He said, “Coming right up, mate. Say, would you be from Toronto?” I was apoplectic! Turns out he had traveled the world, including a two year stint in Toronto, and, boy, did he know his accents.

We chatted for a while, recalling familiar bars, whilst I gathered my strength back and the rain finally stopped its incessant activity. I now had an opportunity to enjoy the panoramic view of the Highlands.

I was looking forward to just coasting all the way down the other side of the mountain. After bidding him au revoir, I gathered steam until I was going so fast I thought I heard Scotty say, “You can’t push ‘er any ‘arder, Cap’n!”

As I approached the bottom before leveling out, “BOOM!” I blew a friggin’ tire! And I go tumbling! When the world stopped spinning, I checked the status of my battered body for any fractures, contusions, gaping wounds but all was okay, except for some minor abrasions on my knees and elbows.

By the time I got the tire changed, I was ready for some anesthesia for the growing aches and pains. I wheeled into the next town, Inverary, parked The Beast outside the only pub and sauntered in, trying to not display my discomfort. I found the two lads, who had passed me earlier, sharing a pitcher. I introduced myself and proceeded to be introduced to Guiness…Before I made sleeping arrangements for the night.

I regaled the boys with tall tales from Canada between calls for “Another pitcher, please, my good man!” “Willie, you better slow down, as Guiness is pretty strong.” “Fear not, my good man, I was born in a snowbank with my skis strapped on and a wineskin of XXX. I know what I’m doing.”

Next thing I know, the barkeep is barking “Time Gentlemen”. “What the heck does that mean? Does he want to time how quick I can down this mug?” I utter. “No, Willie, it means that the bar is closing and this is last call.” “Cripes, it’s only 9:30! Heck, in my country, we’re just getting cranked by now!”

No good. My winging fell on deaf ears. I ordered one more for the road. Then I realized I had not made any accommodations for some downtime. The few rooms that the bar had were filled. No worries, I am self-sufficient. So, I hopped onto The Beast and wobbled out of town. Just beyond the extent of town lights, I pulled The Beast off the road and up into the forest. I pulled out my bedroll and just as I got all comfy…the rain started again. Sheesh!

Sir Richard

2006-08-06T12:48:00.000-04:00

One week after my daughter was born, we moved to the first house I ever bought. It was a cute little old farmhouse in the Caledon Hills, with grand views to the north, east and south of checkered farm fields and forests. To the west, we had an acre of mixed forest, including fifteen larch (tamarack).

With living in a new place and caring for a newborn, the missus and I agreed we should get a dog. She saw an ad in one of the local grocery stores…”Tree planter returning to the city after five years with a shepherd collie cross that needs a good home in the country”. I made an appointment to meet the owner and mutt after work the next day. We immediately bonded.

One problem. His name was Kruger. The kid had picked him up at a pound as a puppy on the same day a serial killer in the U.S. got a pardon from the electric chair. Guess what psycho’s name was? Yup, you got it, Kruger.

On the way home, I stopped at one of “my spots”. These are places just north of Toronto where you can get a wee bit of country – a creek or river that isn’t surrounded by habitation. We shared a sandwich and I let him splash in the river. When I called his name, he immediately came back.

The missus fell in love with him right away and, once again, we agreed (Gadzooks! Twice in one week!) to change his name to one more likeable. She chose Sir Richard, which I quickly shortened to Dick, much to her chagrin.

A few days later, the missus called me at work to inform me that the oven wasn’t working. I suggested that she ask one of our neighbours to recommend a repairman. When I got home, she was just bubbling to tell me what had occurred.

As soon as Dick had heard a knock at the door, he dashed there and sat down to the left. The missus opened the door to find the repairman. Dick then started a low growl. The missus turned to Dick to say, “It’s okay, Richard” and he backed off to allow the man inside. As the chap was walking through our living room he saw my daughter on the couch. He started to walk over to her and Dick was instantly between them, baring his teeth as he quietly growled. Mr. Repairman backed off and proceeded to fix the oven and depart rather concerned for his extremities. The missus was overjoyed in that this was the perfect protection she wanted.

During walks with my daughter and Dick, I discovered that he had another awesome talent – Great Hunter of Dirtpigs (groundhogs). He’d spy one stick its head up a quarter mile away. I’d turn my head and a few seconds later he’d be back, proudly carrying the carcass in his mouth.

I would come home from work to find Dick standing at attention at the front door, with the usual dead rodent beside him, patiently waiting for me to congratulate him on his hunting prowess. The neighbouring farmers quickly learned of his stalking abilities and wanted to hire Dick.

Unfortunately, it became quite an obsession with Dick. To the point that my weekends were spent digging up stinking bodies of the legions of groundhogs he was burying in our yard. Then having to put them in several layers of garbage bags and haul them off to the local dump. I knew there was no point in dumping them in a nearby forest as the determined little bugger would ferret out their rotting corpses and bring them back. He would thoroughly enjoy rolling all over them, hence my favourite name for him.

It would absolutely horrify the missus when I would stand at the front door and yell “Here Dickhead! Where’s My Big Smelly Dick?” Heh, heh! It was great sport baiting the missus like that.

Day 1 of My Three Year Bicycle Tour

2006-06-18T16:01:00.000-04:00

Upon arriving at Clydebank station, Scotland, and saying my goodbyes to the train master, I pushed my bike off the train and into the street. I put my left foot into the stirrup, pushed myself along a bit to get some momentum, which I found to be rather disheartening, obviously due to the incredible weight, and tried to throw my right leg over The Beast. I believe I managed about 20 wobbling feet of travel before I fell over.

Cripes! This thing was like trying to get a Harley upright. I stood there in the middle of the street looking at the behemoth that was to be my limousine to tour the world for three years. And here it was on its side. Immobile. I glanced around to see how many gawkers and ridiculers I may have attracted. None, but there, across the street, I spied a pub. I labouriously fought with the beast in righting it to a semi-vertical position and, with some huffing and puffing, managed to convey it over. After locking up the brute, I went inside and ordered a beer. No, it wasn’t Guiness – that’s for another story – just a simple local ale.

I needed to make some immediate analysis. As I sat at a table nearest the door so I could see my monster my first thought was, “What the hell am I doing? I’m embarking on a world tour and I can’t even tame this beast ! Do I get back on the next train and fly home with my tail between my legs?” “Waiter, another beer please” while I pondered my predicament.

During the second glass of libation, I reached into my stubbornness and independence. “Okay, maybe it’s as simple as adjusting the load?” Which I had never done back home. “Ah, ah! Thank you, my good man. I shall be shoving off now to discover the wonders of the Highlands!”

I spent several minutes moving stuff around between the four panniers, checking the balance, then I started to propel the unruly creature down the street.
Locals watching my pathetic departure were probably betting that I’d be in the ditch at the first corner. It did take about half a mile of bobbing, weaving and teetering before I finally showed the beast who was boss.

Yee haw! I’m riding a bicycle in Scotland!

Then it started to rain. For six straight weeks.

Nort The Bear

2006-06-18T15:58:00.000-04:00

As I was sitting in the shade out at Gimpy Hippy Estates during the Instant Death (very hot) of the summer of 1979, Winlaw, B.C., trying to keep my cool, with my left half of my body in plaster (from a ski injury at Lake Louise), a strange dog ambled over to me.

He initially looked to be a Newfoundland Labrador, but shorter hair. He possessed a large build and a patch of white on his chest. He was very friendly and we quickly bonded.

I have a great affinity for canines and little patience for standoffish felines. Dogs are great, in that their love for humans is without question.

Buddy told me the story that this pooch had quite a history in the valley. Some wild man rolled into the area 10 years prior on a motorcycle with a puppy in the sidecar. Wild man rolled out of town without puppy and a couple adopted him and called him North. They were involved with movies and Hollywood. Whilst they were in Los Angeles, pooch kinda lived his own life. Buddy said he had the reputation of being quite the ladies man, in that anyone who had a female dog, hated North. Plus, he had an encounter with a cougar, on Cougar’s Bluff, which left him with some injuries. That didn’t deter him whenever I said we were going for a “walk up The Bluff”. He wanted a rematch, it was certain.

I checked around to find that no one would lay claim to this eclectic critter. So, I adopted him. And changed his name to Nort. He and I had a great routine in that I would call him “Nort” like Jackie Gleason and he would look at me just like Art Carney would, with his stupid, but adoring face.

I would take him out to my forestry gigs, where we would camp for a week or two in the mountains of B.C. Some of my employees would argue that a dog would attract a grizzly, but I preferred the early warning system of a dog versus that of an approaching Ursus horribilus.

In the evening, at my home, a lot of friends were initially scared by Nort thinking he was a bear. Friends from Montreal still recall the bear I had as a pet when they visited when they were children.

In a few short couple of years, Nort deteriorated. He used to enjoy being outside; then he wanted to be inside, beside the wood stove. I could tell he had arthritis, then his eyes started to cloud over.

By this time, he would sleep a lot. He had the amazing ability to do so on his back with his legs sticking straight up. I’ve never seen that in an animal. That was alive, that is.

I came home one day to find his butt sticking out of my living room window. I went inside and he looked like Winnie the Pooh, stuck in the tree going after the honey. He was only trying to get inside to the warmth. Poor Nort had the most apologetic face and his eyes were quite clouded over. I maneuvered him through the window, with great difficulty. We hugged and commiserated.

The Hollywood folks came back to The Valley, just as I was about to embark on my three-year world tour on bicycle. I handed Nort back to them with much regret.

They wrote me a year later about hosting a large party for which they had been making all sorts of food for the gala. The big day came and they ran into town to get last minute things. Upon their return they found the fridge door open and Nort gorging on all their preparations.

He could no longer even walk up stairs or see where he was going. They put him down. They sent me a very touching letter to let me know why, knowing my love for Nort.

What a character!

Memories of Growing up In Vaughan Township

2006-05-21T18:39:00.000-04:00

In my father’s personal records, one of which I found most interesting, was his business card as the Reeve of Vaughan of 1962. On the reverse side, it listed various statistics of Vaughan. Though shocked by the low mill rate and other figures, it was the population numbers that floored me: 15,957 citizens in 1960. This has soared to nearly 15 times that amount.

My first four years (1958 – 1962) were spent at the corner of Keele St. and Major Mackenzie as my father had his first drug store (he went on to have several in Vaughan and King) three doors up on the west side. My parents and I lived in an apartment upstairs. Their best friends, Dougald and Helen McCowan, lived next door and they owned the IGA grocery store in town. They sold it to Ron Nichol a few decades later, who became quite an icon for supporting the community in several ways from the ‘70’s thru to the 90’s when he retired.

I recall my mother taking me to Toronto at Christmas to see the windows of Eaton’s and Simpson’s as a wee lad. I could stand there forever, enraptured by the animated action of the elves. My mother became renowned for her Christmas displays in the windows of my father’s stores. She ensured that they were different each year and always entertained the locals.

One of my daily pleasures was waiting at one of the big picture windows of our apartment waiting for the arrival of “Ingm” (Mr. Ingram) in his pickup. I would dash downstairs and hop into the passenger side of the truck and be his copilot as he wound his way to the train station to pick up the daily mail drop. Since becoming his cohort, he knew to pick me up earlier than necessary, as I loved to explore the station. Upon loading the mail into the truck we would head back to the post office for the folks there to distribute the envelopes and packages.

We moved to Kleinburg in 1962 to reside beside the newly established golf course. Our lot was at the end of the road, and contrary to how developments happen now, there was one lot sold a year. Hard to imagine that now, isn’t it? We had just over an acre with half of it wooded before the back end opened up overlooking the first hole of the course and one side dropped off into a valley.

My parents were good friends of the owners of the course and became members. I was quickly brought into the enjoyment (and frustration) of golfing. As soon as I’d come home from school I’d grab a putter and seven iron and play until it was too dark to see the ball. This was back in the days when golfers would be in the 19th hole by 5 pm.

I was taken under the wing of the golf pro, who asked me to join the juniour pro tour when I was all of 11. I was such a shy kid then that I begged off. Those that know me now find it hard to believe I was ever shy.

Growing up with Tarzan, Robinson Crusoe and Captain Nemo and being surrounded by forest, I had quite the Land of Fantasia to play in. My mother, a very talented dress maker, made me, and my tribe, leopard print loincloths. I could climb trees like a monkey, run through the bush in my bare feet and even strike a match on my soles to impress my “tribe”. Down the valley was a scary swamp. Until I “befriended” a dragon (a fallen cedar tree) that became my saviour and guardian as we battled pirates and zombies arising from the primordial ooze of the marsh.

My mother likes to tell the tale of how I would pitch my tent in the back yard, come spring. Every year I would move the tent further away from the house, until she couldn’t see it from the house. I would cook my meals over an open fire and teach my friends how to live “in the bush” - n the wilds of Kleinburg - and listen to the wolves at night.

I joined the local Cub troup and was immediately impressed by our leaders. All of them were local businessman, who had sons. I enjoyed several years growing up with this group, through Scouts, where I helped with the Cubs, and on to Ventures. I’ll never forget our big campouts just north of Kleinburg, where we had hundreds of acres donated to us to run around, play capture the flag and fish in the creek.

Saturday nights were great, in that our parents would come out for The Big Bonfire. A huge 20 foot high (well, at that age it seemed to be) log cabin of wood that would be doused with combustible fuel, then torched. As it burned down, Pierre Berton would regale us with tall tales and direct us in rotating choruses of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and other classics. He would actually leap through the bonfire flames with no regard to his safety.

I miss Pierre and have read most of his books. If only our education system had embraced his endearing stories of our Canadian history, I wouldn’t have dropped history as a subject in high school. I was sick of memorizing “names, dates and places”. He introduced you to the people of the time. He personalized it. He put you there. To feel what the folks of that time were experiencing.

Winters were quite different then. Being the little capitalist I was, I took on a Globe & Mail paper route at the tender age of six. My mother still feels guilty about watching me trudge through five feet of snow at six in the morning, as, to dutifully deliver the paper to the loyal readers, as the wind whipped around my little body.

The first Binder Twine was held in 1967, as Kleinburg’s contribution to the country’s 100 year Centennial celebrations. Since I didn’t have the attributes to enter the Binder Twine Queen Contest, where the girls had to milk a cow and smile through a toilet seat, I decided to go for another event. I did win second prize for the pet parade, showing off The Pethouse Apartments, a stack of six levels of cages some of the critters I had at the time: Cats, bunnies, guinea pigs, hamsters and gerbils all strapped down onto a wagon. For my efforts I won a huge stuffed bear from John Wayne, of Wayne and Shuster fame.

I watched the Binder Twine grow from an event, where the few hundred locals celebrated their history to a mammoth event of 50,000 plus people, with all the trappings of a highly commercial event.

How times change.

My New Year's Resolution

2006-05-21T18:37:00.000-04:00

I have neglected to inform you of my new exercise regime.

I was recently reminiscing about when I was in my late teens and early twenties I would do 50 pushups and 100 sit-ups every evening. Not the wimpy versions either. Full military style pushups and twist the torso sit-ups.

In my last year of high school, I dared one of the strongest guys to punch me in the stomach. Just to add to the drama, this was in the shower room, after a game of soccer. Mega testosterone.

Everyone knew I had been working out with weights for a few years, much to the embarrassment of several “tough guys”, that I whipped in arm wrestling. Both arms. But, to look at me, I didn’t have an obvious 6-pak of abs developed.

After much cajoling and assurances that if he did hurt me, I wouldn’t report it, he finally agreed. As the crowd gathered around, he wound up and let go a wicked punch to my belly. I smiled as he uttered, “Shit!” and shook his hand.

Over the past 20 years, I have “played” at exercise. Rowing a few “laps around the living room” on a row master, whilst watching the CBC morning news. Pedal a stationary bike “for a few miles”, as I viewed a movie. I would notice, and feel, a positive difference even in a few days. Coworkers, and lady friends, sometimes even remarked that I looked slimmer. But slothfulness would, inevitably, return.

I am now committed to stick to it. I now do 20 sit-ups every morning. I know this doesn’t sound like a lot. But, hey, you can only hit that snooze button so many times.

Weather Reporters

2006-05-21T18:36:00.000-04:00

Friday, Dec. 16, 2005, found me working in the warehouse – okay, I got conscripted to help doing inventory. “But I have dyslexia!” “I have ADD!” My plea-bargaining was to no avail.

I was hoping to have friends visit that weekend so I was wanting to hear the local radio station come on with their weather forecast when, finally: “Friday will have a chance of flurries and – 4. Saturday will have a chance of flurries and – 4. Sunday will have a chance of flurries and – 4. Monday will have a chance of flurries and – 4. Looking ahead to Tuesday, (wait for it) will have a chance of flurries and – 4.”

Cripes, I thought the guy was on Valium!

1989 - I was in my office and happened to glance out the window. It was raining so hard I could barely see the restaurant across the street. The local radio station, which is a mere 4 blocks up the street, came on with their “100% accurate up-to-the-minute weather forecast” and their forecast? “There is a 30% chance of rain in our area today.”

Weather reporters have less credibility with me than politicians, even less than used car salesman. And I was one, once.

I swear they go through drama school. They get us, the public, all worked up with their histrionics – “Armageddon is coming this weekend, so you better cancel that trip you were planning.” Much to the detriment of places that rely on tourism – B & B’s, hotels/motels, resorts, ski hills, etc.

Yes, let’s take these bastards to task. So, send an letter, e-mail or phone your newspaper, radio station, TV station, that YOU’RE PISSED OFF AND YOU’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE !!!

Willie The Wimp

2006-05-21T18:33:00.000-04:00

As a child I was an incredibly picky eater. Then teenage years came, when I would gorge on anything. I was ravenous for the next five years, hungry at all times and ready to ingest anything new. Except hot spices!

For my first year at university, I opted to live in residence. Great idea socially but, as to sustenance, the cafeteria was a disgrace. I quickly learned to boycott breakfast as nothing but various colours of rubber were served up. I would remove the cap of the saltshaker and dump a pile of sodium onto the crap that they served up for lunch and dinner.

With four of my friends we decided to rent a house off campus for our second year. These guys had all been out on their own for a few years, so they were experienced in the kitchen. My expertise there was quite limited to grilled cheese sandwiches and mini pizzas. Their culinary delights came with a price, if I was to eat their results. They all liked hot spices. One buddy had posted a vertical poster in the kitchen, akin to a child’s grow chart, which listed in increasing order the hottest spices. Those wing nuts would mark off what they had tried with pride, trying to outdo each other. I was given the nickname of “Willie The Wimp” as I refused to be drawn into their crazy culinary creations.

At this point, I read an article about hot spices. They were, and still are, used in hot climates to mask the taste of meat gone bad. Plus, the pain of the spice would increase the body producing endorphins that made for a “high”. Thus, I understood the junkie-like habits of my friends. Always looking for the ultimate high.

This was my impetus to learn how to cook for myself. In using subtle spices to bring out the nuances of the food. This became my enjoyment of cooking.

A couple of months ago, a good friend visited me and I took him to one of my favourite restaurants. He went through several courses: appetizers, soup, entrée then desert. He asked for Tobasco sauce, Worcestshire Sauce, mustard, “anything hot the kitchen has”. I reminded him that I brought him to this establishment because of the culinary talents of the owner and staff. He ignored me, as he slavered the accoutrements all over his first three courses. I finally stated, “I could serve you dogshit with all this crap over it and you would love it, right?” He nodded in agreement, as he shoveled in the hot stuff.

Zeke, The Fearless Mouser

2006-05-21T18:27:00.000-04:00

I hooked up with a friend, from my university “daze” of learning about forestry, where he was living in B.C. He was renting a barn on a 15-acre spread in a beautiful valley. The Slocan River ran around two sides and a creek cut through the centre. Apple and pear trees aplenty surrounded a huge garden.

Buddy had a cat named Zeke, as a nod to our enjoyment of bluegrass music. Buddy had cordoned off a section of the garden to grow some catnip. When I showed up for my visit (it was to be only a week – I ended up living there for three years. Yup, several other stories from this) he had a nice crop of three foot high plants in a four foot square plot.

Living in a barn, we were rather run over by mice. We’d be sitting at the “dining room” table and the critters would peek their faces at us between the salt and peppershakers. I would reprimand buddy as to why we had so many meeces when he had a cat living there.

Well, I quickly learned that Zeke’s activities revolved around the catnip patch. Upon wakening, he would stroll out to the patch and make love to the plants for about half an hour. Then, he would morph into SpeedKitty – zipping around the place like a loose pinball. Dashing along the fence rails, running up trees, spinning around the yard like he had St. Vitus Dance.

An hour later, we’d find this flaccid feline hanging his exhausted body somewhere around the estate. He was coming down from his buzz.

Back to the mice – we had trap lines set up all over the barn. We’d hear them snap during the night, with the scraping sounds of the death throes. And where was the great mouser?

One day, I was entertaining some friends visiting from Ontario, when Zeke paraded through the door, very proudly holding his head up high as he was carrying a mouse.

The mouse was already dead in a mousetrap!

See what hallucinogenics will do to you!

I Guess I'm a Hermit, Now

2006-02-12T10:14:00.000-05:00

I had the pleasure to grow up “in the bush”. I have always felt comfortable in the bush. I went to university for forestry as a career so I could be in the bush. I enjoy my fellow man but I do enjoy the solitude of being in the bush. Surrounded by nature, in all it’s myriad forms.

In 2003 I moved to a 100 acre spread outside of Huntsville, which has a 5 acre pond in the centre - very quiet and idyllic. Out there I can't hear anything except wind and animals. I watch the ducks, great blue herons, grey herons, hawks, dragonflies ( seven species, I’ve counted so far ), deer and the damn beavers that keep blocking the spillway. (Cripes, Beav, ya got 5 acres of water ! What do you need more for ???)

The estate came with a guard cat, that I reluctantly fed. Only because he was a great mouser. I am deathly allergic to cats, so he wasn’t coming inside. I made him a cozy nest under the porch for the winter. There were a plethora of birdhouses around the property. So, I had a wealth of birds to keep feeding in the winter. The first winter I got into feeding the deer and would get up to 9 of them at a time . Very entertaining.

One sunny, wintry day, I picked up my daughter after school and brought her home. She started her routine of having her afternoon snack. Then started grilling me "Dad, what game are we gonna play?" My daughter and I are game fanatics – card and board games, not video games. "I gotta feed the birds first, honey". I had 3 different garbage bins of feed. So I load up one bucket for the birdees. As I come back in "Okay, what game are we gonna play ?" "I gotta feed the guard cat, sweetie". I made up a bowl of stuff and took it outside for kitty. As I come back in, "R U READY TO PLAY?" "I gotta feed the deer now, shnookums".

“JEEZ, DAD, WHAT ARE YOU ? SOME KIND OF HERMIT ?”

Simple Tips to Help You Gauge Humans

2006-02-12T10:10:00.000-05:00

As a teenager, I developed an interest in all types of music, short of rap and opera. I became quite a trivia buff, being quite knowledgeable in “Name That Tune” of popular music from the 40’s through to the 80’s. Oft even being able to state the year of release.
When it came to rock, I was incorrigible in that I knew the record’s musicians, song writers, producer, engineer and the recording studio. I did, eventually, pursue my dream and took a 5 week course in recording technology, but that’s for another story.

When I would meet a new person in their home, having been introduced by a mutual friend, I would immediately gravitate to their music selection, and would quickly be able to size them up. Depending on what their collection consisted of – country, bluegrass, folk, rock, classical, jazz or blues. Back then, there were very limited genres – no “New World”, fusion or crossover, etc.

Through my twenties, I re-embraced my enjoyment of reading, that I had enjoyed as a kid. I became voracious. I’d pick up a Hemingway and would have to go through all his works. Leon Uris, Robert Ludlum, Steven King and others.

During this period, upon meeting a new person, in their home, I would check out their personal library. Again, depending on their preferences, sci-fi, mystery, classic, fiction, biographies, this would help me determine their personality traits.

By my late twenties, I came up with a much simpler method of psychoanalyzing a new individual. Simply look in their fridge.