I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.
There is a big pothole at the end of our street. I have been struggling to deliver the best description I can of this pavement monster.
I am not sure how long it’s been there but there are stories in my neighbourhood about how buggy drivers always took care to steer their carriages around the hole lest their horses stumble in and break a leg.
In fact, while it has been impossible for me to get an exact count of all my neighbours, it seems I haven’t seen some of them since Spring came around. I am not saying any of them fell into the hole, but I am at a loss as to how to explain what seems to be a depopulation of some of the 44 houses on my block.
I guess, though I was putting this off, that you will want to know exactly how big this pothole is. I toyed with the idea of telling you it could swallow an elephant, were one to happen by, but I knew you’d think I was exaggerating and that won’t do. Real humour is based on truth, and so, I have to be realistic.
The pothole at the end of my street could swallow a baby elephant and to be more precise, a newborn baby elephant. There very well could be one in there right now but I am afraid to go look. If I saw one down there I would probably try to save it and would end up in the hole too.
The reason I refer to our pothole as a monster, aside from its size, is this. It is more than a hole. It’s a trap. It fills up with water and fools drivers and pedestrians into thinking it is just a rather large puddle.
We don’t get many visitors these days but we always caution the people who do drop by to take another route to get off our street.
Go to the other end, we say, and don’t be charmed by the cute baby elephants milling about at the other.
I needed to go to the grocery store this afternoon. I had been outside a couple of times earlier, and knew it was sunny, but a bit chilly. So I dressed appropriately.
On went my winter coat though I didn’t bother with a sweater underneath it. Just a heavy tee shirt. Lined winter cap, of course. When you’re bald, it can be a necessity on even the nicest day in July.
I thought about my winter boots, but as the snow was almost gone, decided to take a chance and put on my running shoes instead. My heavy woolen socks would protect me, I thought. Living dangerously, I left my winter gloves behind.
At the store, when I got out of the car, there was a strong breeze so I zipped up my coat and was glad for it. Threw up the hood over my cap and made my way to the entrance.
Once inside the big building, I realized the air conditioning was running and was happy to snuggle into my seasonally appropriate clothing. And the first person I (almost) ran into, was a young, twenty-something guy. And I immediately felt sorry for him. You would have too.
This poor fella had no coat on at all. With his full head of hair, he wore no cap. And shockingly, he had on only a thin tee shirt and, I almost fainted, a pair of shorts. Running shoes and NO SOCKS. I thought of lending him my coat, but didn’t want to interfere. Some day, I hope, he’ll realize how to dress himself on a normal Day 25 of March in Canada.
It was cold in the freezer section of the store as I searched for the eggs we needed. And when I got home, I lay myself down for a long, afternoon nap. I was cozy. Three nice blankets on the bed and the space heater going.
I finally drifted off. Still fretting about the Lord Godiva I had almost bumped into at the store.
I was thankful and felt sorry for him.
When I woke up, I cooked myself up a very warm bowl of soup. Grabbed my laptop and reading glasses and caught up on the news.
And I thought, another few months I’ll be walking around in shorts and tee-shirts like that young guy at the store. Maybe a light jacket. And straw hat. Running shoes. Thin pair of socks.
With age, it seems, comes wisdom. And no end of clothing. My mother would be proud of me. If I ever make it to a beach on a south seas island, I promise myself I will dress like Lord Godiva.
Checkout lines in retail stores are my little hell on earth but at least in that frustration, I am not alone. I have an uncanny knack for choosing the wrong line, again, nothing unique. But today’s little adventure in a big store in my small city stands out somewhat.
This store, which I otherwise love, is distinctive in that four of its six checkouts are just decoys, placed there to give the appearance of readiness in the event of a flood of shoppers. In fact, the flood occurs regularly but only two floodgates are open at any one time. So, at least the options for which line to choose are reduced.
Today, there was a long line at one checkout, a short one at the other. Which one would you choose? Exactly. But, like me, you would be horribly, tragically wrong. There was a reason the one line was long and the other short.
The smarter shoppers had figured it out. Those whose brains turn to putty in store lineups never do. And so, I entered the short line.
There was a young couple just finishing their checkout and only one other guy to go through. He had one item. One item. A bike rack for his truck. In a very large box but did I mention one item? A breeze, I chuckled triumphantly to myself as I looked with pity on the long row of shoppers in the next line.
However, as Bike Rack Bob approached the till, he lifted his right hand in which was clutched a four-inch wad of coupons. The average Bible is thinner than this, I thought.
I know those of us of Irish descent are inclined to exaggeration and I have acknowledged that a hundred thousand times, but this wad was actually four solid inches in thickness. Maybe even a touch thicker. The woman at the checkout freaked out.
“Oh no,” she said to the guy, who seemed to be a friend or neighbour. “You’re not going to do this to me. I am done my shift.” But he was not backing down and so the counting began.
To complicate matters, Bob turned out to be an incessant chatter and the poor woman had to start over several times as she lost track of where she was as she tried to digest story after story.
Other shoppers pulled in behind me, sized up the situation and left for the longer line which was flowing along like lava down a mountainside. But I was committed and I have found from past experience that if I leave the line I am in, something terrible will happen in the other line to make it even worse.
A woman pulled her cart in behind me and we joked a bit before she left for the long line. In a few minutes she gave me a royal wave and smile as she exited the building, her business complete. All the shoppers who had been in front of her, were likewise gone.
In total, the bike rack guy had produced $108 in play money, most of it in denominations of five and ten cents. All that money counted he still owed the clerk $5.11. Had he pulled out a little purse and ventured to settle his account with nickels and dimes, I’m afraid I would have been forced to assault him. As it was, he used a debit card and in a few more minutes was gone.
His only salvation was that he was abjectly apologetic. But every resident of the State of Texas apologizing for anything wouldn’t have speeded up my progress.
I hope Bob enjoys his bike rack for many years to come, years I would have also liked to have had but which are now most likely gone as a result of the stress placed upon my nerves and heart from having to stand in line behind him today.
And all for the sake of a box of cat litter and some toilet paper in my shopping cart. Ironically, I guess, a double case of bummer.
On the beef farm in Canada where I grew up, many hours were spent spreading manure, literally. I would jump on the tractor with the loader on front, and scoop out the cattle barns, load up the spreader, then climb on the tractor attached to it and take it to the fields.
The manure wagon had a chain conveyer on its floor which would slowly move the manure to the back of the spreader and into the speeding beaters which would shoot the stuff out onto the soil below. It was not a terrible job, but the manure that had been stored in the barnyard, had been rained on for weeks and could be very sloppy. It was not a laugh a minute spreading that stuff.
But eventually, I would get a drippy wagonful and head out to spread it. The smelly slop shot out everywhere from the beaters like fireworks. If it happened to be a windy day and I was heading in a poorly chosen direction, I could feel the manure splat on the back of my head. However, now and then I couldn’t resist taking a look behind me to see how things were coming along. When I did that, I would sometimes get a blast of slop hitting me in the face, and, if I made the mistake of looking back while I was singing a Roy Orbison song, I might actually get a rancid trajectory of cow poop in my mouth. I know I should keep looking straight ahead when it comes to many politicians these days, but now and then, I look back while I am singing a Gordon Lightfoot song and whammo – mouth filled once again with stuff that came out of a politician’s mouth.
One of the great advantages for me in owning a dog is the humour he brings into my life and the fun I bring into his. About the size of a Thanksgiving supper fart, my little poodle Toby has a least a hundred names which I (and other family members) have bestowed upon him over the years and he answers to all of them.
For example, just looking at him today while he sat on the couch hoping I’d give him some of my breakfast, I yelled out, “Hey, Typhoon Bill, here’s a cornflake for ya.” He responded to the new name as though he’d thought of it himself.
And every time he gets a new name, it make me feel good to know that there is no chance that there is another dog in the world with that name. If anyone ever comes across another poodle (or any dog) called Typhoon Bill, please let me know.
Toby’s official name is Chubbly S. Winterborne III (the S. stands for Socrates). Now, that might sound a bit creative but you can’t really consider yourself a serious nicknamer unless you have nicknames for their nicknames. Chubbly S. Winterborne III, is a little too wordy, obviously, so he is called Chubbles and sometimes Chubby, for short. But not for long as there are 99 other names to use on him, such as Tito Burrito, or (nickname for a nickname) My Little Burreet.
But he was also Darlin’ McFarlin, Busterooni, Barfolomew, Junior Spampaloni (Little Spampy), Goofer Hoppy, Dinkus Farinkus …
Don’t even get me started on our cats, Archie and Stretchy McFlinnihan (The terrible McFlinnihan Brothers). They are also known as Shredrick F. Wigglebottom III and Squirmford F. Wigglebottom III. The F. stands for Fartingham, and why wouldn’t it?
In fact, these twin brothers were named Mario and Luigi and that is what they were mostly called after we picked them up as kittens at a local shelter. But it wasn’t long before Mario was Mazee and Mariobee and Luigi went by Eegee.
I have a terrible habit of ripping off my eyeglasses to get a closer look at the fine print on documents and other things. I recently was going over my Last Will and Testament and was shocked to see that my intention to leave all my riches to “the family of Gordie Howe” had somehow been changed to read “my family”, no mention of Mr. Hockey.
The way my habit causes me trouble is the fact that I often then sit on my glasses, especially when I am lounging on the couch. When I then retrieve my eyewear and replace them on my face, inevitably, they are as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, no matter I have never examined the hind legs of dogs to see if the comparison works. This is very frustrating, especially if I am due to be seen in public.
This requires me to visit my eye doctor to set things right. I worry he thinks I am intentionally doing this to provide him with his weekly quota of annoyance.
But I think I have discovered a way out of this dilemma.
A couple of nights ago, I looked in a mirror to discover that either my glasses were crooked or my face was. Given that my face hasn’t been rearranged since my early school days when the bully designated by the teacher to keep me in line used to go all Muhammad Ali on me several times a day.
So, another crooked set of glasses, just another day.
But last night, I sat on them again. After shouting out loud a few of the words I used to confess to my priest in my teenage years, I rushed to a mirror to try them on, fearing the worst. Lo and behold, the second instance of sitting on my specs had straightened them right out. Better than my eye doctor has ever done.
My only conclusion is that, in spite of the age-old warnings handed down, probably by the ancient Chinese …
Jeff Bezos called in his chief accountant one day recently on what he said was an important issue.
“It looks like we’re going to have a problem again with that guy from Canada,” said the Amazon boss to his underling. “That guy, Hagarty, I believe his name is.”
“Nooooooo!!!!!”, yelled back the accountant in dismay. “Not that guy. Please.”
“That’s the one,” said Bezos. “What a pain in the behind that guy is. We can’t go through anything with him again, after our last encounter.”
“What is it this time?” asked Mr. Figuresadder, the accountant.
“Same as last time,” sighed the multi trillionaire behind the desk. “He says he has been overcharged again.”
“Omigosh,” exclaimed Figuresadder. “Why does this keep happening? Especially with this jerk.”
“Don’t know,” said Bezos. “But let’s not make a big thing of it this time. Hagarty seems to thrive on conflict.”
“What should we do?” asked the accountant.
“Just pay him out,” ordered Bezos. “Cut him off at the knees. We can afford the hit.”
So, with a heavy heart, Mr. Figuresadder went back to his office and spent the next hour making the arrangements.
And there it was. On Hagarty’s next credit card statement. On Dec. 7, 2023, Amazon Marketplace Canada settled the issue with Hagarty before the cantankerous Canuck could get a head of steam on.
On that day, Hagarty’s credit card statement showed a credit from Amazon of 0.01.
Hagarty smiled contentedly to himself as he read the statement, packed the family in the car and took them out for supper. That’s how it’s done when the little guy stands up to the big guy. When the news got out, Hagarty was placed in the running for his country’s coveted Citizen of the Year award.
But even if he doesn’t win that honour, his satisfied smile these days says it all.
Please take note. The next time you sing for the residents of a nursing home, do not, I repeat, do not sing a fun (though gritty) song called Seven Old Ladies. Because everyone’s definition of fun is different, I guess.
Up to that point, doing my usual impersonation of a human jukebox, I was doing fantastically well and the audience loved me more than their own sons and daughters. However, as I sang Seven Old Ladies – a little ditty about seven aged senior citizens of the female persuasion who get stuck for a whole week in a public washroom – people in the audience started looking at me as though I was spray painting a box of kittens green.
And there was no getting them back after that. I am setting fire to the lyric sheet as I write.
As well, I am giving up the seniors’ home circuit, as every time I go to leave the building these days, now that I am 73 and look 93 (I was offered my first senior’s discount when I was 48), a staff member inevitably rushes over to stop me, thinking I am a resident trying to break out. Although not part of the home’s population, on that day, it was true I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that more than seven old ladies were chasing me!
A member of our household went to a store the other day and came home with a small item she had bought. The minute she took it out of the package, it broke. She was a little discouraged but decided to let it go.
The next day, I thought I would surprise her by going back to the store to replace it. That’s what I did. I even took the package with me to make sure I got the right one.
It occurred to me for a few seconds to throw a little fit about the poor quality of the item, but decided, what the heck, for $2.50, it was not worth the grief.
That night, I presented the new item and was thanked profusely for my thoughtfulness. Then I told her how I went to the store and told the guy the first one broke and I would like another one.
“What store did you go to?” I was asked. I supplied the information.
“I didn’t get it there,” she replied and told me the name of the store from where the item had come.
I am not much confused these days. Not long ago, I climbed into a van, same model and colour, to discover the key did not fit in the ignition. Taking a quick look around, I began to realize why. I got out of Dodge (it actually was a Dodge) a lot faster than I got into it.
I stepped out into my backyard through our garage door very late one night last week, when winter still had us in its grip. There I saw three big male wild rabbits, feasting on the seed I had scattered earlier below our platform bird feeder (an old sheet of plywood on an even older steel post).
These three guys aren’t friendly and I was surprised they didn’t bolt when they saw me. But hunger must have temporarily dulled their caution and they hung in there. I was careful not to make any sudden moves.
Missing from the gang was My Bunny, the sweet little female who is about half the size of the Three Amigos and who behaves as though I am her best pal. In fact, one of the Hardboiled Hares might have been the only one she was able to keep alive during her first season as a mother last summer.
As I was watching the Ravenous Gang of Three make short work of the feed I had put out, I suddenly spied My Bunny out of the corner of my eye. She had ripped around the corner of the shed and hopped right up to me. I thought I understood what was going on. She was too timid to approach the Backyard Bullies but was probably as hungry as they were on this cold night. This was not the first time she had come to me for help.
I knew what I had to do. I talked to her calmly in a sing-songey voice and slipped back into the garage to fetch her some grain. I reappeared and sprinkled a moderate amount on the ground a few feet from me. I knew the Nervous Nellies under the birdfeeder would never make a dash for what I had left my fuzzy little pal, at least not while I was standing there. And even My Bunny, though she had asked for something to eat, stood back a piece after I had dumped her food on the ground. I had to sweet talk the girl into hopping up near me and chowing down. Finally, she gave in and raced up to within a few feet of me and started filling her belly.
Now I knew I was stuck. As cold as it was out and me with no coat, cap or gloves on, I had no choice but to provide security while Bunny got busy gobbling. Fortunately, she filled up fairly quickly and took off again behind the shed.
It is one thing to be seen by a wee rabbit as a reliable source of food, but another to be hired on as a bodyguard.
Or as her bunnyguard, which maybe suits a bit better.
