JE SUIS CHARLIE

      Okay, so I haven’t written a blahg since before Halloween.  I have been busy people.  You will notice however there is a new picture of me to the right that was taken by my friend Tom a couple of weeks ago at the nighttime Santa Claus Parade in Belleville, Ontario.  It was cold and Tom was annoying with his camera.  Not a bad picture though. 

     So now we move past Halloween and on to Christmas.  Today is the second day of December and I’ve been thinking a lot about old Christmas memories.  It really started with my daughter Abbie and I trying to come to an understanding about Christmas and her Birthday.  Her Birthday is December 16th and so she gets presents on her Birthday and nine days later on Christmas.  This year she told us she didn’t want us buying anything for her for her Birthday or Christmas.  She didn’t really have a good reason but when pressed I think she thought we were one step from the Poor House.  That’s her on the left, walking for her school in the Belleville Parade (another picture courtesy of Tom). 

     We had some fine arguments about her stance on the no presents situation but finally I boiled it down to the giving versus getting philosophy.  She’s the one that brought it up first and insisted it should be about the giving and not the getting.  I agreed with her and stressed that it was about the giving for me.  Every year I try to find something nice or rare that my children have mentioned over the year and that I’ve filed away in my brain.  It’s a nice thing I enjoy doing and I didn’t want Abbie taking that away from me by saying she didn’t want anything.  She understood my point and how important this was for me.  Not a great memory getting to that agreement but it did remind me of other memories of Christmas past. 

     I don’t recall what was my earliest memory of Christmas but I do recall a lot of snow filled winters.  One of my favorite Christmas memories was one year when I was about ten years old.  That Christmas, my older brothers Tim, Todd, and I all received new toboggans.  They might have been Krazy Karpets for all I remember.  You remember Krazy Karpets.  I thin sheet of plastic between you and the ground that went at breakneck speed with no brakes for trees other children.  Check out this video below for an original commercial from the 1970s for the Krazy Karpet: 

    

     That was a fun digression from the story.  Getting back to the memory, we received some form of sled for Christmas and late in the day, after Christmas dinner, we took our sleds to Vinegar Hill.  Now Vinegar Hill was a reputable toboggan hill in our neighbourhood. I don’t remember why it was called Vinegar Hill but some quick online research reveals that it is near where the Belleville Fruit and Vinegar Company operated in 19th Century.  The toboggan run was actually a series of backyards on a hill.  It was surrounded on four sides by houses but the hill part was long and there were no trees.  We tobogganed well into the evening and I remember the moon was out and it was snowing.  I don’t think I’d spent a better Christmas Night as a child.  Years later, the houses at the bottom of the hill erected a fence along their back property lines and cut the hill in half.  So much for Vinegar Hill. 

     Jump ahead a few years and I’m 13 or 14.  The Belleville Santa Claus Parade is looking for people to wear costumes and walk in the parade.  My brother Todd and I stand in line outside of the old police station for over an hour to get a costume to wear in the parade.  I don’t remember what Todd ended up with but when I finally go through the line, I was stuck with a giant Papier-mâché clown head.  My head bobbled loose inside and there was no red cape left to cover my winter coat.  The picture at left gives you the idea of what size these heads were like.  I have no actual pictures of that parade but it was exciting to walk the parade route and try to keep that head balanced on my head with one hand and wave with the other. 

     The following year, Todd and I were determined to get better costumes.  This time we had to stand out front of the Belleville Armory in a crowd of other kids until one of the organizers pointed you out in the crowd and allowed you in to pick a costume.  There seemed to be no organization and after not being chosen a few times, I located a loose brick from the Armory and removed it to stand on.  I stood a half head taller than most of the other boys.  It did the trick and Todd and I were the next ones chosen to enter the Armory.  When we got inside we noticed a line of other young people, the previous chosen ones, lined up along one of the Armory walls.  We didn’t know we were meant to join the end of the line so we just went to the head of the line and entered a roped off area where they kept the costumes.  Nobody questioned us. 

In the costume area we saw those Papier-mâché heads but we were determined to avoid those.  Luckily we immediately spotted Batman and Robin costumes.  Score!  I didn’t get to be Batman but I was just as happy with Robin.  These were the classic 60s style Batman and Robin costumes to boot!  We gave our names and address and walked away with the prize of our youth.  On the day of the parade, we were lined up behind some float next to a young woman in a Catwoman costume.  We jumped and tumbled along the parade route and were hugged and adored by all of the children.  Batman and Robin trumps a big head any day. 

     I don’t remember any more special memories from my teenage years but I’ll add a not so great memory from around that time I was ten years old.  My Mom and Dad would always wrap a few presents ahead of time and place them under the Christmas tree to tempt us to be good.  They didn’t always tell us which present belonged to a particular child of us six children.  I remember that year there was a very large and heavy rectangular present under the tree that we all hoped would belong to each of us in turn.  Before the Christmas holidays I got into a fight at school with some older boys.  I didn’t start the fight nor did I end it.  We were all playing king of the hill where you climb on top a big snow pile and try to stay on top and be crowned the King.  I remember I was knocked down by Terry Moon who was the bane of my brother Todd’s existence.  They hated each other and of course Terry Moon hated all of Todd’s siblings for no good reason other than being related.  I wasn’t stupid enough to try and go after Moon when he knocked me down but he jumped down off the pile and started to pummel me regardless.  Soon three of his buddies joined in and they lay down a good beating on me.  I was covered in snow and snot was coming out of my nose profusely.  I was crying quite a bit and no one came to my aid.  The beating only stopped when the school bell rang for the end of recess. 

     After the beating was over, a young friend of mine helped me up and I went to the washroom to clean up.  This friend must have told a teacher because I soon found myself whisked to the Principal’s office to tell what happened.  Between sobs, I told my story and gave up Moon and his cronies.  They were hauled down to the office where they all laid out a yarn about how I had attacked them and had fallen in the snow on my own.  They all said they hadn’t laid a hand on me.  Mr. Post, the idiot Principal, chose to believe them over me.  I had no witnesses of my own in that office.  To say I was shocked or indignant was to say the least.  I couldn’t believe that idiot Principal.  I let into him with a verbal tirade of swear words the like of which he had probably never heard before or since from a ten year old.  I was suspended immediately for one day.  That wouldn’t have been so bad but when I got home and told my mother about my berating of the Principal and of my suspension, she informed me the large present under the tree was mine and if I didn’t go back to school the next day and apologize to Mr. Post then it would be given to one of my siblings.  I should have called her bluff but a big present to a ten year was powerful stuff.  I returned to school the next day and made the apology.  I don’t recall much about the apology but I can tell you I was secretly insincere.  The big present turned out to be an aquarium.  The aquarium is long gone but in my fantasy Mr. Post was fired in disgrace and Terry Moon and his cronies all ended up in jail later in life or are dead.  Merry Christmas! 

     What’s next?  I have great memories of Christmas with my wife and children.  I don’t think I’ll write about those today.  Maybe another time.  Christmas memories always contain music in my recollection.  I’m a sucker for great Christmas music and I begin listening to it early on in November.  I remember one January, yes January, Bryan and I put together a radio show of all of the great Winter or Snow songs that cease to be played after Christmas.  Why is that?  Many of the songs like “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow” “Winter Wonderland” and “Jingle Bells” don’t even mention Christmas.  This was why Bryan and I put together that radio special.  Here’s one of the songs that we included.  It’s Bing Crosby singing Hoagy Carmichael’s “The White World of Winter”: 

I think that’s it for today.  I’m going to get busy over the next few weeks leading up to Christmas as we are going to be finally moving my parents into their new home around December 18th.  I’m hoping to find some time to knock out another blahg before then and I’ll post pictures of my Christmas decorations and yard display and hopefully post a new short story I’m working on.  I’ll leave you with another beautiful Winter song sung this time by Frank Sinatra.  This one is his version of “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow” from his Songs By Sinatra radio show of December 25th, 1946.  A world and age ago for this version but it’s beautiful and it’s a sentiment I’m looking forward to.  Let it snow.

 

 

     With Halloween coming on I thought I’d write a blahg about what scares me.  Recently I’ve been revisiting things that once frightened me or I avoided because I was afraid of these things when I was younger.  It’s silly what scared you then and what you’ve been so acclimatized to that it doesn’t bother you now.  I have to admit you might find some of these things funny and you may have a laugh at my expense.  Go ahead.  Pay as you exit.

      I’m not scared much by what is on television these days because the level of scariness and gore has increased steadily over the years that it all seems so commonplace.  All of the crime and medical shows give us so much blood, dissection, and disturbing behavior that it doesn’t bother me much now.  I’m not squeamish at all with the CSI shows or watching “Bones”.  I even watch “The Walking Dead” on a regular basis.  This past week an episode of “The Walking Dead” reminded me of something that scared me when I was younger and still scares me:  Cannibalism!  I don’t know what it is about Cannibalism but I’ve avoided watching movies or television shows that deal with this topic.  Maybe it’s because the subject matter has come a long way from the traditional missionary in a cooking pot.  Can’t think about it.  Can’t talk about it.  Moving on. 

     I should say here that I don’t watch modern horror movies.  I don’t condone them and I don’t want to see them.  I studied the original “Psycho” directed by Alfred Hitchcock when I took film studies in high-school.  I didn’t find it all that shocking but I’ll add I saw the three sequels and they were just laughable.  I will say that “Psycho IV:  The Beginning” was rather decent.  It starred Henry Thomas, the boy from E.T., as well as Tony Perkins.  It had a decent back-story and Perkins performed rather well in a role that I’m sure he would like to have ended with the original “Psycho.”  As an aside, Tony Perkins was not just a great actor, he was a good singer.  He put out a handful of albums, which I own.  I first discovered his singing ability when I came across the 45 rpm record of “First Romance” and “Moon-Light Swim”.  Give the latter title a listen: 

I bet you thought I couldn’t work in a song in this blahg unless it was “The Monster Mash!” 

     Getting back to scary movies, I don’t want the horror of these modern films.  I grew up watching the old classic horror films.  I remember late Friday nights on a Rochester, NY, television station they played many a classic horror film on “Frightening Flickers” hosted by Gregory The Grave Walker. 

I will insert quickly here that I was just interrupted by a phone call from my friend Tom who informed me of a shooting on Parliament Hill in Ottawa today.  I just turned on the television to learn there have been shootings in Parliament, around the monument of The Unknown Solider, and in a local mall there.  This follows a couple of days after a radicalized person in Quebec ran down two solders, killing one of them.  Terrorism in Canada has never frightened me before but these recent incidents are very scary indeed. 

     As I was saying, classic horror films never scared me.  I’ve seen the original Frankenstein, Dracula, Werewolf, and Invisible Man movies and they still hold up well if not at all scary these days.  The only older movie that I know scared me when I was younger was “The Ghost and Mr. Chicken” starring Don Knotts.  Today, I find this film very hilarious and not at all frightening.  Of course, that doesn’t stop my friend Tom from ribbing me about this.  I better not tell him I was also scared of that episode of “Gilligan’s Island” where Gilligan is struck by lightning and turns invisible.  Again, laugh and pay as you exit. 

     I will insert here a story about my eldest daughter Emily and her experience with a horror movie.  Back in 2004, when she was just 14, she was invited by her school friends to go see the horror movie “The Grudge”.  She had never seen any horror movies except the classic kind but the peer influence was a little too much for her and she thought she should go with her friends.  She came to her Mother and I and asked what she should do.  We said we wouldn’t stand in her way and that the decision was hers.  In the end, she went to see the movie, cowered in her seat, and watched the movie from behind her hands which were held before her face.  That night she was so scared, she asked to sleep in our room.  When I talked to her about the movie, I asked if she had really wanted us as parents to say no to her going to see it.  She said us saying no would have helped.  You live and learn. 

     Some other things that scare me are confined spaces and dark alleys.  I can manage confined spaces for a limited time but I just avoid dark alleys.  I remember what happened to Bruce Wayne’s parents when they cut through a dark alley in Gotham.  No thanks, I don’t need Batman’s dark psyche.  Old age and my eventual death doesn’t scare me but I do worry about my children and my wife and trying to keep them safe.  I guess that’s normal for all of us.  I also find Rap Music and Country Music scary but that’s for totally different reasons.  Give me Sinatra or Tony Perkins anytime. 

     I don’t want this blahg to end on anything scary or to dredge up any more bad memories.  I have some good memories of Halloween except that one, when as a kid, ends with me puking after eating too much candy.  Still, that’s not really a bad memory.  I remember the candy haul that Halloween was pretty awesome.  One of my other favorite memories of Halloween happened during my last year of University.  I was reminded of it recently when I struck up an email conversation with my friend Mike who we nick-named “The Gar”.  I hadn’t talked with Mike in over fifteen years so it has been nice getting back in touch with him.  In a previous blahg I published the poem “the death of a BIG one” which I later expanded into the short story “Once Upon A Snowman.”  That was a great Gar story about a giant snowman and how Gar took it down.  Maybe I’ll be reminded to post that story here when there’s cold in the air, snow on the ground, and we’re all scared that spring will never come.  But for now, I’ll close with “The Halloween Party” which is based on a true story that occurred on Halloween night in 1984.  Thirty years have passed since then but I still remember it well and still find it funny.

The Halloween Party

          This is the story of The Gar.  No, that’s not correct.  This is one of the stories of The Gar.

          Who is Gar?  I suppose that’s a fair question that deserves a fair answer.

          Who is Gar?  It’s hard to say.  The name “Gar” is short for something else.  You wouldn’t want to, of course, tell Gar it’s short for something else.  Gar, in his own estimation, would tell you he was short for nothing and that in the grand scheme of things he was probably larger than anything else.

          So Gar as a name is what it is.  We’ve made jokes about it but not many.  We have made puns that suggested the Gar family crest would be a Garbadge or a cow pasture would be the Garfield.  These of course were all spoken in Gar’s absence or when full inebriation would render them comical and forgettable in the cold day of sobriety that always followed.

          Gar as a person however was more than that.  He was less than average height but always seemed to be somewhere on a lofty pedestal above the rest of us or mounted on some mighty high horse.  He was loud when need be and louder when need not be but despite all of these qualities I would have to say his one shining attribute would have been his cheeks…his facial cheeks.  These physical endowments always seemed to glow a robust pink even in the absence of inclement weather or alcohol.  They were indeed a marvel and on more than one occasion swayed Gar to launch himself in a certain direction from which others with a normal complexion would have steered clear.  This is the story of one of those occasions.

          As I recall the first thrill of a new College school year wasn’t always the reuniting of old friends, the excitement of new courses, or the flavour of the first dinner at the dining hall.  No it was something more profound than all those.  It was the first big party.

          Now, September doesn’t really count as there’s constantly drinking with the chums of last year and the drinking to of new ones this year.  It usually takes about a month or so to really settle on the people with whom you’re going to frequent and then it’s just a waiting game.  You wait until there’s an excuse to have that grand fiesta.

          October comes and shortly into it you get Thanksgiving.  Some years you go home and others you don’t.  The dining hall’s closed and if you stay you’re bound to be having pasta with Shawn at a local pizzeria.  No matter how you look at it there’s no real cause for celebration until the end of October and Halloween.

          Ah, Halloween!  I wouldn’t want to admit when I first stopped dressing in costume and parading around the neighbourhood for goodies.  I’m sure I was well into my teens when the allure of candy wasn’t lost on me or the knowledge of the calories in candy hadn’t dawned on me.  A few belt sizes later I still haven’t lost the craving but use ingenuous excuses with my children like “I better taste that to see if it’s safe to eat.”

          Anyway, Halloween.  Now there’s a real excuse to act like an idiot.  Not that we needed any excuses back then but an occasional sane rationale usually helped us to keep out of trouble.  If you’re going to dress in an unusual fashion, other than your normal daily garb, then you take advantage of a situation like Halloween.  And Halloween is the first big party of the year.

          I don’t remember now who planned the party but memory serves me that it was somebody outside of our immediate circle.  This was just as well, we thought, as clean up and property damage are the responsibility of the planners and the residents of said property.

          Well, Gar and the rest of us had racked our brains for costume ideas for quite awhile and like anything else with a deadline we left it until October 31st.  This unfortunately leaves you scrambling to abandon the brilliant idea you had in order to settle to make do with the items you have.  That’s usually the rule of thumb for everyone; everyone that is except Gar.

          Gar had this crazy idea that Halloween paled in comparison to Christmas and that Christmas would come early that year.  And with this in mind, and some thought cast obviously toward his rosy cheeks, Gar proclaimed himself to be the one and only true Santa Claus.

          It is natural to assume that with the way department stores operate it would be relatively easy to procure a Santa suit on the last day of October.  Christmas stock usually floods the shelves shortly after Labor Day and still can be purchased, although at a much reduced discount, up until Valentine’s Day.  Some of the greatest gifts to a loved one on February 14th are those left unsold from December 25th.  So we believed finding St. Nicholas attire for Gar would be a relatively simple task.

          I would like to shorten this narrative by being able to say we found our Holy Grail at our first stop.  Such was not the case.  It would be almost as brief if I could say it was attained within our next ten attempts.  It was not.  Nowhere in our entire search could we track down a red suit with white cuffs, black belt, matching cap, and white beard.  We became so desperate in our quest that we would have gladly stripped a mannequin of said clothing or accosted the Santa Claus in the mall for his uniform if wasn’t for the fact that none abounded.  There just were no Santa Claus suits to be had.

          Now, at this point, any normal person would have given up hope.  We gave up hope.  We accepted that Santa would not be putting in an appearance at the big party.  So we settled on ending our search, buying our beer, and returning to the residence.

          It is odd but in remembering this I believe I have made a mistake in my recollection.  Gar had not given up hope.  I recall now I had but Gar had not.  He had kept thinking this problem through.  Perhaps this was the reason he stopped so quickly in mid-stride and dashed just as quickly across the street and into an Army Surplus store.

          I was bewildered! I was annoyed! I had been left to carry the beer!

          It’s always in retrospect that you realize the advantage of situations such as I was in.  It occurs to me now Gar had, in leaving me in charge of the brew, given up his part ownership in the beer.  I could have made a very strong case about the case.  I could have indulged myself there and then and have been done with it.  These brilliant ideas however did not occur to me at that time.  I only grumbled, shouldered my burden, and set out after the Gar.

          By the time I had recovered from Gar’s hasty departure and made my way across the busy thoroughfare I found my quarry exiting with a mid-size package under his arm.

          “Feast your eyes on this,” he said, thrusting his trophy towards me.

          “What is it?” I queried, thrusting the beer back in return.

          He didn’t answer and so I gazed at the contents.  It was, in short, a one piece, full length, red pair of men’s flannel long johns with buttons up the front and no escape hatch in the rear.  Our search had borne fruit…Fruit of the Loom as a matter of fact.  All that was needed was a beard.

          “And I’ve got enough left for dinner at the dining hall.”

          I wasn’t sure if I should have been totally happy for him at that point.  He had his costume.  He had his libation.  He had to eat at the dining hall.  Two out of three weren’t bad.

          I suppose I should eventually detail the experience of eating at the school dining-hall.  But not now.  Suffice to say it is akin to eating in any cafeteria with three exceptions.  One, it’s inexpensive.  Two, seconds and refills are optional.  And three, to which I still shudder on occasion, meals on special holidays are appropriately theme related.  Unfortunately this was Halloween and orange pumpkin meatloaf and black cat mashed potatoes were probably the fare of the evening.

          “What about the beard?” I asked.  I knew Gar needed to be reminded of this detail.

          “Have you anything I can use?”

          “No, not unless you’re keen on plucking the cotton swabs off an entire box of Q-tips.”  The thought of my suggestion conjured up an immediate image of this red clad cherub fumbling with small cotton strands and a glue stick to produce an authentic looking set of whiskers.  His exuberant use of profanity in that vision soon brought me out of my reverie.

          “That’s not a bad idea,” Gar proclaimed.

          “Yes it is!  I was only make a joke at your expense.”

          “No, the cotton.  But where do we get enough?  What we need is a big roll of it.”

          I waited for a lull in his conversation with himself before offering my obvious suggestion.  “A pharmacy?”

          Of course my recommendation was met with great acceptance.  I was immediately given that great finger response.  No, not that one.  Instead Gar snapped his fingers and pointed at me.  I had offered a viable option.  And we were off again.

          I imagine we must have been a sight as we bounded into the nearest drugstore with our case of beer and enthusiastic outlook.  I was just glad that no one knew the purpose of our spree.  I believe I might have been less embarrassed had I been there to buy condoms or women’s sanitary products.  In the end I was just happy that no one could see the contents of Gar’s previous purchase.

          We immediately located the rolls of cotton but in doing so developed another dilemma.

          “I haven’t got enough.  It’s the beard or no meal.”

          I thought the choice was obvious when weighed against the dinner menu.

          “Can I help you gentlemen?”

          Why is it when you’re trying to attract the least amount of attention you always succeed in attracting at least the attention of the proprietor?  I wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else at that moment.  Was there a cyanide aisle in the Pharmacy?

          “I need some cotton for a beard.”  The truth, Gar believed, was always the best recourse.  At least it sounded marginally credible compared to any other lies we might have fabricated.

          “How much approximately would you need?” queried the druggist.

          Assaying the contents of his wallet and the change in his pocket Gar cautiously replied.  “About twelve cents worth.”

          Well that’s that, I thought.  We knew where the exit was and I was sure we would be asked to quietly use it.

          “Just a moment,” the druggist replied and disappeared into a back room.  It wasn’t bad enough we were going to be asked to leave the premises but the druggist obviously felt it necessary to search out reinforcements to assist us in a speedy egress.  I’m sure this point was not lost on Gar either but he was determined to see this thing through and, as I was determined not to have to carry the beer alone, I stood pat as well.  We were a shoe-in to be the lead story on the six o’clock news.

          “Here you go.”

          It was the druggist.  In his absence I had been investigating routes of escape and had not taken notice of his reappearance.  I turned half expecting to find him flanked on either side by cashiers armed with pricing guns, or mortars and pestles, or hair spray at the very least.  Instead I faced cotton…enough for one Gar face.

          “How much?” was Gar’s obvious response.

          “Take it.  It’s yours.  You obviously need it more than we do.  We only use it for stuffing prescription bottles.  We have plenty.”  The druggist was sincere.  There was no humor intended in his offer.  Perhaps this sort of thing was commonplace on Halloween.  Perhaps the druggist sensed Gar’s predicament and sympathized due to a similar type experience in his own youth.  Perhaps it was a peace offering in exchange for our immediate departure.  Both Gar and I, acting on the belief it was the latter, gave our thanks and left with our prize.

          Gar had his costume and his beard.  It had been an ordeal but also a triumph.  All that remained between the party and us was dinner.

          I don’t wish to detail the dinner experience that followed as, other than having to eat food out of some necessity known as hunger, it was in all uneventful.  It was also on the whole inedible.  Our mealtime regrouping though did provide for an opportunity for conversation through which Gar and I could boast of our mighty feat.  Few of our comrades however believed the tale of our excursion while others refused to show the slightest bit of interest.  Gar and I nevertheless reveled in our accomplishment and then readied ourselves for the party where we no doubt would again regale others of our pilgrimage.

          The last bit of detail for Gar’s costume was supplied in the form of my pillowcase.  Gar knew it would be unthinkable for Santa Claus to arrive without his proverbial bag of toys and so he did this routine one better by outfitting himself with a sack of beer.  Santa Claus was generous indeed.

          Memory does not serve me well what outfits our other cohorts wore.  Gar was obvious and I recollect myself being clothed in some medical uniform in order to resemble a Doctor.  The details are not important.  It was a Halloween party and I’m sure there were the requisite amount of cowboys, cowgirls, greasers, Elvises, comic book heroes, aliens, and generally scary human beings.  Some of whom were actually wearing costumes.

          When we arrived at the party it was already in full swing with few only slightly inebriated.  I need to point out other than the beer in Gar’s sack there was alcohol available for purchase at a small cash bar set up in the corner of the party location.  This is important to note as the beer disappeared quite quickly as Santa Claus became more and more fueled with the Christmas spirit or, that is to say, the more the spirits fueled the Gar.

          I had taken notice that after the sack was emptied Gar occasionally frequented the bar and made overtures of reaching into his groin area and extracting his wallet.  I had forgotten there were no pockets in his costume and, save for his wallet, Gar’s belongings and street clothes were safely housed in my room.  This left only one convenient spot on his person where he could keep his billfold and have access to it by unfastening just a few buttons.

          A few years later it occurred to me something odd had taken place at that party which I had visually noted but had never completely absorbed.  It was this:  WHAT WAS GAR DOING BUYING BEER AT THE PARTY WHEN HE TOLD ME HE HAD ONLY ENOUGH MONEY LEFT FOR DINNER AND NOT COTTON!?  He had held out on me! He had put us in a humiliating situation with the pharmacist without there really having been a need to do so! He had been cheap!

          It is now too many years later to justly exact my revenge for this deed as I should have done so that night.  I’m sure the statute of limitations for the crime of embarrassment has long since run out.  Lucky for me, Gar did however suffer something of a retribution at my hands that evening although unintentionally.

          The party had waned on into the late hours with music and dancing and ribald tales that were only slightly seasoned with truth.  Gar and I were not the centers of attention although we did attract small crowds of onlookers and disbelievers as we retold our story of the day.  It had been, for the most part, a good first big party and when it broke up we were all generally pleased and more than filled with that certain inner glow which comes of friendly times and domestic beer.

          It was a good thing that my residence was just a simple one-minute walk away from the party location.  I knew in my mild state of stupor I could safely maneuver that short distance and somehow I could again find my room.  My bed was beckoning and it was a simple task to bid goodnight to friends and find my way to my waiting bunk.  I did not feel the people with whom I attended the party were my responsibility with the exception of the Gar who lived downtown.  It was a considerable hike at that hour of the night and I would have gladly offered him temporary shelter if it hadn’t been for a well-timed late bus at that very moment.

          I’ll say this about bus service in college towns.  They are generally overcrowded but also accommodating.  The commission always seems to be prepared for the worst and always seems to have late buses on special occasions.  This is of course a convenience for the students but an inconvenience for the driver…unless he’s being paid overtime or danger pay at the very least.

          I motioned to Gar he too could sleep in his own bed if he took advantage of this bus.  I knew from his trips to the bar and the hand gestures at his crotch he had his wallet and that meant he had his bus pass.  He acknowledged as much and made his way aboard the transport with a few well-phrased goodnights and a few well-emphasized obscenities.

          I stood watching the bus pull away and realized that as quick as that Santa was on his return trip to the North Pole.  I only hoped our next visit from Father Christmas was after an appropriate rest period.  Gar was easier to take in the daylight if your mind was clear and your brain dried out.

          I’m not clear exactly what transpired immediately after Gar’s departure but I do remember I did not return with haste to my own room, as I had wanted.  Several of us departed for another friend’s domicile within walking distance and there continued on with our celebration.

          It may seem anticlimactic that we were cavorting after the big party had ended.  It may seem that way but it wasn’t.  The climax was only then about to arrive because twenty minutes into our post festivities we were all surprised by someone’s sudden entrance through a screen window.  It was an unexpected return visit from Father Christmas.

          Gar was red.  That is to say his face was red.  The costume was still intact but the beard was gone.  In its place was the rosy cheek individual who had obviously run some marathon of which we were all unaware.

          Huffing and puffing he made short work of the screen and proceeded to make for one of the pigs in the house.

          “I’ll kill you as soon as I catch my breath.”

          I didn’t need to stop and think who his victim would be.  It was clear by his futile attempts to lock his hands about my neck I had done something to anger Santa Claus.

          “What did I do?” I asked, moving quickly out of reach of his flailing limbs.

          “My keys are in your room with my clothes! Do you know what it’s like to run up the main street in the middle of the night in long johns?  I was propositioned at least twice.  I might have stopped to consider the offers if I wasn’t so hell bent on getting back here and killing you!”

          At any other time I might have regarded Gar’s predicament as comical.  In an attempt however to stay clear of his wrath I was not allowed the opportunity to view the humor in all of this.  I knew at any moment I might be as red as he from my own blood if something weren’t done to subdue his rage.

          I thought quickly and with open arms extended a gesture that I hoped would be taken in friendship.  In other words I offered him a beer.  It was accepted and the promise of death was quelled…for the moment.

          I knew I was in a dangerous situation and in realizing as much followed up the beer with another enticing offer.

          “Look, you can sleep on my floor tonight and go home in the morning.”

          It was a very small courtesy I had to offer but Gar accepted.  There wasn’t much else beyond that.  We went back to my room and Gar slept on my floor with my pillow while I lay awake with my eyes on the Gar for most of the night.  I was in no mood to trust him implicitly not to kill me while I slept.

          “You know, I would have killed you while you slept,” he said the next morning, “if you hadn’t have let me use your pillow last night.”

          I suppose he would have done just that if it weren’t for the tiny gesture of offering up my pillow.  That and something else for which I’m sure he felt guilty.  In all the commotion of the party he had somehow lost my pillowcase that he had used as a sack.  To this day I still wonder what happened to that case.  It no doubt was lost for all time.  The pillow to which it belonged however became my edge against death at Gar’s hands.  I believe in some bizarre way the two things made Gar and I even…at least until the next time.

 

      No, I’m not suicidal and I’m not dying…only of old age and that certainly is by choice. I’m just become reflective because I haven’t written a blahg in three months and I’m wondering if it’s worth it.  Is there anyone out there reading these blahgs?  Would you notice if I stopped writing these blahgs?

   There has been so much going on since my last blahg that I simply haven’t had the desire to sit down and write about it all.  Most of it is not great.  We lost our beautiful cat, June, this summer.  She just disappeared and we think a wolf or coyote got her.  Same thing happened to my neighbor’s cat.  I know about the whole circle of life thing but it’s an experience I could do without.  I think about June every day.

     I am still without a job despite my plea in my last blahg.  I’ll be 52 one week from today and I find myself applying for minimum wage warehouse jobs.  Last week I received an email response to a job application that basically said “thanks for applying but we’re going with more suitable candidates.”  It’s pretty bad when minimum wage is looking good to me but I’m not looking good to minimum wage employers.  Where’s the justice in all of my work experience and the choices I have made in my varied career?  I should have started out as a ditch digger when I first got out of school.  I’d probably still be employed.  There are always ditches that need to be dug. 

     What else?  The ordeal to get a new house built for my parents continues.  I’ve had to deal with Insurance companies, banks, lawyers, and contractors.  At least the basement has been poured and the contractor is starting to build the frame.  I really don’t have anything to complain about when it comes to our contractor.  Geertsma Homes out of Belleville have been excellent and my parents really liked the model home they toured.  The picture on the left is of the model home.  I have flipped the photo to show the orientation with the garage on the left as this is how my parents want theirs built.  Now it’s just colour selections inside and out. 

     The rest of the summer was just busy with having my son Noah, and youngest daughter Abbie and my wife Jeanette home for the summer vacation.  It’s nice to have them around but you know what they say about too much of a good thing.  We even managed to have our eldest daughter Emily home for almost a week and her boyfriend Charlie for a few days too.  Hey Charlie, if you are reading this, I’m cool with you.

     So the summer came and went and now I’m in that reflective mood and looking to get busy with something.  Maybe this current blahg is a place holder for a better blahg.  Maybe there are better things on the horizon for me that I will enjoy writing about.  They can’t come quick enough. 

     I shouldn’t say that everything is bad news.  A glimmer of good things came in the news that Deb Talan of The Weepies has beaten her cancer.  She even posted that she’s working on new music.  That’s good.  That’s better than good…that’s great.  And The Weepies released a new song which appears on the soundtrack for Zach Braff’s new movie “Wish I Was Here.”  It’s a great song called “Mend.”  That’s where I’ll end this blahg. 

     All else will pass.  Just mend.

      WANTED:  ONE GOOD JOB. That title should be self-explanatory but it also sounds like the title of a song or a poem.  It could also be the title of a book or an autobiography.  In fact, I think it should be the title of my autobiography.  All my life, I’ve been looking for one good job but then again I’ve had quite a few good jobs. 

     I’ll tell you what sparked this current blahg.  I’m unemployed and unrecognized.  It’s as simple as that.  Recently I went to the 25 anniversary celebration of the Community Development Council of Quinte (CDCQ) .  I have quite a history with this particular agency.  I once served as Chair of the Board of Directors of the CDCQ for four years and then was employed there for three years as Social Planner.  It was a great time and my friend Roni Summers-Wickens, who passed away last year and was part subject of the blahg “I Am Still Here”, was the Executive Director.  My other friend Ann Balding, who now lives and works in British Columbia, was also head of the Food Security department.  The agency flourished and we started many great programs that still continue at the CDCQ.

     During my time with the CDCQ, we created and ran the Good Food Box, Good Lunch Box, the Good Baby Box, and the Good Backpack programs.  I personally came up with the Good Backpack program and was instrumental in the release of Quality of Life reports and the extensive Community Well Being Project.  I also authored or co-authored with Roni, several white papers on issues of poverty, housing, homelessness, and social growth.  I am not trying to brag here but I just wanted to highlight some of the things I am proud of from my time with the CDCQ.  Unfortunately, as is the case with good things, money for Social Planning and Research began to dry up and I left the CDCQ on good terms.  I briefly kept up my association with the CDCQ and even was able to later work with Ann Balding on the report, “Boxed In.  The Affordable Housing Crisis in Hastings County.” 

     When I attended the 25th anniversary of the CDCQ, I found that the current employees who ran the programs had no knowledge of Roni, Ann, or myself.  It seemed like the history of the CDCQ only started about six years ago with the new Executive Director.  There was also no mention of Roni’s passing.  I felt lost in a room full of people who had no history with the CDCQ or had no knowledge of the history of the CDCQ.  I wasn’t even a relic.  I was one of the forgotten. 

     My resume highlights that during the past twenty years, most of the jobs I have had were contract positions that were time limited and tied to funding that ended when the contracted ended.  I am proud of the research I did for these positions or for the reports that I completed.  In fact, in the past eighteen months I have completed two extensive reports on affordable housing issues in Hastings County:  “HOUSING In Hastings County.  A Report on the Affordable Housing Crisis in Hastings County” and “HOUSING NEED AND DEMAND.  A Report on the Affordable Housing Crisis in Hastings County,  2nd Phase Study”. 

     The other thing the my resume will highlight is that there have been gaps between contracts.  During these years I was unemployed.  Sometimes by choice when I needed to take care of my children or, during the past couple of years, I’ve had to take care of my parents.  These were tough choices but I think I should be given some credit for making those choices.  Some years contracts were scarce and there was no work.  My resume doesn’t detail those things.  It also doesn’t detail the times I did work and had to learn skills for a job because no one else had those skills and they were essential to the position and to the agency.  Doing research or troubleshooting a customer’s issues with Internet or Printers, I was like a dog on a bone.  I was going to go at that issue until it was done.  I’d often go home from work and research the issue so I could resolve it the next time it came up.  That’s part of my dedication and work ethic. 

So, I need a job.  I need a good job.  I need a job that fits my experience and my ethics.  It needs to be a good fit.  The problem is that these don’t exist in my area.  I’ve lately found myself going after jobs that are above or below me.  I either don’t have the experience the position requires and have to convince an employer than I can learn those skills (and I can…I really can) or I have to convince an employer than I am ready to take a minimum wage job.  Recently, I was told by an employer that he wouldn’t hire me for a minimum wage job because he thought with my skills and experiences, I’d probably leave that employer if something better came along.  Talk about feeling unwanted again.  What’s a guy like me to do? I need a job.  I’m not picky and I think I’ve got a great package to offer.  Hey, I can even write a blog…even if I choose to call it a blahg. 

     This blahg is getting a little depressing.  I don’t want to dwell on the fact that I’m unemployed and feel under-appreciated or forgotten.  I’d rather think of all my great accomplishments but lately it sure does make me feel like singing the blues.  Maybe that’s what “Wanted:  One Good Job” is, the title of a good blues song.  I’m not really a blues fan but, to me, one name comes to mind from my record collection when I think about the blues:  Jack Teagarden.  In the 1960s Teagarden released two great blues/jazz records with his great trumpet sound and distinct singing voice.  The first was “Mis’ry And The Blues” from 1961 and if you want to hear some blues, then listen to the title track: 

The second great album by Teagarden, this time in 1962 was 

“Think Well of Me.”  It’s a little more upbeat but has some great chestnuts on it like “Cottage For Sale”, “Tain’t So Honey, Tain’t So”, “Where Are You” and “Don’t Smoke In Bed”.  I like all of the tracks but I guess my message for this blahg is the title track to this record: 

WANTED:  ONE GOOD JOB.  If you have one, think of me…think well of me.

Check out the second only False Ducks Video Blahg:

Below, is the text of the Letter of The Editor that I sent this morning to The Picton Gazette:

Dear Editor,

 Surprise, surprise, yet another Editorial from The Picton Gazette bashing the Liberals in the upcoming Provincial election but also applauding Tim Hudak and the Progressive Conservative Party!  To quote Popeye “That’s all I can stands, I can’t stands no more.”  If you really want to inform your readers then why not accurately label the villain in the piece? 

Tim Hudak and the Conservatives are not to be trusted nor should they be elected.  First, his economic plan of creating a million jobs by cutting 100,000 jobs makes no sense and has yet to find any support from any economist.  If he cannot take the advice of professionals, what makes us think he’d take the advice of the electorate?  You get what you vote for and what makes you think he’ll stop at the 100,000?  If elected, he might think he has the will of the people to go even further and suddenly 100,000 becomes 150,000 or more.

Last time around, under Mike Harris, with Tim Hudak sitting around the table, the Conservatives slashed social assistance rates by almost 22% and axed a number of social housing and affordable housing projects.  Now Hudak, in his ‘what is old is new again’ plan, wants to make more cuts to social assistance payments.  Talk about wanting to build the economy on the backs of the poorest of its citizens!  That’s right, let’s tear down the social safety net while we’re waiting for these million pie in the sky jobs to appear.

Tim Hudak also wants to eliminate the home renovation tax credit for seniors that would allow seniors to stay in their homes longer.  Tim seems to think that it’s cheaper to put seniors into long term care rather than allowing them to live in their own home.  Let’s not even mention the dignity of living in a home where you built your life.

What about students?  Under the Conservatives, the 30 per cent tuition grant for most Ontario college and university students would be eliminated.  He wants to create jobs but also hinder access to higher education so students can get a better paying job.  Many students can’t afford a post-secondary education and now Hudak wants to make sure even less students can get a College or University diploma!

And yet more cuts to Education?  Hudak wants to increase the classroom sizes.  He also wants all day Kindergarten to be taught by only one Teacher with no assistants.  I’d like to see him try to manage, let alone teach, a classroom of 26 three to five year olds all on his own every day.  Parents and teachers have fought for years to make sure the cap on the classroom sizes were appropriate.  No one wins in this scenario.

If Hudak wins, it’s fair game against children, students, seniors, and poor people.  Is it any wonder that I have a yellow sign on my front lawn that says “We Will Not Be Voting Conservative!”

 

     Just so this blahg is not all political, let me add the following musical gem.  This is from an LP I picked up recently by Peter Appleyard.  The LP is “Percussive Jazz” and the track is “Why Don’t You Do Right.”

Why don’t you do right and vote…just not Conservative!