Christmas Memories

It was the day before Christmas and all through the land

Having insomnia was not part of my plans

So I with my laptop, think back to when

To remember Christmas, way back then

The wish-book was thrown on every front porch

With ideas inside to light up the torch

We would look through and dog-ear the pages

There were toys for all and for all ages

My father would clip lights onto the eaves

In hope that the light bulbs would work, please

But every year it was no surprise

Off to hardware store for more supplies

Inside the house my mother reigned supreme

Hanging garland on every expose beam

She sang Christmas songs and it was smooth sailing

She even had garland wrapped around the stairway railing

The tree was trimmed and nailed to the floor

Because my dad didn't want to fight with it anymore

My mother joyfully filled every open space

With tinsel and bows and frilly lace

My dad sat back drinking coffee with cream

Pretending not to notice that the tree had a lean

He had just reclined to take a nap

Mumble the words, would you look at all this crap

The smell of Christmas filled the air

Bake goods and candy everywhere

There was only one rule and the one thing you couldn't choose

Keep your hands off your Dad's can of cashews

But once in a while when he was in his chair asleep

Slowly I'd slitter to take a little peek

Surely he couldn't hear me pry open the lid

Inside that can my little hand slid

I know now but I wished I knew then

Having a cashew allergy would eventually bite me in the end

But that salty buttery goodness was such a delight

If I just had one that would be alright

The house was filled Christmas music

My mother would help them sing

We had the Carpenters, Andy

Perry and of course Bing

We kids would sit at the kitchen table

Crafting things that we were able

With paint, paper, glitter and glee

The floor was littered with paper snow flake debris

Seeing my father waking up from his nap

My mother would put the tube on in a snap

My dad would watch a three channel TV

There was nothing but snow and the guide was a tree

When the Christmas eve was upon us we'd go to bed

But we'd hide on the stairway and listen for hear Santa instead

My mother always wise to our schemes

Would peak around the corner, oh how we screamed

Now you kids get back to bed , I don't want to hear a peep

Santa will know if you don't sleep

We would lay in our wool blanket cocoon

In hope that morning would come real soon

The sun peaked through a frosted window

The sounds of rustling from the living room below

Woke us from our slumber

and down the stairs we'd lumber

It was Christmas morning.

The tree was a glittering beacon of hope

Hope was a wrapped gift under a needleless tree

It was a picture of joy, of love, of glee

Within five minutes the room was a big paper ball

Ribbons and bows thrown from wall to wall

Mom and Dad in a Christmas camouflage on the couch

Drinking coffee trying not to pass out

The room was filled with kid in pj's

Each on the the floor with new games and toys to play

The smell of breakfast filled the air

A home filled with love and so many memories to share

Merry Christmas everyone. Take a moment today to remember and share.

Hide and Seek

Meme's house

Christmas at my Grandparents house was always a fun time. Pepe' had Santa suit that he wore every year.  Why Santa came to our grandparent house in the middle of the afternoon on Christmas day, was never questioned. We were kids. It was more stuff and we liked more stuff. Speaking of stuff. We like sweet stuff too. My Meme' (aka elastic grandma) had candy everywhere. Every room had a candy dish. Every room had a kid with dirty fingers picking through a candy dish. The assortment of candy was endless. Chocolate macaroons. Yum. Hard pillow candy. White sugary mint pillow candy. Soft creamy candy. Candy canes and  life savers. Double yum. A cornucopia of cavity causing confectionery delight. We would lay on the living room rug wearing our new Pajamas. Pajamas were a given, given the fact that we grew out of last Christmas's  PJ's. We would color in our new coloring books and wait for the sugar to kick in. After the meal the old folks hung out in the dinning room. To smoke, drink, play cards and curse. We kids had better games to play.  Building playing card houses wasn't going to do it. Besides, it didn't matter how tall you could make a structure an inevitable wind storm was approaching. Not a real wind storm but a real windbag, one of brothers.  They were bored or maybe, just jealous of my architectural ability. I was the little pig and they were the wolves. There was no way to stop my masterpiece from becoming a dismantled straw house.  There were new games to play and a house filled with sugar stoners kids to play them. The best game was hide and seek.

Hide and seek or hang go seek. Hey! I was a kid that's what I heard.

There are three rules when it comes to hide and seek; the location of home free, the ability to count and no peeking. Home free at Meme's was the couch in the backroom. It was a den. For some reason they never called the den, the den. If it's got a couch, a rocker with broken springs and a TV, it's a den. Come to think of it, my Meme' never called me Denis. She'd say in a very tick (Tick is thick in French) accent Dur Knee.  They called the room in the back the house the backroom. A tradition my mother carried with her to Buckingham. Even the word, backroom sounded funny. Her French/English sounded more like bat room. I was happy to call it the bat room. I was a big Batman fan. It was confusing sometimes because  the bat room could also mean the bathroom. I don't now when the name got change to TV room but it think it was a good thing. 

I can't remember when we started playing hide and seek but I'm sure it was before we even knew how to count. I remember kneeling down with my face planted into a quilt. The couch had to have quilt covering the cushions because the material was so ruff it could scratch an eye out. Now, I'm no aficionado on couches but this green kitchen scrubby couch was all about function and had nothing to do with style.  I would wait, my face sweating, listening for confirmation from the hiders. While I waited, kids would scurry passed the adults. One place we'd never hide was in the dinning room. The cloud of smoke could be a good camouflage but the inevitable tongue lashing would give your location away. kids should be seen and not heard didn't apply to hide and seek but it did apply to old folks playing euchre. Not one of us kids every hid there. The table was littered with cigarette butts, playing cards, Fat bottles of bear and profanity. The fog did nothing to soften the sound of fists pounding the table and one word being yelled repeatedly : TRUMP!  

My meme's (aka elastic band grandma) house had the best hiding spots. Across the smoke filled dining room there was a closet. It was a huge closet. It had more hangers than a clothing store. Fur coats, overcoats and moth balls everywhere. Boxes and more boxes. Shoe boxes, hat boxes. Boxes with Christmas decorations inside and other haphazard things you could pile up and hide behind.  If you could hold your breath and your nose, you could stay in there a long time. Apparently we couldn't get to the treasure trove in the attic upstairs. My sisters got to enjoy that. Besides, we didn't like to play dress up, especially if it's old lady clothes. We did discovered another great hiding place. The upstairs bat room or bathroom if you're English. I can't remember if the room was all mint tile or baby blue. I seem to recall that the bathtub had a matching hue. I don't know if it was retro or just dated. There was a closet that went all the way around the back of the tub surround. You could hide there for hours and the only thing that would find you would be a mouse. There were a couple rooms that were off limits. My Pepe's office and workshop in the basement.  

Let the games begin. A thousand kids would muffle their voice (to hide there location) and yell I'm ready! I'd be on the hunt. It was a great fun. Eventually, we would play ourselves out and fall asleep on the floor. Until we got scooped up for the car ride home. I remember when I was older, I played hide and seek with my Meme' only she wasn't playing. I hid in the Bat room (the TV room) while she frantically tried to find me. She kept calling my name. Dur Knee, Dur Knee. I didn't say a peep. I finally gave in but boy was she mad. It was a mean trick and I did feel bad playing that prank on her. I don't think I ever played hide and seek there again.

My House

At my home the game was played a little different. We played inside when it was raining but outside is where we wanted to be. I think our parents want it that way too. I can't help but wonder how many children were conceived during the hours we played outside. It was hours. It was really the only alone time they had. They never had to bug us to go outside and play. Some things are better not to think about. We didn't. I am older and thinking back, I still don't want to think about it. 

One house over stood our home free pole. The bottom of the pole was painted white and was etched with all our names. I wasn't allowed a knife when I was a kid. My friend Mike had Swiss army knife. For obvious reasons, pop tops and to carve names into a streetlight pole. If it was the weekend we could play even when it was dark. During the school nights we could play but our play was timed. We couldn't ignore it because the home free pole was street light. When it came on, we had to go home. Sometimes we'd ignore the street light and hope that dad would forget about us but we couldn't ignore the high pitched whistle. Game over. 

 It was a different time then. Everyone in our neighborhood, knew everyone in our neighborhood. We wouldn't use the phone to see if the kids wanted to play. We would press our noses to their screen doors and call out their name. It was almost musical. Every name had two syllables. Stewart became Stu-wart. The first part of the name was at a higher pitch and the ending kind of tailed off. Hearing your name called in such a way was more than a celebration of friendship, it was an invitation to fun. 

My youngest brother was always it first. And even if he found us we could outrun him to the home free pole. I felt sorry for him and ran slow on purpose. I knew everyone's hiding place anyway. My sister would be in a tree somewhere.  Mike would be peeking over the top of a roof. The playhouse across the street was off limits but you could hide behind it. Our block had two hedges that were great for hiding in. They were off limits but we disregarded the rules. They belonged to old man Trudell and old man St. Louis. But kids will be kids. Old Man Trudell knew my oldest brother because my older brother used to go into Charlie's. Charlie's is a bar near Buckingham. I don't know if he had fake ID or that he looked old enough but I think he and the old man titled a few beers at once upon a time. One day old man Trudell lost it. There was knock on our front door. He was pissed up and started to yell at my dad. Those kids are ruining my hedges! My dad flexed his Popeye arms and the old man changed his tone. Dad talked to us boys and we agreed not to hide in his hedges again. My sister's didn't think it applied to them and did it anyway. We were little stinkers with a bunch of energy. Every kid on the block played. That is, when we weren't playing street hockey. Time would fly by and then we would heard that whistle. We knew it was game over.

A night at the movies

A new cinema opened up in town. Yeah! We decided to try it out. Yippy! We already had our passes prepaid. It should have been easy, peazy, show me my seatie. Nope. We were instructed to go to the concession counter.  Okay, a little different. Obviously a sales tactic. The clerk asked for our passes. We handed them to her and told her that they included a soda and popcorn. She immediately look puzzled. Was it her first day? I think it was. Someone who looked just as confused started finger punching the POS.  We stood in line and waited and waited and waited. They were having a hard time processing our orders. I paced around trying not to get frustrated, while my brother in-law and his wife (my sister) took care of business.

I gave the staff a few eye rolls and OMG's, then I looked around to distract myself. That's when I noticed I was overdressed. I didn't have slippers on. I wasn't wearing Hello Kitty Pajamas. And I didn't have a blankie. There's nothing like a good blankie. My blankie was at home and he's very upset that he missed the show. What shall I do? I don't get it. It's freezing cold outside. What tells these kids to wear a blankie instead of a coat? Maybe I should check Tic Toc. Oh, the price they pay to be part of a fashion statement. Here's a statement. I hope you freeze your ass off. I'm sorry but you do have options. Just saying. You know what,  just saying, just saying get's my dander up. Yes, I am that old. But I do have a nice winter coat. I guess I'd rather be warm and unfashionable.  Luckily, the parents didn't follow their kids flair for fashion. Nobody wants to see that. In fact, the reason why they went to show in the first place was because Grandpa was watching wheel of fortune in his boxers and talking to himself again. Why does everyone want to buy a bowel ? Hey! It could be a reason. 

I want to clarify, when I say kids, I mean teenagers. Teenagers, slippers and Pajamas, oh my. Don't forget the blankie. Now, back to our story. 

I Smiled and tried to disguise my criticism . Then I thought. The only time I was allowed to wear pajamas outside the house when I was a kid was when our family went to the drive in theater. For an obvious reason; I fell asleep during the second feature. Thank God I had my Blankie!

Clearly, these parents didn't care what their kids looked like. The kids must have thought. If it's good enough for school, the mall or Starbucks, it's good enough for the movies? My attention was swayed from my discuss to a discussion. The girl behind the counter was being trained. What we didn't realize was that she was getting trained in ripping people off. It seemed like a simple question. She asked. Would you like butter on your popcorn? Thinking that there would be just a small charge for real butter, we all said yes. Then she told us the price. We laughed out loud and said in unison, No! Fourteen dollars for butter. Are you kidding me? Apparently not. Ten minutes later we finally settled up. No extra butter, no extra charge and no time to spare. Now we waited in another line. Right behind, the blanket brigade. We waited and waited; you get my drift. A long time.  Speaking of time. It was show time. I was losing my patience. Then again, previews usually lasted for about half an hour, so I didn't sweat it too much. We finally got our cups for our sodas and hugged our popcorn bags. We poured our drinks of choice from the self serve. I poured Coke zero. I didn't want Coke Zero but I didn't have time to fight with the machine. Around the counter I saw a surprise. A fake butter dispenser. And it was free. So would be the chest pains later.  I splashed a good dose of artery clogging butter substitute on my popcorn and we were on our way. 

We eventually found our seats just in time. It took a little bit to work the recliner. I figured it out. I sat down, elevated my feet and de-elevated my blood pressure. I had just taken my first nibble of popcorn and sipped my pop, when then screen came to life. The title was nothing special but the words that followed change my mood.  Again.  To think that two words had the power to piss people off. Alright, just me.  Not the PJ party. No.  What were the two words you might ask? I'll assume you did. Part one.  As I f bombed the filmmakers in my mind, I wondered just how many more. How many more? Who knew? I knew one thing,  I was never going to see Part Two in the cinema.  No, the next time I'll be at home on the couch watching with nothing but Hanes on. Just like grandpa. Who am I kidding, I'll have my Batman Pj's on with a towel around my neck. Hey! if you got a cape, you wear it. I did learn one thing though.  The reason why the butter was so expensive; to pay for the Recliners.

I wrote this story at my favorite cafe. I did a make shift standup routine for the owner. He laughed. I went back to my table finished the rough copy saved it and proceeded out.  I began to back out of the parking lot and saw two kids walking in, wearing you guess it, Pajamas.

 

High BP

Today I had an appointment with my doctor. I recently had a blood test and he wanted to go over the results. Nothing serious. He just wanted a little chat. Still, I was a little nervous.  

While waiting in the office it occurred to me that there is never a good time to test your blood pressure. I started to write the whole scenario on a note pad one my cell. I was chuckling inside when his assistant told me it was my turn. I could feel the pressure rise. In the examination room I worked on breathing and said om over and over again trying to calm my beating heart down. I checked my pulse and I can feel it working. Slower, slower. I was ready. You may enter.  I am very competitive. I want to get the best score I can. I can fool him. I enter the altered state known as the Zen of Den.

My doctor doesn't take my BP often because it's generally pretty good. I was looking for to a quick how ya doing and see ya later experience. Then I opened my mouth. 

Sometimes I can talk too much about funny little things. I am socially awkward especially when I'm nervous. I told my doctor about my, there's never a good time to test your BP, bit. He laughed and said it was a good bit. That I should use it. However, he did get the last laugh when he told me to get on the table. My blood pressure was good and so was the visit. 

The results didn't seem too serious but there were couple things I needed to work on. The usual fix; diet, exercise and five gallons of water a day. 

Thank you Doctor D for inspiration. 

Here's the links for your viewing enjoyment. 👉👉https://youtube.com/shorts/oBZpONM-Yvg?si=JaVHn29kmU1HI34Y

Uncoupled Coffee

I was sitting having a coffee at my favorite cafe. My note app on my cell phone was open and I was thinking about what story to write about. Sometimes you don't have to think, you just have to listen. Two tables away a couple were having a highly, overly, caffeinated conversation. They apparently didn't realize that decaf was an option. 

They didn't care if the whole cafe knew they were having marital problems. Everyone in earshot knew. How could I not; they were right next to me. There I was pretending I was doing research. I was doing research alright. 

You never listen to me, she said. You ignore me. The man said nothing. Then he tried to defend himself but he knew she was right. So he took a big breath and just let her rant. Eventually she stopped. Why? Exhaustion and she needed to tinkle.

 

She got up and said sharply, I'm going to the restroom. Announced she was going to the restroom. He was still recovering from the verbal assault. Numbed by the flurry of jabs, asked her where she was going. This didn't help her mood. When she came out of the restroom, it was clear that she had not rested. She looked at him and he looked at her. There was nothing left to say but I think get off your ass were leaving was implied. Her body language and a new wrinkle that had just appeared on her face, said it all.

They said goodbye to the staff. The grumpy man opened the door for his wife. The wife was almost committed but saw a collection of items on a shelf next to the opened door. What an opportunity to piss her husband off even more. She took her time perusing the shelf, checking prices and laughing outload inside. They finally exited and life was good for this guy, me, to write about the story. I guess, when one door closes, another opens. End of story.

Elastic Grandma

My grandmother had an obsession with elastic bands. She had every size and color under the sun. She had her whole collection dangling from her wrist like a big rubber bangle. She must have thought that if someone needed one she'd be ready.  Is there a better conversation starter? Coming to the rescue of someone's untidy emergency. You know what you need? Here's an elastic.

Every morning she would wake up ready to collect her rubber treasures. She read the morning news not just for the obits but because it came with a free elastic band. Wow! Sometimes, she prayed for rain just so she could get a bonus plastic bag. Plastics and elastics. Well, good morning to me. Her quest continued.

She must have thought, where else can I find elastic bands? The grocery store was now an adventure.  I don't remember her being a fan of  broccoli, I think she bought it because it came with a hard to find small fat elastic band. A collectors item. She wasn't a fan of the flimsy elastic around lettuce but she bought it anyway. She had so many bands around her wrist, I don't think she could feel her fingers. The price you pay to be of service.  Soon, everything she bought had to come with a bonus. Kid's cereal came with hockey stuff. She treated us and it was cool. I couldn't wait to tare open the box, rip the bag open, stick my hand threw to the bottom and dig out the surprise. There is only one thing better. Eating all the raisins out of the cereal and pissing my brothers off because all they have left is bran flakes. He, he. Even tea had to have something. They did have something. A lot of somethings. Little ceramic figurines. There wasn't a bare shelf in her house. Even peanut butter had to have a bonus jam swirl in the jar. Another bonus, the jar turned into a drinking glass. Clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades oh my. How cool is that.

From elastic to plastic

My grandmother had a little door next to her big side entry door, in case the Keebler elves wanted to stop by in the middle of the night to make cookies. It was the milk door. How special is milk to have his own door. It was like a green room. Mr. Milk is a comedian and he just can't wait to hit the stage and pour himself out in a comedy of errors. His trusty sidekick (my sister) would help him spill the laughs everywhere. On the table. On my lap, on the pet dog and eventually on the floor. Later, when milk came in bags the door was shut for good but luckily, the comedy continued. The bag had to to be smashed down into a  bag holder pitcher thing. Whatever it's called. If you didn't get it far enough down, that's when the fun began. Enter my sister. If the bag was not smashed down a little bit of the bag would lean over. A little tip:  the bigger the hole, the bigger the mess. The first glass disaster is brought to you by you know who, my sister. On the table. On my lap and on the floor. By now the pet dog, wise to seating arrangements, was eating out of my brothers hand on the other side of the table. 

My grandma was thrifty. A three pack of milk came with a bonus bag around them. Yippy! She wouldn't throw them away. No. She wouldn't recycle. Didn't need to. She would cut open the top and wash them out. It was the best of both worlds. Left overs in a plastic milk bag wrapped with and elastic band. Life was good.  Now a word about wonder. I mean bread. 

My dad use to say. Okay. Every dad use to say, When I went to school. I had to walk to school. Five miles, both ways. Up hill. We didn't have fancy boots. Bare feet.  Luckily, us kids had boots. When our boots or our socks had holes in them we didn't throw them away. Why? We had perfectly good bread bags. They even worked in our skates. What a great deal. Come to think of it, if it wasn't for grandmas bread bags, I would have lost my toes years ago.

I remember getting ready for school. My mother had a collection of bread bags thrown up on the shelf above our coats. Our boots and shoes were in a pile on the bottom. Everything was at arms length. We all had toques. After all, we were Canadians kids. For an added bonus we could choose a scarf or a turtle neck dicky. I didn't call dibs on not wearing the dicky, so I had to wear it. Before putting our boots on we'd pull our socks out enough to fold over the holes and ever so gently  slip a bread bag on, then ever so gently slip our bread bagged feet into our boots and pray that everything stayed in place. The rest of the exposed bread bags got tucked into our pants and were kept in place with you guessed it, Grandmas elastic bands. It wasn't about style is was about not freezing our toes off. Snug as bug in a rug. Off we went, three kids running through St. Jules field, bread bags on our feet and lunch pails in hand. Speaking about lunch pails. Our lunch pails were filled with love. Neatly packed inside, our PB and J sandwiches were in a elastic band secured repurposed milk bag.  

Life was simple then. I owe a lot to elastics, plastics and a woman with a weird obsession. 

Thanks grandma. Meme'

 

 

My Angel

Once upon a time, a school boy gazed beyond a playground fence. There were many school girls to choose from but only one angel. The boy pointed and said to his friends, do you see that girl over there? One day she will be my wife.

What the soul writes in the heart, so shall it be. A simple wish; destiny

I don't know much about my fathers childhood. My mothers, I had heard of. She had to raise her siblings when her mother was ill. And her mother was often ill. I can't help but think she gave up much of her childhood, being a care-giver rather than being a kid. She was a God send; an angel. My father and mother married years later and I was one of seven who were lucky enough to be called a Child of Jacqueline and Joe.

Angels don't pray for wings, they just pray. Wings are heavens gift.

My mother was like a real life Cinderella. I am so grateful that the glass slipper fit and that the prince took her as his bride. Her care-giving years were not behind her. Caring was her calling. She was the best mother a kid could ask for. She was a selfless servant of God. A strict devout Catholic. I can still see her sitting in the backroom at home, smoking a cigarette, drinking her morning coffee pausing while she said the rosary. She said her rosary every morning and went to mass almost every day. If there is one phrase she'd want the world to know, it would be this: more things are brought about by prayer than the world will ever know. Her faith was her strength. She was an indeed an angel. If anyone was in need, she's be there. A beacon of hope, during loss. A pillar of strength, when all hope was gone. A shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen. Her kitchen table was always a welcome safe place for coffee and conversation. Our home had two opened doors and two open hearts, waiting for anyone who needed comfort and love. Every knock was greeted with; Come on in!

Find your song and sing it every day

She was the most beautiful woman I have ever known. She could have been a star of the silver screen. She told me once that she wanted to be a singer. She was a wonderful singer. I remember her singing, what will be, will be, while washing dishes. Lots of dishes. She had set list that would rival any crooner. After a big family get together we could be at the sink for very, very long time. It's easy to tough things when you have song in your heart.  I remember being a small boy, standing on a chair next to her, drying dishes, putting them in the cupboard and listening in awe. She sang in the church choir. It didn't matter if it was Sunday service or a funeral mass, she was there. I grew up with a love of music. My mother and I sang together at home and on the road. I remember the old hi-fi we had growing up. Her collection of albums. From Glenn Miller to Any Williams. Big bands, crooners and Christmas. Our house was filled with music. CKWW played old stuff and the old stuff is what we loved the most. Speaking of old stuff. When I use to drive my mother and father down to St Pete's for the winter, I'd throw on Cd's or cassettes. Willie Nelson was a given. If I was going to drive I had Willie on. His stardust album was our favorite. She use to say to me, I'll listen to his music if I don't have to look at him. She wasn't a fan of long haired outlaws I guess. The one thing you can't lose is the love of music. I am so blessed and thankful for that.

When my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's the one thing I could count on even if she forgot who I was, was that we could sing an old familiar song. I would start with s'wonderful she would  right on cue sing it's marvelous and together we would sing that you should care for me. Indeed she was wonderful and marvelous. There were many songs to sing and we sang them all. The mind can't take away joy. There's a sign I saw at her rest home which reads; forget your age and live your life. I would add.  Find your song and sing it everyday. My mother is in heaven now but I still hear singing in my mind. I'm singing too, mom. I have many more stories to tell about my home, my parents and my journey from boyhood to adulthood. I do hope you stop by again. I'll end this one with this:

Once upon a time a small boy grew up to be a man. A very very grateful man.

Happy Birthday, Mom. 

Senior Coffee

We were in Vegas waiting in line at a fast food restaurant. I won't say the name but it's the one with those lovely kiosks that every tech challenged senior hate. It was morning and we needed coffee.  The guy in front of us needed a coffee too and he needed it really bad.  There was nobody at the counter, so he asked the old lady wiping the tables, if he could get one. She was clearly having a bad day and decided this guy was enemy number one. She was waiting for the right opportunity to yell at someone. Enter, caffeine deprived old guy.  She threw her towel on the table, looked over the rim of her glasses and let the poor guy have it. You have to use to the touch screen. Sounding a bit like a blue haired wicked witch of the west. She was not happy for a couple reasons. One, she was eighty years old and two; she was still working.

 The old man looked at the screen and was just a little puzzled. He was about to lose it and yelled, Can't I just go to the counter. I don't know how to work this frigging thing.  She barked back. No! You have to use the kiosk! There he was mumbling to himself. All I want is a frigging seniors coffee! There he was, swiping page to page, up, down, left and right, like he was on a dating site for tech challenged old fart coffee drinkers. Eventually, he found the coffee screen. Everyone could hear him thinking out loud.  I know it was a cry for help. Only we couldn't help, we were just as old and just as challenged. 

Let see coffee. Click. What size? Click. The screen had more drop down boxes than an Amazon driver. Would you like cream? Yes? He answered the machine and hit the button. Click. How many? One, thank you. He punches the button. Click. Sugar? No thanks How many? I said, no thank you. To complete your order please press pay now. The next screen had two options: credit card or debit. The old man is furious, not only could he not buy a senior discount coffee, he had a fist full of cash that the machine will not take. He begins to shake a little as he looks for a slot (like vending machine) somewhere on the screen. He yells out how the frig do I pay for this? Blue hair chimes in the screen says debit or credit! I'm not paying for a coffee with my credit card, who do you think I am some stoner kid buying a bag of chips and zigzags. Then he notices the price difference. He looks up and yells where 's the frigging button for seniors discount. She yells back. There is no senior discount on the kiosk you have to come to the counter. The old man now frantic puts his wad of cash back in his pocket and leaves. 

I will conclude by giving you a coffee tip I use in Vegas all the time. I wake up every morning and head down to my favorite keno machine.  I sit down put five dollars in. On top I have a bill visible to the server. A server usually shows up soon. I order a coffee. I play one nickel at a time. When I get my coffee I give her a dollar tip. I cash out four dollars and I'm on my way. I sat on my ass and paid two dollars for coffee. The coffee is always better than fast food slop. If I win I give her more. I'm cheap but I'm not that cheap.

Gone Squirrely

 Squirrels. Cute little nut burying, squirrels. We had a pet squirrel and he used to eat right out of my sisters hand. You could always count on Charlie the squirrel. He'd scurry down that maple tree to enjoy a peanut or whatever item we deemed squirrel food. A crust of a peanut butter sandwich, popcorn or chips. Charlie was fat. I'm sure his cholesterol was through the roof. Charlie didn't care, he was getting hand-fed. It was better than Nut Grub. His grub got delivered right to his mouth. The thing we didn't count on was his kids taking over the back yard.

My mother had a beautiful back yard. I say had beautiful back yard, that is before the squirrels took it over. One day my mother had a meltdown. I'll just say that the squirrels finally made her squirrelly . The definition of squirrelly is: restless and unpredictable. Which is true, for squirrels and my mother.

My dad seeing how they were make my mother nuts, decided that for the good of the neighborhood and my mothers mental health, to trap the little buggers. Everyday he'd take a trip to Memorial park and drop off what he had caught. But just like that cat, the squirrel came back the very next day. Maybe not. I'm sure there were many dependents of Charlie raiding the neighborhood. My dad couldn't keep up so he threw in the towel.

My mother was now on a mission. Mom heard that if you put moth balls in your garden the squirrels would leave your plants alone. Our whole yard, back and front was littered with little stinky white balls. There was Charlie. My mother was peeking through the drapes incognito like. Eureka! She thought. Not Charlie. He looked down and thought look at these enormous breathe mints. Charlie had one in his mouth when my mother bolted through the screen door. Yelling something only a squirrel could understand. Those are moth balls! She shouted. Charlie not phased by her attempt to scare him looked up and said, these moth balls taste a lot like tulip bulbs. Of course the conversation between my mother and Charlie is speculative and meant for your enjoyment. But if squirrels could talk, could you imagine the conversation.

Back in his hole in the tree called home, Charlie is at the table with his family. In front of him was all that possible edible stuff he had collected. The main course no surprise, is nuts. Everything else is questionable. And everything that is questionable gets buried like most questionable things do. Charlie, a resident of a predominantly Catholic yard, says grace. His wife and kids bow their heads. Dear Lord thank you for this meal. Please welcome uncle Pete to the other side even if the other side was not the other side of the road. Amen.

Meanwhile. In a laundry room not too far a way, a squirrelly woman is concocting a witches brew. I have to clarify here, I am to blame for the super-soaker, everything else was my mothers idea. She had learn listening to a gardening show on the radio, that squirrels didn't like cayenne. Aha! Her eyes gleamed with excitement. Her pulse quickened with the anticipation of vermin warfare. She began to fill the weapon of doom. Hot water and pepper, lots and lots of pepper. You could hear the sound of her high pitched laughter. He, he ,he. I'll get you my pesty and your little squirrel family too!

My mother, decked out in camouflage, hid behind a bush and waited. Her hands clutched the weapon of doom. It was cocked and ready. The hot water and infused cayenne pepper mixture would finally wipe out the vermin. She was like Bill Murray in Caddyshack, talking out of the side of her mouth. I must kill the squirrels! The squirrels must die!

It never occurred to her that maybe she should have done some target practicing first. It was too late for that now, Charlie was at twelve o'clock. She wiped her eyes, steadied her hands and let a steam fly. Charlie didn't know what hit him. Nothing hit him just the thought that this squirrelly lady had finally gone over the edge. My mother was in hot pursuit. Charlie ran up and down the fence like it was game. His family looked down from above and laughed their little squirrelly asses off. Soon the battle was over and the barrel was empty. My mother looked in disbelief. Charlie got away but the fence didn't. That brand new white fence was not as white. The battle scares could be seen from one end to the next. Like a never ending wave of cayenne graffiti. She tagged our backyard fence like it was a gang territory.

Charlie is gone and so is my mother but the memories like that once white fence lingers on. I wonder if those stains ever came out.

Hockey Cards

The best bubble gum came in a two and a half by three and a half inch pack. It was powdery goodness in a thin stick. We'd rummage through the hockey cards inside, blowing bubbles while verbalizing as we shuffled. We'd shout a players name out and someone would chime in with one of two phrases; got it or need it. Every kid had a checklist. Once you had filled your set, you'd wrap an elastic band around it and put in a shoe box. I had a box like that once. I forgot about that box. My mother found that box and decided the church bazaar needed it more than me. I'm getting ahead of myself.

If a kid had a card you wanted, you had to challenge him or her to a game called tops. You would usually use a double you didn't need that the other player needed and he would do the same. The skill involved holding the card between your index and middle finger while resting your thumb on top and giving it a simple flip of the wrist. The rules of the game were rather simple. You just need a wall. There were two prominent walls I can recall. The brick wall of my childhood home and my grade school wall. There are variations to the game but this is the easy one; If your card lands on top your opponents card you win. You would yell Topsy! If no Topsy is declared the closest card to the wall wins. Sometimes we sweetened the pot and played a few cards. One rule had to be called out just before the game started. If you didn't yell no leaners! it didn't matter how great you could top, a leaner took it all.

By the time we were done with the cards their value was pretty used up. We didn't know how important it was to have crisp corners our corners were rounded and deemed almost worthless. Our doubles suffered a fate much worse. Decapitation. We kids loved making noise and loved anything that could make noise. We found out making noise just required a clothespin and a Bobby Hull hockey card. I had so many Bobby Hull cards; I could afford to sacrifice a few in a noise making experiment. That old Swinger bike with its banana seat and chopper handle bars had a new feature; a muffler. A clothespin attached to the rear frame with a pinned down hockey card resting on a spoke. That's all we needed to fill the air with the sounds of mutilated cardboard. Sorry Bobby putting a Maple Leaf double on my bike was unethical. The quiet one lane road wasn't as quiet that day.

One Amazing Maple

A maple tree can grow anywhere, if given a chance. A crack in the cement, a rose garden or between a pile of wood. Such was our maple.

We had a wood pile on the ground in our back yard. It was pushed against the back fence and was forgotten. It consisted of bricks, timber and the discarded dreams of being a garage one day.

Time goes by and sometimes, dreams do too. But not us kids, we saw the opportunity to let our imaginations go wild. I don't know if craft paper and crayons were involved but I could just see myself designing it. It was a grand wood fort. It had a roof and inside a small dwelling that was just big enough to hide in during snowball fights and hide and seek. I don't know how that little maple penetrated the walls of our fort but right smack in the middle of it, it began to grow. We didn't even notice it at first. It was fertilized by the laughter of children. It grew happily and we did too.

The back yard changed a bit as we grew. The fort was torn down and a flower garden took its place. Now, that much bigger tree was free to grow without obstructions. It kept growing thirsting for the laughter of children playing in the yard. 

Time goes by which it often does and things had changed. We were older; us kids and that tree. No snowball fights or hide and seek. We had new games to play. Baseball, Hockey and football. Yes there was still laughter and total joy. That great maple basked in its glory. Truly a grand family tree.

Between clinging and surrender there is a life, lived to completion. Every leaf falls and a new leaf is born. Every leaf once caressed by the morning sun will be taken away with the wind. The wind is called change. Everything changes too soon. 

One day a small crack began to trickle down the trunk it was the beginnings of the heartaches to follow. It seemed as we grew up, if we suffered loss, it suffered too. The crack grew longer and tears of sap and moisture ran down its trunk but that old maple stood tall, lush and green. 

How do you mend a broken heart? Chains

My father was the kindest man I've ever known. I don't know what possessed him to do it but he wrapped a chain around the heart of that tree, used his Popeye arms and winched it securely. It was for the love of his family. It was for the love of a fond memory, looking out the window at his three boys having the time of their lives. It was with gratitude and thanksgiving, if only for a while. Sometimes you have to put a chain around a heart and hold on. Our parents were the chains around our hearts. It worked, that tree grew and so did we.

That old maple grew around the chains. The chains that kept its heart beating all these years. Now, the chain is old and rusty and it's a few layers deep. Like the chains on my own heart. Still beating, still thirsting.

When we sold the house on Buckingham it was a sad time. The tree was barely hanging on and so were we. Barely hanging on. Sometimes that's all we can do. But we must hang on. Hang on to joy. Hang on to hope. Hang on to our memories and hang on to our blessings. 

Life lessons for kids:

Find a pile of wood, build a fort and if  you happen to see a little twig coming out of the ground, let the tree grow. We did and oh what a tree it was. Thank you my old friend. Thank you.

Fritz the horse

This is a story about a groomer, a small kid and a horse named Fritz. Fritz was a gentle old standard-bred. A retired harness horse. One of many horses in residence at the Manning road farm. The barn was filled with has-beens, want-to-bes and yes, horses too. Tending to the horses were tired old men with tired old dreams, telling tired old stories, reminiscing about the good old days and the races they, or should I say, their horses won. The big white barn had massive sliding doors at each end, opened wide to reveal the splendor of the jug-heads inside and horses too. The smell of leather, straw and Absorbine Jr filled the air. That and the smell of alcohol being consumed by the horsemen. The barn floor was littered with mud, shit and straw. It was like walking through a landmine. Even if you tip toed it, there was a good chance shit was going to happen. Especially if it happened to be on the bottom of your shoe. It was a giant place and I was just a small city kid and apparently gullible.

There she was; the groomer. I don't know what attracted me to her. In fact, to this day, I can't remember what she looked like. It must have been a hat thing. I've always been attracted to girls in hats; baseball or cowboy. I had seen her many times and befriended her enough to trust her. Trusted her enough to think that she knew what she was doing.

After giving Fritz a nice brush down, she decided to let me in on a secret. I don't know why I believed her. She told me that she had broke Fritz. That Fritz a retired standard-bred, was now a converted thoroughbred. Well, not really, he was just an old horse, too old to fight the weight of a young girl on his tired old back.

Trust is a strange thing. I don't remember getting on the horse ( I think my dad gave me a boost) but I do remember when things got bad. Oh, they got bad and in a hurry. Trust. I trusted that the girl in front of me had experience. She trusted Fritz enough to ride him bareback. I trusted that the tired old horse wouldn't know the difference. What was a little more weight? Old Fritz is a gentle old horse.

Everything was fine until Old Fritz realized that there were two of us on his back. It went from a slow walk, to a gallop, to a trip to the hay field and the hell with this, someone is going down. My trusted friend was the first one to be thrown from the carousel of doom. I was left with nothing to hold on to. I was bucked off like a one second cowboy trying to stay on a bronc. Time stood still for a moment. Trust kind of hung there a millisecond before the realization that the ground was waiting for my unexpected arrival. There was three sounds. One, the air escaping my lungs. Two, the puff of dust and dirt flying through the air. And the sounds of my fathers laughter. I looked up from the ground, through a cloud of dust, I could see the shocked look on my dad's face. Hoping I was okay, so that his laughter wouldn't sound so offensive. I was okay and the laughter continued. My father, always ready to comment whenever I messed up; said the following. Did you learn something? I dusted myself off, looked up and said Why, yes I did!

Never trust a pretty girl wearing a cowboy hat or the horse she rode in on!

Older and old

Older:

We are all getting older. And getting older is no walk in the park. Wait, it sort of is.

Yes, it is a walk in the park. You're walking along, all be it much slower, slouched down which, lucky for you, is close to the ground. This make smelling the roses so much easier. You're older and that's okay. 

Old:

Old means you have arrived. Same park but this time, you walk even slower, slouched down even further, you can 't see where you are going, you fall in a hole and instead of smelling roses you push up daises. You have arrived. You're old. Congratulations

I hope this was a little bit funny. 

Denny D

Hockey Sticks

      I lived on Buckingham drive. The district known as Sandwich East; the east side of the city better known as Windsor Ontario. That one lane pothole street was our playground. The arena. The stadium. We were average kids with time on our hands. Instead of cell phones. 

Every kid grew up dreaming of playing hockey. They imagined playing for his or her favorite team. I was just one of many. I was Dave Keon and when I played net, of course, Jacques Plante. The Toronto Maple Leaf's was (okay still are) my team. Had I known the ribbing I was going to receive my whole life, I might have changed teams.

A new hockey stick was key to childhood hockey fantasy. A simple hockey stick. I didn't get one often, so when I did, I used it until it was almost used up. My younger brothers got my hand me down Sherwood's. Every kid had a hand me down Sherwood. It was what the pros used, so it was the only acceptable brand. By the time I was done with them, they were no longer hockey sticks, more like a long handled tooth pick, wrapped in black electrical tape that I found rummaging through my fathers stash again. Hockey tape! Who has money for that? Improvise. We did. We kept the sticks together, wrapped from butt end to blade. Good thing too, a high stick with that tooth pick could poke your eye out. Eventually those old Sherwood's went back to the forest (the wood pile) a bladeless lifeless shaft.   

When replacement blades first arrived on the scene it was literally a game changer. All those hand me down tooth pick sticks got a much needed upgrade. After all, you can replace a blade, an eye, a little trickier. Now the worst injury was the self inflicted butt end to the middle section or worse. Anyone who has jammed the stick into a driveway seam, knows what I mean. Putting the blade on wasn't easy. You had to Smash the butt of the stick on the ground, while pushing the blade on the shaft to make it fit. Once in place we had to find a screw (you know where) and you're almost there.

That magical blade was great. We soon found out we could bend the blade to look like Bobby Hull's stick. We just needed an absent mother, a stove top, time and muscle. After softening and shaping the blade into the desired curvature, we 'd sink it into snow to chill or run it under cold water. We didn't plan on the lingering scent of plastic in the air. Even with the widows open. The smell hung around like my Mom's liver and onions, only worse, if that's possible. Hey, we didn't burn down the house, it just smelt like it. Now we were ready to unleash a slap-shot and knock the peanut butter jar off grandma's cupboard or my head.

Now I have seen home made hockey nets. Heck, I was the master builder of home made hockey nets but home made hockey sticks, now that's another thing. The kids down the road were poor and like us improvised. They nailed together two pieces of wood. I wasn't sure if it was a hockey stick or a weapon. They didn't have the skills we had. How could they? But they were tough and just what our block needed to beat the other block when they came down the road to challenge us. We nailed them, okay the poor kids down the road nailed them because every time the shot the ball, projectiles flew everywhere. Speaking of balls..

If you want to play hockey you must first play ball. You can't play street hockey without it. There are many choices so choose wisely. The strike out ball was our street hockey ball. Red, white, blue and spongy. We did have other options. A hairless tennis ball or a rubber  hockey puck. The rubber puck had a secret; it wanted to be a sponge ball.  All it did was bounce around and piss me off. Then one day someone showed up with an orange ball. At first it was cool. Until, it got cool. When it got cool, things started hurting. A slap-shot caught in a thinly palmed baseball mitt. Ouch. A snap shot to the ankle or a wrist shot to the shins. Double ouch. We decided that the orange ball was a three season ball and chucked it into the shed where all the bad ideas lay, in one day land.

Oh the hours we played. That one lane road had it all. Laughter, pot holes, lamp post and the sounds of my dad whistling because we never noticed the lamppost. We all knew, when it lights up, it was lights out. Game over.

Thanks for stopping by. If you like my stories, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to comment and share. 

Denny D

The Street hockey net

                    A cheap hockey net. Seemed like a simple request. Not too demanding. We were sick and tired of collecting a missed shots that rolled down the entire length of the block. Tired of the using bricks for goal posts. Tired of the in and out childhood disputes. Was the shot in or was it out. We wanted a hockey net. Not the flimsy skinny aluminum tubular L shaped ball of string. We wanted a real official size skinny aluminum tubular ball of string. We tried to convince my mom and dad that for the good of the neighborhood, we needed it. My parents weren't buying it. My parents money went to more important things, like food for seven kids. And our piggy banks were always empty. The money went to more important things, like penny candy and hockey cards. We could have bugged my dad and I suppose he'd eventually give in. Well, he kind of did. He did get us some empty oat bags from his brother's barn. We got free wood from a pile that was lying next to the fence. All we needed was three or four empty oat bags, the stapler from my mothers desk, extra staples from my moms desk, scissors, a couple two by fours and whatever nails we could find rummaging through my dad's peanut butter bear jar. The famous peanut butter bear jar. My dad had a habit of using whatever make shift container he could find to house his stash.  A margarine tub, an old cashew can, a dried up paint can. He could have labelled them shit I might use, one day. Everything was a possible reservoir of future use crap. My mother's missing Tupperware wasn't missing, it was just repurposed. Leftovers. Leftover bolts from a ceiling fan. Leftover screws from entertainment unit. A washer from a rusty water nozzle. A water nozzle. Hey! It fit.

My friends grandpa smoked a pipe. He smoked for one reason and for one reason only. To fill empty tobacco tins with nuts, bolts, washers and nails. Oh my! A handy mans paradise. Every exposed beam in the basement workshop had Export “A” tins hanging from them. He had a system. Every tin had one of the contents inside glued to the bottom, so he knew what was inside. Ingenious! My dad system wasn't as elaborate but it worked. I was happy to help him with his OCD. I ate a lot of peanut butter when I was a kid. He only had a few good hiding places for his stash. The shed was one but his favorite was just above the washer and dryer. A small corner cupboard, only accessible by climbing up. We had to time the climb because the washer ran for eight hours a day. A kid could get killed falling off it, if the spin cycle kicked in. The cupboard door was made of reinforced steel. The wood exterior was a decoy. It was so hard to open. The catch inside was sticky and that's the way my dad wanted it. Only he, with his Popeye arms could pry it open. One day, out of desperation ( a hockey net project) I mustered up enough strength. It opened. A beam of light shone down to illuminate the treasure trove of priceless useless shit my dad had collected over the years. The bear jar glowed. I reached in and grabbed the holy grail and slowly twisted the bears brain and dumped its contents out. There before my eyes, the items I'm sure his mind thought I could use this someday. Someday was here. We got nails, all kinds of nails. I took what I needed carefully pour the unused shit back into the bear and closed the door making sure it was shut tight. He would never notice.

The one thing he couldn't help but notice.

A one hundred pound hockey net. It would have been easier to buy one from Canadian Tire and a hell of a lot easier to move. But we built it ourselves. And we were proud. We were taught at a young age if you can't afford it, improvise. So we did. The dimensions were a little off and I was a little short. Heck, the crossed bar was above my head but it worked and that's all that mattered. Mind you when someone yelled car! It took two of us to get it off the street.

Thanks for stopping by. If you like my stories, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to comment and share. 

Denny D

Shy Johnny

  When I got to go, I want to go alone. Lets just say, it doesn't always work out that way.

 

I have a shy Johnny. I call it Johnny because it's no Johnson. Shy Johnny, would rather tinkle at home but sometimes he has to use the public restroom. The problem with public restrooms is that they're public. And if you saw the people using them you'd never go in. Public restrooms are like as Forest Gump would s say, a box of chocolate, you never know what your going to get. But sometimes you just got to go. This is why kids shop online. They don't have bladders yelling at them every time they walk into a Walmart. Heck, I can't even look at one book at Chapters before shy Johnny and Billy bowels start talking to me. I think just ignore it and for a little while after doing deep breathing exercises, it works. Suddenly a little voice inside says NOW! When that little voice yells NOW! you kind of have to listen. Before entering the restroom, I have to look over my shoulder to make sure Shy Johnny and Billy Bowels are not being followed. I have to give Johnny a little pep talk. Okay an average pep talk. Okay, maybe I'm stretching a bit.  I'm like the pitching coach on the mound and Johnny is the relief pitcher. Okay the count is two balls and no strikes. You got this! You got a one minute window. Now get busy! No one is coming in. No Fear. You got this. No one is looking at you junior. Besides you're walled up at the thighs with porcelain. 

Then it happens, someone walks in and he stands right next to me. It's not like he didn't have any other options. He did. There were at least four other available urinals. Right next to me and the shy guy. Now the shy guy becomes the dry guy. It's not like he going to break the ice. Heck, he can hardly break the urinal ice. There I am focusing on a speck on the wall, eye level, right in front of me. Engaging in a silent conversation with Johnny. Come on, it's just some guy who obviously has confidence and a big bat. He's having no problem. You can plainly hear that. It's not like you have talk to him. Hello sir. Yes, you say Sir, because you got to respect a guy who can stand tall and let it flow. What would you say anyway? You'd never say, "How's it hanging?" unless of course, you wanted to find out. 

Some guys want to see how far away they can get from urinal and still make it in. Working on their arc, like practicing free throws on the basketball court. So it's not hard to see how it is hanging. Heck, Some guys are dribbling on their way up to the urinal. Some guys clear their throats at the precise time the flow starts, so you don't hear the initial lack luster surge. 

Sometimes, I have resort to the stall because of urinal overcrowding. I stand there and flush just for encouragement but you got to time that too. One flush is acceptable. Continuously flushing, brings up red flags. Then the dialog continues come on Johnny beat the flush. You can do it.  Back to my urinal Johnny.....

I am now looking down in disgust. I think, awe zip it. I really think f it but the sound of zipper drowns it out. Now I have two choices.  Walk to the stall and let the guy know that yup, I'm a freak, or wash up so he can see that I'm a clean freak. I walk out the conversation continues. Really, I can't believe you. It's just a natural bodily function.  Like a dog getting caught doing a bad thing. My Johnny just hangs there like a tail between my legs. This is why I never shop. Its usually one of two things. Literally. It's like I'm the bathroom inspector everywhere I go. And everywhere I go, I have to go. And some places I really don't want to go.

I'm so glad it doesn't cost a quarter to spend a penny. I'd have keep a roll in my pocket at all times and I don't need that kind of attention.

Thanks for stopping by. If you like my stories, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to comment and share. 

Denny D

To shrink or not to shrink

 I don't like talking about my crazy shit stuff. I've spent the better half of sixty years hiding, fearing and shaming. Gee, that sounds like a new Journey song. Na na na na na na na. Anyway and yes I know, you should never start a sentence with anyway but I'm doing it, anyway. Hey! this is all about comedy, errors are expected. Sue me! Anyway (there, I did it) I went to see a therapist for a couple reasons. One, to debunk my then wife's' diagnosis. To prove that I wasn't a passive aggressive ass-hole.   Moron? Maybe.  But I'm not an oxymoron, moron. I mean, can you be passive and aggressive at the same time? The second reason was obvious, to rearrange the therapists office, starting with her unused coasters. They were definitely placed haphazardly. Then it happened. She started asking questions. Imagine that, a social worker asking questions. I thought I was there as interior designer not a client. Why did your wife call you passive aggressive? At that I stood up, passively walked over and gently fixed the picture that was noticeably slanted. I answered,  I don't know! she's the one who needs a therapist! Making sure my tone was neither passive nor aggressive.  I sat down and didn't realize that while I was answering the question, I was aggressively fixing the throw pillows.  In my mind I was thinking. What kind of therapist is she? Look at her desk! Books and papers everywhere! I thought I was messed up. If this is a reflection of how good she is well... She interrupted mental meltdown. Then she said the following;  I find that most people who are passive aggressive are neither passive nor aggressive. I had two options. One, move the furniture or two, move my ass out the door. I tried not look surprised. Really? It was the only audible sound I could muster. My inside smart ass voice barked out. Sounds familiar. My finely tuned smart ass mind thought, like I didn't know that. Hello! Then she added something. Yes, most people are just hiding something. That phrase caused my back hair to rise up and yell "WTF"

Me hide? But I didn't respond. Me hide was all in my head. So was me not hiding. All in my head. Oh, I was hiding.  In fact, I've been hiding forever but that was another story (I'll leave that for future blogs)and I wasn't going to get into it at this session. I left the office out of sorts. The office was sorted and even though I went out,  I wasn't out. I could never disclose what was really going on in my mind. Her office wasn't big enough for the changes I would have made. 

What did I learn?

            Relationships are two way street, sooner or later someone has to be the frog

I guess she stayed on the sidewalk, while I dodged traffic.  I was dodging more than traffic. Let's just say that this frog needed to get real and get his legs before he lost them under a semi. It was either going to be splat or I was going to have to jump into  the first orange convertible VW bug, that just happened to be driving by. Luckily, I didn't have to wait too long. I jumped into that bug. It's in my driveway.  Driven by the best friend a guy could ask for, my partner John. Were are just two frogs playing in traffic, going where the road leads us.  Life is good. Gribit!

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Fishing Bug

I like nature. I really do. Nature doesn’t like me. Okay just the bugs. I think God knows about this and whenever he or she and his angels need a laugh they just dial up f bombs and tantrums. Apparently, my channel in heaven.

 Fishing in near north Ontario.

 I don't know why they call it the near north. It’s like north had a meeting and decided you can’t call yourself north, we will give you near north, because you are just up to it. Near is all we have left. Take it or leave it. Somewhere on a lake in the Canadian shields in the near north, is a man on a boat wondering about such things. Is there a near south? What happened to near center. F it, near north. We the north. We from Toronto. We the center. WE don't know!

The Near North Buzz.

The near north have black flies. Hey, I didn’t name them. They should have been called them ass flies, because they are a pain the ass and have no problem taking a chunk out of your ass. Oh, and their dear cousin, the deer fly, not so dear. The common Deer fly have only one mission. To piss you off. To fly in circles around your head singing a high pitched na, na, na, na, na, na, until, like the lunatic, you start swinging frantically yelling f off or bite me already.

One day I was fishing with my brother. I had a brand-new Shakespeare 010 sigma reel and an ugly stick rod combo. I covered myself in musk-oil and I was standing at the edge of a boat dock, ready to catch whatever fish liked the smell of musk-oil infused lures. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shinning. The birds were singing. That's when it happened.  Deer fly at one o'clock. It came in hot, smelt the musk-oil and laughed. He he. It started circling my head. It was operation, piss Dennis off. Buzzing around playing that annoying game your brother plays with you. I'm not touching you. I yell back I'm not just going to touch you, I'm going to kill you! I tried to swat it Zorro style with my fishing rod. No dice. Tennis style with my hat. Whiff. Then I thought just spit at it. Well I spit at it. Missed the fly and hit my brother right between the eyes. The water was cold that day. The spit to response reflex was unexpected but deserved. The thrust of his two hands to the chest knocked me off balance just enough to send me off the dock. Oddly enough, in that moment I planned for the submergence. I Landed feet first while raising my fishing rod above my head. It was the only thing not wet when I emerged from the lake. My day was done.  But it had just started for my little winged friends. I walked back to the trailer with even more friends black and deer flies. They were having a party. Circling my head, biting my ass. Hey, look its Dennis. Want to have fun? Who’s the wet stinky guy? na na na na na na.....

Thanks for stopping by. If you like my stories, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to comment and share.

Denny D

The Rest Stop

 

I am getting older. I don't want to admit it, but I am. If you are older, you need to plan rest stops. Especially, if you drive for a very long period of time. Don't worry though, your old body will tell you when it is time and listening to your old body is a good thing. Not listening, well let just say, a bad thing. However, you can listen to your body but urge to purge could be stuck between the bladder and your little friend. Okay your big friend. Your average friend? Your friend in low places. Sometimes the flow don't want to go. You want to sing oh what a beautiful morning but the song is different when the flow don't wanna go. Maybe sometime this morning would be better choice. A very long old American standard sung by a very old urinal crooner. Really, sometimes it's like pushing an avocado pit through a straw. Luckily, I still have a good flow. You didn't need to hear or care about that but wait, something good is going to come out of this or that, hopefully.

When I was a young man I could put out a campfire with you know, pee. Now I wonder if I can put out a match. Oh, the youthful days by the stream, splashing, making ripples, waves and pulverizing the urinal puck. Oh it's was fun being young competing in the porcelain games. However, it is a fierce competition. It's for this reason, I don't use the urinals. The whole pre-race ritual of breathing and positive self talk, goes down the drain (the only thing that goes down the drain) if someone stands beside me. It goes from I got this to I got nothing, real fast. It's not that I'm afraid some guy beside me is going to see my stuff. That wouldn't happen. Because my stuff is hidden by a wall of porcelain. Dejected by my own stupid insecurity, I zip it and go to the stall.

I'm in the stall and I know there's some young punk in the next stall because I hear, Niagara Falls. I got to compete. I'm not washed up. I got this. I muster enough force but it's too late my penis knows I can't compete. So I get two toilet paper rolls and put them under both knees. Kneeling, I think. I got this. This kids going down. The closer you get to the surface the bigger the splash, I thought. Think again. And then there is the sounds of silence. Not the song the kid next door is done and he is on to me. There's  knock on the stall door. The kid says Hey are you okay man. Now any hope is shriveled up and dry. 

My response. Just praying.

Thanks for stopping by. If you like my stories, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to comment and share.

Denny D

 

Baby Boomers

 I am a late blooming baby boomer. That just means I didn't get busy until I almost couldn't get busy. 

What a weird name. Baby boomers. What if they all instead of dying from cancer and heart attacks, they just one day died of natural causes. You know. Exploding. Just random people walking down street. Just exploding. Zombies you can outrun but that overweight bald guy walking beside you. A ticking time bomb. 

Nothing but booming boomers everywhere. No mask is going to save you. Better pack a slicker. The hell with the weather, you got bigger unnatural natural disasters waiting for you.

And walking down the street is no walk in the park either. Hey look! there's my old pal George. You shake George's hand and he explodes. The only thing left of George, is in your hand, his hand.

Texting while driving suddenly doesn't seem like a big deal. Waiting a red light, a bit bigger deal. Especially, if the windows are down. Suddenly, the punk with the boom box is tolerable. That old lady beside you driving with her nose and two hands at ten and two. The ultimate boom box. Well lets hope you see green before an over abundance of red.

And going to the show is no picnic. Now you have a roomful. There you are on a date. The movie is a thriller and so is ever seat in the place. Suddenly, you hear a boom. You think its on the screen and it is. It's on the screen, on the chairs, on the floor, everywhere. Honey, can you pass me the bloody popcorn, is literally, bloody popcorn. Never mind.

Going out for dinner. You can might as well comment with this place blows on yelp. It's your bloody food and the bloody wait staff.  And for once it's not there fault. It's the guy answering the phone. He left out one important question. How many in your party? Is a good question. What time? A good question. How old are you and the people coming with you? Should probably be the first question. I'm sorry sir we are full.  And don't think you can just walk in. Trust me they can see you coming. They don't mind seeing going as long as you are going outside. I'm sorry sir, we are full. You look and see an empty restaurant.  Ya, I see you're full of something, let us sit! The guy barks back I'm sorry sir, we can not seat you for insurances purposes. You yell Insurance purposes? This place blows as you walk out the door and blow up.

Going to see a comedian is an adventure. Dying laughing, which never happens, is now a possibility. After the show your fellow comedian friends are drinking at the bar. The all say the same thing Man I killed out there tonight. Oh yea what's the body count?

I am a baby boomer and suddenly watching my blood pressure don't mean shit. Eating a healthy diet same thing. Spontaneous combustion is nothing compared to this. You can't stop, drop and roll this shit out. I would really like to one day have the courage to do stand up. My biggest fear is not stage fright. It's the one night a I stand out there and really bomb.

Thanks for stopping by. If you like my stories, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to comment and share.

Denny D