Stephen, Jerry and me

Reading ‘Candy’ instead of ‘Candide’

                                        by Robert LaFrance

          What do Bill Clinton (former U.S. president - that guy), Donald Trump (businessman and professional buffoon), the cost of our dollar vs. the American one, and our own Highway 105 have in common?

          I got this story from an acquaintance of a guy who knows the janitor at the Algonquin Hotel in St. Andrews so I know it’s accurate. It seems that a certain Saint John company that specializes in bringing ‘big-name’ (translation: American) speakers to southwestern New Brunswick had been trying for quite a few months to get Clinton and Trump to address a gathering of rich businessmen (called entrepreneurs) but the two movers-shakers were reluctant.

          After many weeks, the company asked Bill Clinton right out: “What’s the reason you are hesitating? We are offering you multi bucks.” Bill, who became famous after encounters with Monica Lewinsky and cigars, replied that it wasn’t enough money because of the exchange rate, and furthermore, he wanted to stop in Bristol and see an old friend, which meant he would have to travel on the notorious Highway 105 for a short distance.

          “I’ve read Bob LaFrance’s scurrilous comments about that road,” Clinton said, “and I don’t have enough spare vertebrae to risk riding on it. And then there’s the difference in our dollars. I would take quite a beating.”

          “Bill, Bill,” said Alfy Levesque of the company. “The Canadian dollar is now worth more than the American one. Don’t you read the papers? And two, I happen to know that your friend in Bristol has now moved to St. Andrews, only two blocks from the hotel where you would be speaking. She is looking forward to seeing you.”

          Well…according to my sources, it took Bill Clinton only seven nanoseconds to tell Alfy he could, possibly, he there by breakfast time the next day, although he might be as late at 9:00 am. Donald Trump, once he heard Bill Clinton would be there and scouting out the territory, as it were, quickly agreed to speak at a banquet. “I have a friend in Bristol,” he said, “and I’d like to see her again.” It was quite a coincidence: turned out she had recently moved to St. Andrews, only two blocks from the hotel where the estimable Mr. Trump would be speaking.

          What is it going to cost to bring these inspirational speakers to St. Andrews? Somewhere in the vicinity of eighty trillion dollars, but I’ve always found that, no matter what kind of doldrums the economy is in, the money will always be found for such things. Food banks, that’s different.

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          A few thoughts as a late April freezing rain ‘event’ is making the road like a Smirnoff bottle:

          I don’t know why it is, but after a winter of looking out at only chickadees and common redpolls at my bird feeder, it seems as if other birds have read an announcement somewhere, maybe on Facebook. “LaFrance’s bird feeder is there for all to peruse and partake.” Yesterday morning when I arose at the crack of noon I looked out on the porch and in the big tree on the lawn to see two Downy woodpeckers, four mourning doves, a whack of purple finches and American Goldfinches, nuthatches, slate coloured juncos, and a partridge. Pity it’s not a pear tree, but a European White Poplar.

          As I cooked my dill pickle omelette, I listened to CBC World Service on my short-wave radio. A big story out of Shantung, China was that several were killed in a shootout at a kitchen utensil factory. The newsreader called it the ‘Gunfight at the WOK Corral”.

          After I snarled at a neighbour’s cat, my sister-in-law said I should go have an operation – or go into therapy - to get rid of my ‘Grinch-ness’. The Grinch was the guy who stole Christmas because his heart was two sizes too small. Can I help it if I hate yappy dogs and cats? My dog Kezman just patrols the porch here in hopes of a dervish’s visit. He likes their flavour and is eager to taste another but he doesn’t yap about it.

          Flug’s nephew Eddie Finch is home for the summer from university, and Fredericton is the better for it. This semi-literate chap is now in his second year of an Arts degree course, an endeavour no one around here can figure out, since he has not the least interest in the arts. His classmate, my own nephew Billiam, said that once during the year the English professor, Dr. Strangelove, asked Eddie why he was reading the pornographic novel ‘Candy’ by Terry Sothern when he was supposed to be reading ‘Candide’ by Voltaire. Eddie said he wasn’t sure, but he sure wished Candy lived next door. Candide, not so much.
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