I got a text message at 4:50 p.m. When are you getting home with the pizzas? I knew the family had to leave by 5:30. I will be there by 5:10, I promised, although I had just pulled up to the pizza shop.
I ran in and placed my order and sat down at a table to await our supper. I could see right into the kitchen and kept looking to see how things were going. Things were going well.
All of a sudden, there was a scream as two of the pizza makers in the crowded kitchen collided and then looked sorrowfully at the floor, eventually bending over to clean up what was obviously a spill. Also obvious was the fact that these were my pizzas that had taken a dive.
The pizza makers quickly started putting together more pizzas and I knew I was in for a wait. They kept shooting me furtive glances, which confirmed the fact that my original pizzas were gone.
I arrived home, new pizzas in tow, too late. My family was just pulling out of the driveway, intent on getting to a show on time.
“They dropped my pizzas,” I yelled. And the dog ate your homework, their skeptical looks suggested.
Our family lives in a modest bungalow. We like it. It could be spruced up and made even nicer but we have a few “imPETiments” standing in our way. Our dog and two cats pretty much rule the roost and we humbly comply with their demands. It shouldn’t be this way. It is.
We have had these creatures a dozen years now and they have left their mark. Often, literally, their mark. The screen door on the rear entrance to the house needs replacing, but while the cats are above ground, it never will be. They discovered, a few years ago, that the rickety old door can be opened with one great push of a paw and will stay open long enough for a fat kitty to run through to the glorious outside. And because it doesn’t fit right in the frame anymore, they can reach their paws underneath it to let themselves back in. Last year was a banner one for them and the door. A portion of the bottom screen came away from its wooden frame so they just walk in and out of the door now, no pushing required. We fully expect to wake up some morning to the sight of a skunk that has discovered the screen door flaw and taken advantage of it to come inside. So far, no skunk. The point of all this is, if we get a new door, all this cat access will disappear. And we can’t do that.
And so many other features of our house are the same. Our insulated, heated garage still has the two 60-year-old windows it has always had. A couple of new, insulated windows would look just great there, but instead, we prop open the screenless windows for easy access by the cats. They jump onto the air conditioner, then run through a window, scratch on the kitchen door and in they come. If we called Fantastic Windows and Doors to come and do a replacement, the cats would be scuppered. Cat scuppering seems like a worthwhile goal some days but we have found if you make their lives harder with one action, they will make your lives harder by another. Often much harder.
There is a big suitcase lying flat on the floor in our rec room downstairs. No one dares move it. Because one day, one of the cats crawled up on it and went to sleep. Now both cats take turns napping on it, so we don’t have the heart to remove it.
In front of one of our sheds outside, the paving bricks have sunk to form a hollow, a result of years of our going in and out of the building. In a rainstorm, this hollow fills up to form a small pond. The bricks need to be taken up and the sand and gravel base below them built up again. But they won’t be. The hollow holds our dog’s body perfectly and he lies in it and sunbathes all summer.
A few years ago, we had our rec room re-carpeted. It looked spectacular. We put up two big fancy scratching posts for the cats. They looked at them and laughed and proceeded to use the entire room as one big post. We tried for a while to discourage them. Our efforts were as successful as commanding the wind to stop blowing. As of today, our actual scratching posts look pretty good. Our carpet, yuck. Especially the stairs. And when they need variety, they toil away on our furniture. When company comes, we cover it all up with sheets, giving it the look of a crime scene, which it is. Declaw the critters, you say. Right. Not going to happen.
Our doggie is getting old and has trouble now jumping onto our bed. So a while back, in the dark, I reached down and picked him up and placed him on the mattress. Now it’s become pretty much routine. In the dark, I lean down with my hands open near the floor though I can’t see where he is and wait for him to walk between them, which he does with precision.
There is a gate between the hallway and our laundry. It is there for one purpose. Without it, the doggie will run into the covered cat litter pan and emerge with some tasty goodies. Nothing better than predigested food. Unlike me, he is not picky with his menu choices.
We have a couch pushed up against our picture window in the living room. We think of rearranging the furniture in that room, now and then, but moving that couch is off the roster of choices open to us. All three pets sit up on the back of it to look at the world going by. Doggie lies there and peeks through the curtains for hours, awaiting the return of whatever family member isn’t home. The cats watch the birds and squirrels.
Some day, maybe, our house will be fixed up and glowing. Country Homes magazine (though we don’t live in the country) will phone up and ask to do a feature on our place.
I dread that day. A great part of our joy in living is measured by the imperfections in our house. And even when the day comes when there no longer is a reason to not fix things up, I know us all well enough to know, we’ll probably leave things as they are. Memories can often be good stand-ins for realities.
That doesn’t mean I enjoy fighting Luigi the cat for my computer chair every day, or chasing him off the printer where he lies to watch the birds in their feeder attached to the kitchen window. I also don’t enjoy getting down on my knees to mop up the water spilled from the communal waterbowl by Mario’s Water Redistribution Service. Luigi’s weird brother prefers to drink water off the floor so he hauls that dish around till he has several puddles to choose from. Tape it to the floor? Nope. Also with water, we keep one shower door open. That’s where Luigi laps up his supply.
But who am I kidding? Protest as I might and do, I enjoy every last bit of it.
It is hard to take in the enormity of the good fortune that has befallen me this week. I just received an email from barrister David Kalala informing me that the late Mr. William Winga, of South Africa, has made me a beneficiary in his will.
I am choking back the tears on the recent passing of my good friend William Winga, but am comforted by the memories of all the good times we shared together, and I am heartened to know he has left me $16,702,000. I will be informing Mr. Kalala, however, that having recently received $7.5 billion from Western Union and Mr. Peter Campbell, I am not in the need of $16,702,000 at present and that I would prefer he spread those funds around to all the little Wingas, especially Joey and Suzanna (my favourite twins).
If they somehow are not in need of it, I will ask Mr. Kalala to direct that money to the Society for the Preservation and Promotion of Cherry Pie.
Please do not contact me for the next few weeks as I am in mourning for Mr. William Winga although I hurt my hip diving for the last jar of peanut butter on the store shelf and will not be able to make the flight to Pretoria for the funeral.
RIP my dearest Willie. May you float to Heaven on the wingas of a dove.
Those of you who have read my stories might have picked up the fact that I’ve always wanted to be a hero. My record at saving damsels in distress has been pretty dismal, but my goal is to save a life. That, I think, would earn me an award of some kind.
Unfortunately, life-saving opportunities for me have been rare to non-existent. But I stumbled across one yesterday when I saw a big earthworm slithering through the grass in our backyard. I sprung into action, as any worthy hero would do, and struck up a conversation with the worm, the first worm I can remember ever talking to. It was a one-sided conversation as the worm, if it heard me at all, didn’t reply.
I told the fat, stretchy creature that it was dangerous for it to be wandering along above ground. I explained there was a hungry robin about and it would make short work of a guy like that. I advised the worm to seek shelter below the turf.
But worms, I now think, are either hard of hearing or in no hurry to be saved. It kept creeping along through the green blades as though it was on some sort of mission.
I went back up towards the house and was beside myself to see the robin come bobbin’ along, headed straight for my new little friend. The bird stopped here and there to peck away at the ground for insects, and then finally spotted the worm. It trotted directly towards it and to my horror, slurped up my little buddy like a long noodle of spaghetti.
My capacity to feel badly about things like this seems to know no bounds. But such is life and nature, I tried to comfort myself. Then, however, it occurred to me that I might have led that robin right to that worm as the robin follows me around the yard, especially if I have a shovel in hand and am digging up some ground. It will get pretty close to me to see what consumable treasures I might uncover.
I don’t think a normal person would fall asleep in bed worrying about a poor worm that had gotten a good look at the inside of a bird. But also disturbing my attempts to sleep was the regret that yet another stab at becoming a hero had fallen short.
Today I went back to looking for damsels in distress. I don’t think robins are known for giving them a hard time so I might have better luck in that direction.
I like reading the news on the Internet. I like it probably more than is healthy. But what I find most interesting are the comments people make after the stories. Some of these people know more than the writers of the stories themselves and they don’t hold back on voicing their takes on things.
One of the news sites I follow everyday attracts a lot of commenters and it insists that people use their real names. No hiding behind made-up false ones. They want readers to have the courage to stand behind their convictions. I like their insistence on authenticity.
My favourite commenter is Hugh Jassole and I have to say his insights are a credit to the entire Jassole family, including Hugh’s younger brother Lar.
Then there is Eboneezer Goose, doing the Goose family proud every day. No indication he’s from Canada but he does apologize a lot to anyone who might be offended by his views.
Other writers who catch my eye are Trevor Heehaw, Plaid Pants, Billyjoe Jimbob, and the Real Snidely Whiplash.
Of course, who could ever forget the offerings of Delicious Frizzledrip, The Mammal and Pissed Old Lady. There is also Blackeyed Beaver, Sonofroyrogers, Luckiest Duck, Franka Footer, Shaydee, Cereal Killer and Stinky Pete.
But write as they might, none of these commenters can hold a candle to Hugh Jassole. He says what he means and means what he says. I hope he never quits writing. That would really disappoint Bumm Herr.
I have spent a bit of time again this past year with my two favourite psychiatrists – Dr. Hans Sawe and Dr. Klaw Hammer – and I savoured every moment I shared with them.
Dr. Sawe, especially, never fails to calm me down when my nerves are frazzled. As I was apparently born with a worried look on my face (I shamelessly stole that line from a friend) he has a lot of pacifying to do. But he manages, time after time, to cut everything down to size to a point where it all fits together. We end every session with a little inside joke, claiming that all my worries are from that moment forward “just Sawe dust in the wind.” We laugh.
When I am with my Hans Sawe, I am, within a very short period, at peace. He makes me exercise in a rhythmic pattern and I guess that activity must release all those precious endorphins in me because even my breathing slows down. He is sharp and loves to sink his teeth into things.
As I get older, I long more and more for the things of my early days on this planet as so many of them have pleasant associations for me now. One of those was the time spent, not only with Dr. Sawe (yes, he’s getting up there), but with his cousin, Dr. Krawscutt Sawe. My father and I would go visit Krawscutt under the evergreen trees by the “driving” shed (to differentiate it from the woodshed, I suppose), and spend the occasional afternoon chatting as we cut our problems down to size.
To anyone with rattled nerves, I would recommend using a Sawe to calm you down.
As well, Dr. Hammer has been a lifesaver for me on so many occasions. There’s just something about the way he can put things all together that is truly awe inspiring. Like Sawe, he insists on rhythmic motions and a fair degree of physical exertion. As well as concentration. Many a patient has had his feelings bruised because he failed to pay attention to Hammer. He’s fair, but if you drift off, sometimes he’ll nail you.
I look around me and see what other professional people are using to help them relax and I say, more power to them. But some of them just don’t do it for me. Dr. Ard Likker, for example, just seemed to make things worse, though he always held out such promise at the start of a night. Ditto for doctors Bier and Ail. Dr. Toe Bacco also wasn’t much help either, though I relied on him for many years. Our relationship went up in smoke eventually.
One talk therapist I have not yet visited is Dr. Mary Wanna, though I might book an appointment some day. I know a few of her clients and they seem pretty laid back.
And there are even new generations of Sawes and Hammers that are glamorous, even powerful, but they’re too charged up for me.
No, just good old Hans Sawe, Klaw Hammer and Jim around a wooden table under a maple tree on a nice summer day (even not so nice a one) and I’m a happy guy. Or as close to happy as I ever get.
Because try as I might, my life often seems like one big construction site.
I am a singer. During the first 20 years of my life, I performed hundreds of free concerts. They were well attended.
My stage was the leather seat of a 1950 John Deere AR tractor. The concert halls were the 335 acres of fields on my family’s farms in Canada. My inattentive audiences were the birds, mice, snakes, foxes, squirrels, ground hogs, raccoons, dogs, cats and cattle that occupied the fields where I practised my craft.
No humans ever heard my dulcet tones. And that is just the way I wanted it. I learned how to project my voice so I could hear myself over the noise from the tractor. I always knew I could not be heard by anyone in the vicinity of those fields. The tractor sounds were too loud. That was fine with me.
One afternoon, towards the end of my John Deere days before the city called me away, I was standing in our farmyard when I heard something going by on the concession road at the end of our lane. It was a farmer singing at the top of his lungs as he rode past our place on a tractor. I couldn’t hear the tractor. I realized the tractor noise must have been travelling through the air on a lower and slower sound wave than was the farmer’s voice. His voice reached my ears loud and clear; the tractor putt putts, not so much.
It was an awakening. I realized that at least some of my back forty concerts were probably heard by humans somewhere who happened to be in the vicinity, even if just the occupants of the surrounding farms.
If I had known I actually did have non-critter audiences, I might have charged admission to my shows and would still be a big star today.
All those farm critters were such a bunch of tightwads and would never have ponied up enough to even keep me in toothpicks and straw hats.
Last time I go to church in Altoona, in the state of Pennsylvania, U.S.A. (Unrestricted Shooters of America). I was sitting in a church service there on Saturday, enjoying me some good old-fashioned hellfire and brimstone and just this close to choosing the straight and narrow pathway to Heaven instead of the Road to Hell that I’ve been speeding down, when a fellow worshipper (of guns, not so much God, but He’s okay too) suffered the misfortune of having his gun go off in his pocket.
Thinking quickly and brilliantly as any man who brings a gun to church in Altoona would do, the pistol packing pocket pray-er handed the weapon off to someone else who hid it in the pages of a program, that guy also being a quick thinker, if a somewhat shifty sinner. The firearm’s safety was off and the trigger caught on the man’s pocket, firing off a shot and grazing the man’s hand. Other nearby extremities in the pocket region were not grazed, too tiny, apparently, for a bullet to hit, hence the man’s need for the gun.
He was taken to hospital but very reluctantly as he had to enter that place without the security of knowing he had his gun in his pocket. However, they fixed him up, decided not to shoot him, and sent him on his way.
Now, as it happens, a fellow parishoner did some shooting of his own during all this, pulling out his phone and photographing the event. And this is what has me so angry I will not go to church in Altoona ever again, Salvation be darned. I cannot believe, in 2015, in the state of Pennsylvania, that they would allow a cellphone in a church. I wish that guy the best of luck now trying to crash the Pearly Gates. His only hope might be to take his gun-totin’ Yosemite Sam of a buddy with him. St. Peter, I have heard, does not have a concealed carry permit.
If you are squeamish, or a self-appointed skin doctor (or a real doctor), don’t read this.
For a couple of years I have had two big wart-like growths on the side of my head, just to the right of my forehead. They didn’t worry me much and my dermatologist always referred to them as “friendlies” and left them alone.
It wasn’t fun walking around with two miniature muffins attached to my face but the rest of my Brad Pitt looks seemed to keep me out of Shrek the Ogre territory on most days. This winter, however, there were developments. The dermatologist decided to biopsy my gruesome twosome and she did.
So I went home and worked on my will for a week. Don’t worry. You are all in it. She finally phoned one day and said that everything was okay. As it happened, I was scheduled not long after that for an event which required me to appear before a couple hundred people. And there would be a spotlight on me and my face for almost an hour.
A few days before the event, I was looking in my bathroom mirror and scrutinizing the mini hockey pucks on my head. And becoming concerned. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a pair of toenail clippers.
I will spare you the details. But I am happy to announce that the practice of Dr. Jim Hagarty MD, Plastic Surgeon, opens Wednesday. Check my website for hours of operation. Rates reasonable.
My daughter has an app on her phone that lets you take a picture of someone and then ages that image somehow to make the person look old.
She showed me the photo she took of herself and it’s amazing. Her 14-year-old face was all wrinkly and drawn, her long dark hair was gray. It’s kind of creepy because it’s a still image and yet the eyes blink and it looks like it’s moving.
So we laughed and got all excited and I asked her if she wanted to try it on me. Of course she did, so she snapped a picture and excitedly, we looked at the result.
Absolute truth here. I looked exactly the same in the “aged” photo as I do in real life. We could not find even one difference. If anything, it made me look a little younger.
So, we laughed about that. At least shed did, her eyes blinking away many tears of mirth. But I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. A restaurant once offered me the senior’s discount when I was only 48. I was with a friend who received no offer. He was 60.
After all that, my daughter then she showed me another app that makes you look fat. She took a picture of herself and sure enough, her cheeks and neck were all puffed out. And, again creepily, her eyes blinked.
“Wanna try it Dad?”
My first reaction was that, ya, that would be cool. Then I remembered the first picture and I declined. Once bitten, twice shy.
Bring me an app that makes me look young and thin, and I’m in. But, in my case, I’m afraid, that might exceed the limits of modern technology.
