Happy anniversary, honiest of bunches (Sept 25)

Hiram Kinney offers his ‘deepest sympathy’ 

                                                            by Robert LaFrance 

            I think one of my favourite stories of all time was the one about the late Hiram N. Kinney of Tilley at the wedding of Murray and Minnie. Murray, my late cousin and friend, told me this story a couple of times and I think I’ve related it once or twice in this column.

            A few decades ago, the handsome Murray Paris and his beautiful blushing bride Minnie Elliott were wed in a church ceremony attended by many who included Hiram Kinney. He had had a very late night and was still quite inebriated when it came time to file past the bride and groom.

            Not quite remembering what ceremony he had just witnessed (he’d been to a funeral a few days before), Hiram went up to the happy couple and said: “You have my deepest sympathy.” Murray always got a great kick out of telling that tale, as do I.

            Why am I relating that story once again you ask yourself? Because today, September 25, I suffer my 31^st wedding anniversary, and I do mean suffer. If the reader had any idea how much I get picked on and victimized, I would be awash in sympathy. Hint: She just bought another rolling pin. The store clerk was amazed. “You must cook a lot,” he said to her. “That’s five rolling pins I’ve sold you in the past few years. You should try our new stainless steel ones.”

            “No!” I said. “No steel rolling pin. The one made of oak is painful enough.” She switched from spruce to oak in 2009. Although she looked longingly at the stainless steel one, it was $30, so she bought another oak rolling pin,

I just can’t talk about this any more; it’s hurts too much.

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Let’s go on to a less painful subject, food. At least it’s not USUALLY painful, except that time I ate an entire turkey at Uncle Ira’s celebration of getting a job. He had gone 27 years on EI through some bureaucratic mix-up and couldn’t see why he should go out and work when the government would pay him, but they finally found him.

But that’s another story. When I talk about food (I am told) I get this bright and shining light in my eyes; if you look at my waistline you will see that I speak the truth. Uncle Ira has the same problem to the point that his wife, my Aunt Iris, referred to his ‘waste-line’. Iris and Ira – now there’s a couple of names.

There are all these jokes about us poor overeaters, anonymous or otherwise. Weight Watchers, sellers of treadmills, owners of fitness gyms – they all lie in wait for people like me whose entire diet is see-food. I don’t even like chocolate cake, but if you held one out in front of me, within grabbing distance, I would devour the whole thing. You know that commercial that was on many years ago, for Alka-Selzer perhaps? The one in which the guy says: “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing”? That was I.

I’m getting closer to the point. To some people, coffee itself has become a luxury food instead of a bitter drink with which we wash down our doughnuts and dulse. I was quite shocked recently when I sat down at a lunch counter in Fredericton and asked for a coffee and was presented with a list two feet long of the choices available. The CHEAPEST was $6.50 for a cup.

Here we are finally arriving at the point. What I am about to tell you is true, only the name has been omitted because I can’t remember it. The most expensive coffee in the world costs about $200 a cup, and I am not exaggerating. It comes from Brazil, or Belize, or Chile, one of those countries, and the coffee beans get their flavour from being passed through the intestines of some small animal. Could be a gerbil, could be a marmot. Now let’s ask ourselves: what other reason would anybody have for drinking a coffee whose beans were picked out of marmot poop than to brag that it cost $200 a cup?

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Still vaguely on the subject of food, I do so wish people would speak more clearly. I find that as I get old(er) people tend to mumble more. Just this morning I spent half an hour in the grocery store, looking for garlic that had been made in the city, only to get home and find that certain spouses of mine had not said ‘urban garlic’ but ‘herb ‘n’ garlic’ and she was referring to chip dip.

Happy anniversary dear.

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Throw away that apostrophe! (Sept. 18)

Notes from all over the place 

                                                            by Robert LaFrance 

            Even as we speak or listen, there is an epidemic of apostrophes going on in Canada. No doubt the same sort of thing is happening in the U.S. of A. but that doesn’t concern me, and I’m Syria. I mean serious. What I refer to is the indiscriminate use of the apostrophe. Many people, when they see a word ending in the letter ‘s’, feel they have to duct-tape an apostrophe on the left side of that letter.

            A few weeks ago I was in Fredericton and driving in the parking lot at the Smythe Street Canadian Tire Store. There, near the top of the store’s façade, was a 6-foot by 8-foot sign proclaiming: “Rust-proofing at it’s best”. Those of us who care about such things would tend to throw up in the parking lot at such a sight. Of course I and all you readers know that the apostrophe was not needed. I would have thought that Canadian Tire would have asked the opinions of several persons before putting up that big sign, but – scary thought – maybe they did.

            A certain restaurant in our area proclaims “Pie’s” for sale.

            I’m quite upset these days about not being allowed to go outside and walk or run until I fall over in a pile. It’s true. A recent visit to the doctor and subsequent tests have shown that I am allergic to vitamin D and we all know that is one of the ingredients of sunshine. Hence, no more going outside during the day. I spend my evenings drinking lemonade at the Club and lamenting the fact that I’m not allowed to jog any more. In fact, I remember the doctor’s exact words: “Bob, I think the best thing you can do is sit in a comfortable chair and watch television while sipping away on some sort of liquid - lemonade for example.”  Quite a disappointment for me, but what can one do?

            When the kids were going to school, we went through a lot of Bristol board. It seemed that every day one of them had a project that required the use of Bristol board. My question is this: since the name change a few years ago, should I now call it Florenceville-Bristol board?

            My friend Flug’s wife Griselda (nicknamed ‘Grizzly’ by her detractors, of whom there are many) was pondering the purchase of a dog. As a resident of the Scotch Colony, I suggested the cheapest possible option – going to a dog pound, excuse me animal shelter, and getting a mongrel of some kind. But no, Grizzly wouldn’t think of doing that; a dog is, after all, a piece of jewellery to be bragged about, especially the price. She decided on a terrier, some sort of yapping, flapping, crapping piece of useless fur that cost $927.32. “Think of all the lemonade that would buy!” said Flug.

            Now Griselda and several of her friends get together every week to talk about their terriers. Yahoo. Of course they take their dogs with them to the meeting, to the endless displeasure of whoever happens to be the neighbour that day. Last Saturday the neighbour was The Perfessor, who called the forest rangers and said the dogs, enclosed in a corral surrounded by an 8-foot fence, had been chasing deer. He told the rangers that the dogs were “canine garbage” and their owners we “terrier-ists”.

            Just about every household today has at least one computer; we have four. How are you enjoying them so far? Isn’t it wonderful how Microsoft feels the need every six months or so to change their operating system, evidently because the current one has only recently gotten all the bugs ironed out and is working properly?

Can’t have that. I started out in 1994 with Windows 3.1 and it actually worked; Windows 95 was a piece of garbage; Windows 98 was supposed to fix that, but took about three years to work. Windows 98SE worked very well, and then along came Windows XP, the best one so far. Windows 2000, Window Vista – both garbage. Windows 7 – quite good. Too good, because they replaced that with their latest piece of garbage called Windows 8. People say ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, but Microsoft sees a good-working system as a challenge to ruin it.

            I would say the exercising fad involving treadmills has now resulted in market saturation. Everybody and his dog and cat has one. We tried to GIVE ours away on Facebook and nobody would even drive down here and pick it up. Yup. Market saturation all right. Want it?

Quebec province’s proposed Charter of Values was revealed a few days ago. If you ever saw a document more squarely aimed at the province’s non-Caucasian citizens, let me know. Its entire purpose is of course to get those who aren’t Quebec Francophones all upset and mount legal challenges, so that the minority PQ government can bring out the ‘humiliation card’ once again and get a majority, then annoy Canadians for another five or ten years with talk of separation. Translation: send more money.

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A new puppy for young Bob

A fond memory of nine-eleven 

                                                            by Robert LaFrance 

            This column is appearing (if it were only that easy) on September 11^th, that fateful date on which we in North America finally realized what terrorism was and is.

            For me the date holds a different significance, and that is this: on this date in 1956 my dog Rover appeared on the scene. He was to remain a faithful friend for eight years. He wasn’t my first dog; Spot was the first. She came from a junkyard just north of Bath. Dad and I were coming back from Florenceville and he thought he’d stop and see an old friend who promptly persuaded Dad to take home the dog Spot. He didn’t mention that she was about to have pups and neither Dad nor I had the wit to realize it.

            Soon Spot had her litter of five pups out in the barn. Soon afterward I knew that both my parents were planning something I wasn’t going to like. Was it connected to the dogs or something else? Would I be shipped off to Minto to play in an all-girl cabaret band, and then forced to come home just as puberty struck? Would I have to pile those five cords of wood down by the garage? Would I have to eat spinach?

            It was none of those. I kept watching and listening, and just as soon as I went upstairs to bed one night, I could hear them whispering: “…before he gets up tomorrow morning…” Were they going to kill me and deposit my quickly bleaching bones in the manure pile, or under the garden soil?

            I thought about trying to stay up all night, but that would have been just the opposite of what I should be doing. The idea was to get up early and fool them. Before they killed me, I would slip out and hide in the tamarack bog, then head for the Maine border. I had relatives in Woodland, near New Sweden. Aunt Ella wouldn’t let them murder me or send me into slavery to Rhodesia.

            Somehow I woke up shortly before 7:00 am and quickly grabbed the bag of clothes I had packed the night before – along with some of Mum’s molasses cookies – and headed for my hiding place. It was just coming daylight.

            Before long, the kitchen light came on and I could see them both moving around. I expected Dad to grab his axe and head upstairs where I was supposed to be sleeping, but instead he grabbed a burlap bag and they both headed for the barn. Instantly I knew what they were going to do – drown Spot’s puppies. A few minutes later, they came out of the barn, Dad carrying the burlap bag which was moving and making thin and pitiful whining sounds. They put the bag in a tubful of rainwater after taking a rock from a pile behind the shed and putting it in the bag. Then he tied off the bag and put it the water. They waited around half a minute or so, then went inside.

            As soon as the door closed, I dashed over to the barrel, grabbed the bag, and turned it upside down on the nearby grass. The little bodies came tumbling out, along with the rock. There wasn’t a twitch among all of them. The evil executioners had done their duty well. But hark! There was a twitch. One brown puppy moved his foot, then another foot, and then his tail. He was wagging his tail!

            I put the rock and the other puppies back in the sack and into the water, then grabbed Rover – I had already named him – and took him back to Spot. They had tied her to the pigpen, but I let her go and she was very happy to see Rover. She didn’t ask about Rover’s siblings.

            A short time later I sneaked in the house and then pretended to be coming downstairs where Mum would soon be cooking pancakes, although how her conscience would allow that after her recent crimes I did not know. I went outside and stayed there a few minutes, then came inside and announced that somehow Spot had gotten herself tied up and apparently the puppies had all been eaten by the pigs. My guilty parents looked at each other in relief at the fact that I wasn’t more upset. That should have tipped them off. Since it was my job to feed the dogs and look after the pigs (“soigné les cochons”, Grampy said), I knew they wouldn’t discover Rover for a while.

The pancakes were good.

Bottom line: About a month later, Spot was killed by a car, and I produced Rover, saying someone had dropped him off along the road. A few tears and a bit of whining and I had myself a dog. The moral of this story is: I ain’t no slouch when it comes to being devious, underhanded, and crafty. Telemarketers, keep that in mind. This is a true story, except the part about my parents being evil. If they had had to feed six dogs, I would have been dining on dandelion roots. Even then some people were pill poppers; we were just paupers.         

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A disgusting sandwich - Sept. 4/13 column

A new name for a new truck

 

                                                            by Robert LaFrance

 

            My friend Flug, who is adept at coining new words, came up with another one yesterday afternoon. When I arrived there (not even panting) from my twice-daily 15-km run, he was about to ‘chow down’ on a huge sausage type bun. A can of what was obviously ice-cold lemonade sat at his elbow in case of emergency.

            “Whatcha got there, Flug?” I said, because I wanted to know what he had there.

            “It’s a bunana,” he said, and showed me the rather disgusting innards of that sandwich. “A banana in a bun. I was thinking this morning that a sandwich made from bananas would be just the thing. I was thinking of putting some ketchup on it too, and maybe some feta cheese.”

            Supressing my gag reflex, I said: “Gotta keep jogging.” It is all right to coin new words (called neologisms) and it is all right to come up with new recipes for dishes that include sandwiches, but really.

I called the police.

   
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            Speaking of new words – and when am I not? – this morning I was reading an autobiography of Max Ferguson, who hosted a humorous radio show for decades, and I came across this rather interesting new word as well as a new phrase. I am sure that neither had previously been heard on the strait-laced CBC.

            Max often played a character named Rawhide, who had been known to make fun of the Queen, the prime minister of the day (Lester Pearson, John Diefenbaker, Pierre Trudeau et al), but on this day Rawhide was trying to be serious. Reading the script, he was listing all the people who had worked on the show.

            He ended: “…and thank you to our national radio network, The Canadian Broadcorping Castration!”

            I’m sure that all over Canada jaws were dropping and making big noises as they hit the floors, whether the floors be hardwood, concrete, or carpet.

            Max Ferguson, whom I remember listening to when I was in my twenties, did wonderful impressions. He and his radio pal Allan McPhee could imitate just about anyone. One day he was using the voice of a cabinet minister (can’t remember which one) who had gotten into trouble for consorting with a hooker, and we ain’t talking about fishing here.

            That cabinet minister called up CBC to complain that Ferguson had gotten it all wrong. He hadn’t met the young lady in a hotel room, it was in the park, behind some azaleas. Max apologized the next day. He promised to do better research in the future, but he did it in the voice of Queen Elizabeth.

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            Still on the subject of new words, I feel that some words we use every week need to be replaced by something that makes sense. I think we all use – at least occasionally – the word ‘half-ton’ or ‘pickup’ when referring to trucks that are smaller than tractor-trailers, but let’s look at that.

            I used to own a half-ton, a 1974 GMC that I bought from Jim Dixon who gave me an official 30-30 warranty (30 minutes or 30 miles) on it. That was a real half-ton, so called because it would hold a half ton of gravel, wood, etc. Now look around at the trucks that guys (almost always guys) drive today. Holy moly!

            Some of those trucks are only slightly less heavy duty than the tractor-trailers we see zooming down the TCM – and quite often through Perth, God help the unlucky pedestrian who steps out in front of one of those! The somewhat smaller trucks I’m talking about are sure not half-tons, and that’s what I am talking about. Who has an idea on a new name for these behemoths?

            Someone suggested Baby Macks, referring to the Mack Trucks going up and down the highway and carrying freight to who knows where, but I imagine the Mack Truck people would frown at that. I don’t like 300-pound executives frowning at me. So I guess we’ll have to keep looking for a new, more appropriate name. Wait! Flug, who has been sipping on lemonade while watching roller derby on my TV, is gesturing that he wants to weigh in on this matter.

            “Bob, why can’t we just continue to call them half-tons? You remember the reason they were named that originally was because they would hold half a ton of stuff. Well, guess what? Those huge trucks they have today won’t even hold that much because the box is so short. Besides, the ‘guys’ won’t haul anything because it might scratch the paint. Or we could call them ‘quarter-tons’.”

            “Or hundredweights,” I suggested, as we opened another cold lemonade. One has to be neighbourly.

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