The Unstable Stable Hand

The Unstable Stable Hand

 In nineteen eighty-nine I got married for the first time. My then wife had a dream. She wanted to buy dog kennel. She was a groomer, so this sounded like a good idea. I supported her like a good husband should. I had one role and one role only. Clean shit. 

 Doggy do do

 My job at the kennel was cleaning dog shit. Every morning, I woke to shit. Dog shit and in-law shit. I was glad to have my part-time sales job. It got me out of shit. If only for a little while. They needed me to get a full-time job. So, I looked for a new job. I needed to get out of shit with mother mafia or at least not see her as much. What persuaded to work, or should I say, who persuaded me to work at a greenhouse/petting zoo? Yup, my ex-mother in-law.  Why I applied to be a farmhand, I will never know. Apparently, for the comedy of errors that would soon follow and this opportunity to now write about it. 

 Do this. Don't do that

 The name of family-owned enterprise I will not divulge. I didn't matter, I had a new job.  This meant I had new hope. The hope was that by the time I got back home the wicked witch of the west would be gone. Wrong. She practically lived at our house. But that's another story. Back to the job. 

Power struggles

 I was clearly a rose between two thorns. The thorns being the father who owned the business and son who was my boss. I experienced the power struggle firsthand daily. I would receive my instruction from the son, and I'd start to work. The father would walk by a pull me away to do another job. The son would give me shit and remind me that I worked for him. So off I went again. Surprise. "What are you doing? You haven't finished the job I gave you" barked Pops. This was a constant battle. Hey! It was full-time. And I got in shit, full time. Oh, speaking of shit.

 Watch the too late

 One of my jobs was cleaning goat pens, the emu pen and the horse stall. All conveniently located under one roof. I wasn't very good at backing up the wagon with the tractor and smashing the door frame was just something I did. One day I finally cleared both sides of the frame. I was feeling pretty proud of myself. Then I heard the high-pitched sound of Naaaaaaaa. I ran over a goat. I quickly pulled forward to free the animal’s leg. Nothing broken I was relieved.

 Getting shit together

 I had a simple system.  Clean shit, pile shit, cart shit away. Sounds simple enough. It would have been if the animals didn't get in my way. Enter the curious habits of goats. These wall climbing creatures found a way to climb a peanut dispensing machine (now use for feed) and deep throat it until their tongue got stuck or something fell out. I get it, they didn't have thumbs or a bag of quarters.  And just for a bonus. One would find a way to hop off the top of the wagon into the stall I was almost done cleaning.  Obviously for a couple reasons. One, to bite my ankle and two, number two. The emu could hear the commotion decided to look in. "Hey! I got poop too" He did have a height advantage. I could see the fowl creature through the chicken wired window. I was caught in a stare down at eye level. I didn't know it but he was plotting his next move. 

 Ruffled feathers

 Our fine feathered friend the emu might have been feathered but he was no friend. I remember that emu surprising a small girl once. The girl must have been wearing feathery parka because Mr. emu though she was a Miss Emu. He got down on his knees and tried to, well I rather not say. I had to chase him away. Emu's must be like elephants because he didn't forget. One day I was cleaning his pen. Like most days just for fun he'd walk by and peck me in the back of my head as a pay back for not letting have his way with the parka. I want to state here my getting even was never premeditated. I cleaned his pen, and he ran in and as he ran in, I slammed the door. The emu seeing the kind if food that was offered, wasn't happy with it, turned around to exit just as the door slapped him in the neck. That was the day the emu got a turkey neck because he spent the rest of that day shacking it. I remember pointing at him and saying, "serves you right" There where still many jobs to do. One was making apple cider. Making apple cider sounds like fun and it can be. Not the way I remember it.

 Stampede!

 Getting rid of the leftover apple cider pulp was a fun time. The buffalo or beefalo whatever they called them, could smell the cider making process and couldn't wait for that wheel barrel full of smashed apple goodness to arrive. As soon as I opened the gate the stampede started. I ran as fast as I could to unload and get out of the way. While a cloud of dust and hoofs ran towards me. Escaping the stampede, I would head back to the gate, that’s when the ram seeing that the hoof cloud missed, took it upon himself to get even on their behalf.  The ram saw my ass and thought "hey look a bullseye" and head butted my butt right into the fence. I was getting pretty good at the drop, dodge and go maneuver but I still had to deal with that ram. One day I just had enough. I offered up my bullseye butt and let the ram charge. Turns out my lateral ability was faster than that stupid ram. He ran headfirst right into a pole. "Take that" I said. I closed the gate and left the ram with his headache and sounds of a man (pointing at him) yelling, na na na na na na. Luckily, some jobs I didn't have to and I was thankful.

 Big birds and little birds

 The one area I didn't have to clean was the bird cages and the squirrel monkey cage. I'd have to wear headphones.  There is nothing like the ear-piercing sounds of a macaw continuously saying "pretty bird" and the sound of a squirrel monkey screaming "oo oo aw aw" as he whacks off. True story. It happened. I was there and it pains me to admit it but this horny little guy didn't care if people walked by and saw him.  He would just smile his little smile, grab his little bird and go to town. What made him do it? I blame the macaw. 

 The green pond

 The next adventure had me knee deep in algae. The fishpond had a constant greenish goo hue. My job was to get the goo gone. Getting the goo out meant getting the fish out. Buckets of fish is not a fast-food selection.  It's just buckets of fish. And boy did I have buckets. To clean algae one must scrub every algae sticking surface. Oh, and taking a catfish off when its barb is stuck in your boot, is a good idea too. Fun times. The last straw was coming, and my time was almost up. Sooner or later, someone hears a thud. The sound of shit hitting the fan.

 The cactus garden from hell 

 How do you clean a cactus garden? Slowly with tweezers. It was a known fact that if this family wanted you out, you were sent to the cactus garden. There I was on my knees, rubber gloves and tweezer in hand looking at huge weed choked cactus garden. There was only one thing left to do.

 

I quit.

 

My days on the farm are behind me now but the lessons live on. Life is a funny thing. Remember to laugh and remember the laughs. 

 

 

A barn story

This is short story about a father, a son and a moment in time. My father had harness horses and I was a farmhand by default. I learned at very young age that if I wanted to see my dad, I had to go with him to the barn. He worked at Fords; his real job. Horses for lack of a better word was his side hustle. It was his dream. After work he'd came home to have supper, load up truck with bunch of us kids, sometimes the neighbors kids too. The best part of hard work was seeing his horses race. I was always glad to a tag along. My favorite memories is hanging around the clubhouse and paddock with my dad.

I enjoyed our many trips to Windsor, Dresden and even Leamington raceway. I think I enjoyed Leamington the most; they had the best French fries. It was fun to watch the horses round the track. Especially, if one of the horses was my dad's. I think I enjoyed watching my dad painstakingly scribble his selections on the race form, while I randomly pick the winning horse the most. It was just a two dollars, little side bet. He'd look at me, scratch his head and go up to bet, to come back down, watch the race and scratch his head again. I was just a kid, not old enough to bet but apparently old enough to win. Of course, my reward was paid out in skinny fried potatoes and orange Crush pop. Eventually, the fun was over and it was soon time to return to my barn chores; cleaning horse poop.

I cleaned the stalls for one reason and for one reason only: fishing. My uncle had a pond that was feed by a nearby stream. The variety of fish were few. The few meaning two: Carp or catfish. Still, fish are fish and fishing beat working anytime. But most my time was squandered cleaning what seemed to be a clean stall, all over again. I waited for the words "go ahead" but the words "you call that clean!" were all too often heard. The funny thing is, I heard those same words uttered by my mother, looking at the pig sty, I called my bedroom. 

My youngest brother didn't help too much and keep bugging me to give him a wheel barrel ride. I don't know why, the wheel barrel was full of manuer. 

My dad, always close by, could be seen shoeing or preparing a horse to train. Shooting the shit with his brother and or other various horsemen who happened to pop by. 

The barn air was filled with the scent of poop, pee and sometimes the exhauled vapors of cheap whiskey. 

Every bare ankle and shin was slathered with Asorbene Jr and wrapped with bandages. The horses that is.

A little side bar. I don't ever remember being congested at the barn. In fact, if they could make a concoction of Asorbine Jr and horse shit and put in a bottle, I think they could have given Buckley's a run for the money. I can almost see the tagline "Junior's horse poop rub, it smells like shit and it works" Now back to the barn.

One of my favorite memories is sitting on my dad's lap holding the reins attached to standard bred horse. This was even better than fishing. I was a small kid learning the ropes. All I could see was hobbles, boots and a big horses ass. The horse that is. My dad held  the whip in one hand and me with other. He never used the whip. The threat of use was enough to get the dust cloud brewing. My father would make a cheeky sound and that was all he needed to do. Around we went father, son and a horse named TrueDough. Not the prime minster, that's horse of another color. 

TrueDough apparently was a mudder. I'm not sure if his mother was one too. You just knew I had to say that. One rainy muddy day at Leamington raceway TrueDough made some real dough; he won. I was there to see it. What a great day. I got my picture taken along side my dad infont of one sweaty muddy horse. We all were winners that day. 

I think my dad secretly wished I never grow up. He wanted me to be driver or a jockey like my uncle. Luckily for me science help me out. That's another story. I will call this story part one of two. My second trip to the barn is about a different barn and a different time. All I can say is, I'm no farmhand.

Little prankster

I got a chemistry set for Christmas one year. The best experiment I learned was making smelling salts.

The victim; my brother. While he was asleep, I slithered by his bed, concoction in hand and waited for just the right moment to unleash the stink. I had to contain my laughter while I waved it under his nose. Luckily, he fell asleep just as fast as he woke up so I continued to torment him. It didn't take long until the chemistry set was spent of its supplies, so I searched for alternative prankster opportunities. Enter Cavalcade of Comedy.

 

It was called the Cavalcade of Comedy. The perfect place for a little prankster kid to find a little ploy toy or two. Walking in there was everything from clown noses, to magic, to plastic model car kits and my favorite, prank goodies.

 

My father was a great man. A hard-working man. But everyone does it. Sometimes it just happens. Air must go somewhere. My Dad always said as the air escaped his boxers "you have to get rid of the poison" My father being proud of his French heritage would finish his fart with an accentuer. In plain English, the accentuated sound of a balloon losing air.

 

We kids, the boys only, would challenge him to a farting duel. My sisters would not partake in our silly games, so I had to resort to making them laugh to force them to compete. I don't want to brag but I have made my sister's fart and yes, wet themselves on occasion. It is still great fun to watch them run to the bathroom sputtering and trickling at the same time. Back to the airs of youth.

 

I recall many nights in a small trailer somewhere in Northern Ontario. Our rumbling would cause mosquitos to find the screen holes the came through and flea for their lives. A better bug repellant has never been made. The sounds of whistling could be heard from the not okay corral. Five paces away my nephew would start. He would raise up his cheek and really leaned into it. I was a good effort. I decided a two cheek pull up would be much better. I tried to out fart him. Suddenly even my dad sheets knew what was about to happen. They lifted just before the accentuer. No extra effort needed. It sounded like he was undoing twenty-foot-long zipper. There was no match. 

 

One day, just before he sat at the helm of the dinning room table, I planted a little air bag under a fluffy cushion. I was glad my mother had a flair to accessorize. He sat down and the accentuer was on him, or rather under him. It was my dad's first experience with the whoopee cushion. It wouldn't be his last. 

 

I figured fool me once, maybe I should try it again. I placed a little surprise for the next person to enter the bathroom. It could have been anyone, but it was Dad. I could hear a lot of mumbling but all I could make out was a barrage of what da.  Frig being his go to cuss word, might have followed the What da's. On the floor next to the toilet was puke. Why would anyone leave puke on the floor? Rude. He opened the door to look for the culprit. He found nobody. I was hiding around the corner. This is the kind of man my father was, he bent down with a wad of toilet paper to clean the mess up. It wasn't his mess, but he was going to take care of it. He found out that you can't soak up rubber. Rubber slides. He smiled and said one word. "Dennis" I got him again.

 

I felt bad that I was picking on my dad, so I decided to get my mother too. My Mother bought a dog. She bought it against my dad’s wishes. Picking up dog shit and watching the dog continuously scratch was against his wishes too. Training a dog is no easy task. Sometimes they leave behind a little surprise or two. One little surprise was planted on a step that went upstairs to the second floor. Mom your dog shit again I said. Pick it up she said. Not my dog I said. Why was I being so mean to my mother? It was the only way to set the prank up. The look I got when she climbed the stairs was kind of like the look I got when she picked up the rubber do do. Oh, the simple joys of youth. It's sad to think that that store is gone but luckily for my family the laughs continue. I wonder if they still make whoopee cushions.

The Corner Store

I will never forget the corner stores of my youth. Starlight, was my favorite. Honorable mentions would include: Bulat's, Fred's and Stop 'N' Shop. Every store had what I wanted. I wanted candy. Koho's, mojo's, sponge toffee, pixie sticks, licorice pipes, cigars, babies, jaw breakers, black balls and chocolate bars. There are too many to mention, so I'll shout out my fav's. 

Chocolate bars.

Sweet Marie was my favorite chocolate bar or candy bar, if you're American. I don't see her anymore. She must have divorced Oh Henry, took Baby Ruth and move to America. That marriage was off the shelf. Literally. Another chocolate bar I liked was EAT-MORE. My friends thought I was nuts.  But it was good. That mixture of nuts, chocolate and molasses was delightful. Okay, truth be told, I ate them for one reason; to fold up the wrapper, so it read "Eat Me" Kids will be kids.

The color of candy.

Back when I was kid the color of the candy never offended candy or people. Today things are a little different. Heck, I'm afraid to call soda, pop. Wouldn't want offend my American friends. 

A licorice was a beautiful, yummy and colorful thing. There was black, red and even green licorice. They stop making black babies. I get it, they didn't want to offend black people or babies. Same thing happened to black cat gum. Apparently offending felines is a thing too. I don't know when eating candy made you a racist. Racist are racist don't blame the candy man or the Candy-man. 

There are various shapes and sizes of licorice and various possible racial offences. For instance, Big red licorice lips. I don't know, could they be deemed Botox offensive? How about green thumb licorice. Gardener offensive? What about red foot licorice. Is that making fun of grandpa Pete's gout? I liked licorice pipes and cigars when I was a kid. I never heard anyone say "You should be ashamed of yourself. Here, eat some toasted coconut to level the playing field."

The art of smoking.

I grew up watching Popeye and yes I pretended to smoke those cigarette sticks. Why? No parental supervision and it was candy. Little sticks on miniature chalk with a red dot on the end to mimic the heater. Unlike my mom I didn't smoke a pack a day.  I could only afford the habit once in a while. Still, I wanted to be cool. How you held a Popeye cigarette stick was very important. Not holding it properly would raise some red flags.  If you smoked it macho like your dad, holding it with your thumb and index finger, you were cool. No questions asked. Hip. But if you smoked it like your mother, palm up with it dangling between your middle finger and index finger, not so hip. Thankfully, I watched my dad smoke and learned quickly how to be cool. My dad was supper cool.  I was cool too. Thinking back, if I was given a choice between Popeye cigarettes or a can of spinach, I think you know which one I'd pick. In hindsight, the spinach wouldn't have hurt my teeth as much. I have to confess that I still have a sweet tooth and because I have a sweet tooth, I also have a sweet dentist.  The price I have paid is not so sweet and barely nothing to smile about and I have barely a smile left to smile about. Some of my teeth are my own, others, well lets just say, you could call me the Candy-king. I have enough crowns to prove it. 

Hey! What's in the bag? 

Starlight had the best surprise penny candy bags. We couldn't wait to bust open those little white bags of goodness. We never knew what we were going to get. Like a box of chocolate, only better. The corner store had everything a kid needed. We even learned how to Yo-Yo at the corner store. Every summer travelling salesmen would come from around the world, just to show us how to walk the dog. My dog needed to go to disobedience school. He wouldn't walk. He just kind of spun around until my finger turned red. Being good at the Yo-Yo always had strings attached. I eventual untied them. The times we spent sitting on a curb in front of that store, opening hockey cards packs, drinking RC Cola and eating Pink Elephant popcorn will be forever etched in my mind.  

I'm sure I have more things to add but this is the list for now. Stay tuned.

I hope this brings up some memories from your youth.  Maybe you'll remember things I have forgotten. I would love to hear about your favorite corner store. Until next time, I'll leave you with a final thought.

Candy like life can be sweet, savor it and don't forget to brush your teeth

Denny D

Murder-ball

Murder-ball was a game we played in the alley between Buckingham Dr and Westminster Blvd. The object of game was obvious. Don't get murdered. Escaping death under a pile of kids with the ball cuddled in your arms, was the only way to win.

We used whatever ball we could find, usually a football. We'd hurled the ball up in the air and as it came down, like jump ball in basketball, we would leap to retrieve it but instead of batting it away to a teammate, we caught it. Our reward for catching the ball; premeditated murder. Someone was going to die, we planned it and we were all in. 

It was a silly game and upon refection, one question comes to mind. Why? Maybe our roughhousing was just a well needed muddy group hug. I have to admit that I was okay to participate in the pile on but to catch the ball and be at the bottom of the mud bath, no thanks. I wouldn't try to catch the ball. Are you kidding me, they'd have send out a search party to find me in the mud. I jumped on top and I hoped they wouldn't see what I was up to but they did. No football needed. Mud bath. This was an obvious infraction but the only flag on the field was a white one and it was dangling from my hand. Having no replay cameras, or refs, play continued. 

After playing for a while half-time was declared. Usually due to an injury or hunger. Luckily, the alley provided ample culinary choices. Just beyond the fence was a treasure trove of edible delights. 

The kids across the street had a nectarine tree and a plum tree. Across the alley from them, a huge cherry tree. And down the alley growing through fence, green beans. Now, instead of murder, it was unarmed robbery. Just a misdemeanor. We would fill our tee shirts up like a dirty cotton grocery bag, sit with our backs against the fence and pig out. Most people didn't care that we helped ourselves. Except the little old Italian green bean lady. I'm sure she is the one who helped those kids build their weapons of hockey destruction, aka, homemade hockey sticks. It occurred to me that maybe murder-ball was her way to get back at us kids. She was too old to play but her grandkids could. Maybe, she invented the game back in Italy and taught them the rules. Could she have secretly been the head coach, hiding behind grape leaves, calling plays from the back porch swing.

After filling our bellies it was game on again. We played for hours. Hockey, football, baseball and murder ball. All games interrupted by the same sound. A whistle. The same guy whistling. My Dad. We would have thanked God for the time we had together but instead of Amen it was "Awe Man" We would say our goodbyes and go to our houses, beat up and dirty. My mother would take one look at my dirty clothes and say the same words. "Awe man" Being found guilty by a jury on my peers (my parents) I was banished to my cell. A convicted murderer. It was comforting to know that I wasn't alone. 

This was just one of many fun games we played. We kids had ball or did we leave it in the alley again.

Greasy Spoon Memories

In the early seventies McDonald's came to town. Burgers were twenty five cents and cheese burgers were thirty five cents. Mom would pick up a bag every once in a while for us kids and of course for our elastic band grandma. Meme' loved those burgers. That tangy zip of mustard, ketchup and pickles was just the ticket and so tasty. There was only one place better. 

We lived four houses down from the best greasy spoon in Windsor. The Hi Ho restaurant had it all. French fries, burgers, foot long hot dogs, curb service, hot babes, hot rods and strange little men disguised as short order cooks. It was our neighborhood hangout. 

It was the place where if you were grumpy, you'd get a burger named after you but you had to eat it while six other hungry dwarfs stared at you. Sneezy, didn't have anything named after him for obvious reasons.  Our favorite Hi Ho food was their famous foot long hotdog. A toasted ten inch long flat sided bun opened wide enough to slather on mustard, relish and onions. A happy receptacle to a foot long casing of mystery meat goodness. It was the size of a car minus the curb. The parking space for the foot long was a long cardboard box with no top and one end missing. They would place the hot dog boat into a long white bag and twist the end to seal the meal or the deal.  I believe Hi Ho invented the term, doggy bag. In fact, hot dogs to go, always came in a doggy bag. Okay, it was a bunch of bagged up dogs in a big brown paper bag. It was supper we didn't care about particulars or about any of my future attempts at being cheesy. However, cheese was an option but we didn't believe in killing the dog twice. I mean to slice it down the middle to shove a piece of cheese down the center. Just wrong. 

On occasion I would follow my sister's inside. I remember sitting on the pedestal seat spinning left then right. I became fixture. Like I was the eight dwarf. I could have been; I was that small. Just call me, Thirsty. My sister's would drink cherry Coke. It was a girl thing. Me, being the macho kid I was trying to be, asked for other options. The waitress was so kind to me as she went through the options. We agreed that Rum and Coke was more my style. She'd pour me a frosty glass of cola soda pop with a shot of rum extract on top. Surely, this was a real man drink. It was a fun joke too. To see some old drunk with his head on the counter trying recover from a bender at Charlie's the night before to see some small kid walk in sit down beside him and order a rum and Coke. I have to admit that that concoction and the need for attention had me scrambling for money. I needed my fix.  I needed more money. Where was I going to get it. I couldn't tell my mom and dad about my addiction. I had it bad. I was desperate. I'm sure by now you're saying, sure Dennis. Okay, a little embellishment or a  flair for the dramatic doesn't hurt anyone. Especially, if it gets a laugh or a little smile. Back to the cash.

I had an allowance when I was a kid. I was allowed to eat, sleep and live under my parents roof. To get rewarded for that would be wrong. I wasn't about to do chores for money. No, I was an entrepreneur. I found other ways to make money. I had to be sneaky because my sisters often beat to it but I remember collecting empty pop bottles and cashing them in at Starlight variety store. I'd have just enough cash to grab a pack of hockey cards, a bag of penny candy and I still have some left over to run across the street to the Hi Ho to get my fix. I had an caffeine/attention addiction.  I just had see that nice waitress and get me some soda pop love.  It was just Rum and Coke and I needed it or maybe I just needed a friend. I was lucky, I got both.

It seemed as I grew up so did the Hi Ho. Soon it was a thriving restaurant. Table, chairs and booths, oh my. I went from the snack bar to the booth. I got a well deserved upgrade. I was big kid now. I was small cool. I had friends. We had our own booth. We always sat at the first booth to the left. The hours consisted of opening up hockey cards and small talk. The best part of the booth was the jukebox. If I couldn't afford to pay the price for a song, I could flip the song pages for fun while I waited for my soda and fries. Sometimes out of sure boredom we played three penny football or throw paper clips up to see if they'd stick to the drop ceiling. I want to clarify here that the ketchup stains on the ceiling was not of our doing. The gum under the table, well, we did have hockey cards. When the fries came the gum had to go somewhere. 

Oh, those fries. Those long skinny sticks of lard were so good. I never needed ChapStick when I was a kid. I was too young to get any action but I'm pretty sure if had to kiss someone my lips would have been silky smooth. French fries and ketchup there's nothing better. I would occasionally watch people at other tables drown them in Vinegar. Yuck. Or make French fry stew with all the gravy they poured on top. Double yuck. We were simple kids. We ate simple fries and of course I had to have my favorite chaser drink. Oh, to hear that waitress shout out, Hey! kid the usual? made me feel like I was little big shot. Like Frank Sinatra at a steakhouse in Palm Springs. Me and my boys spent many hours in that joint. We even got to hang out with the big kids, Ho hopping. Hi Ho hopping that is. We'd climb in some hot rod and head down Tecumseh Rd to Ouellette, down to the riverside Dr, then west to Sandwich Town.  I for some reason had to sit on the back seat hump but I was happy, I could see better that way. 

Once in a while when elastic band grandma came by my mother would send me to get dinner. Yeah! Hot dogs for everyone. Anything was better than my mom's liver and onions, that smell still makes me gag. The Hi Ho on our corner has changed names a few times. We kind of rolled with the changes and continued to support whatever it's called restaurant. I don't know when it went from hot dogs to halibut but the food was always good. Some of our most favorites family memories happened there. The names have changed but the memories live on. We would meet there every year to celebrate my mothers and grandmothers birthdays and we had our family Christmas parties there too. Now,  it's was just a landmark etched in my memory but I will never forget how lucky we were. 

Here's to the diners of yesteryear. To the food and the memories we shared. 

Thank you.