The humour of NB Power (August 3)

DIARY

Where do I apply to join ‘other customers’?

                        by Robert LaFrance

            On the evening of Saturday, July 23, the power went off at our estate here in Kincardine. It happens, to us and to everyone else, so it wasn’t a big deal. After three or four hours it returned with a flourish.

            What was exceptionally annoying, though, was waiting on the phone for well over an hour and an half, just to report the power outage. Surely there is some mechanism for NB Power to have an automatic response when one phones to report a power ‘interruption’.

            Remember, this is the year 2016, when there are driverless cars that can go from Halifax to Vancouver.

            How hard would it be to have a computer setup that, once the customer punches in the location of the outage, can answer right then: “Okay big guy. We got it. We now know that you have a power interruption at your place. Light your kerosene lamp and read a book. Drink some lemonade.”

            Apparently this is rocket science. Instead, after I had I dialled NB Power and punched in the location of the outage on my smartphone, I waited and waited and waited. And waited – for 93 minutes.

            Even that wouldn’t be totally annoying, but every minute or two a Voice came on to remind me that “due to unexpected high call volumes” all their people were busy with “other customers”. My question was (if I could have found a human to talk to): who are these “other people” and how do I join that happy throng?

            Let’s go back to the phrase “unexpectedly high call volumes”. Because I planned to attend the Highland Games on July 23 in Fredericton, from Wednesday on I had been looking at weather forecasts. Each day I was seeing ‘possible thunder showers’. On Friday morning the weather people (my old crowd) were saying ‘probable widespread thunder showers and possible power outages’.

            So, NB Power, why was the power outage call volume “unexpectedly high”?

            Anyway, long story short(er), all is well and the power is back on. By the way, it was caused by an unexpected lightning strike. They usually don’t announce it before they hit trees and cats. And the bottom line is: Many complaints like mine could be avoided if we could just call in, report the outage to a computer somewhere, and go back to the lemonade and special brownies.

            By the way, the Southern Victoria Pipe Band played well in the Highland Games and I was back home Saturday evening, just in time for that lightning storm. Timing is everything.

                                    *************************

            Other major news in our province:

            The Saint John Transit Commission, according to CBC Radio, has made some scheduling and other changes to “enhance revenue”, according to a company spokesman. Isn’t it interesting how times have changed in the accounting game? In the old days those changes would have been implemented “to make more money”.

            Some things are stranger than fiction. Last week the news story went around the world that the city of Mosul, Iraq, had set a new temperature record. According to the CBC Radio news report, people in that place – as if they didn’t have enough stress – were suffering under an air temperature of 55ºC. People were heading for Baghdad for some relief. It was only 54ºC there. A temperature of 55ºC is the equivalent of 131ºF. Can you picture Achmed and Gimsel meeting on the street? “Quite a scorcher today, huh?” says Achmed. Gimsel doesn’t answer. He’s a little spot of grease on the sidewalk.

            I’m going to have to drive to Moncton this afternoon and visit Flug who is ‘incarcerated’ there. That’s almost like being in jail. On July 7^th he was all set to leave for the Cayman Islands to visit his money and was going through a baggage check at the airport. The highly educated and intelligent security guy was asking what was in a small bag in Flug’s suitcase and he answered “toothbrush, toothpaste, stuff like that, and lip balm.” The security guy heard “lip bomb”. You’d think Flug would be more careful in airports; three years ago he shouted across the airport lounge at his friend John Lallaree: “Hi, Jack!” That joke’s been going around for years; you would think Flug had heard it, but he only had eyes for Yew, his girlfriend at the time.

            There must have been a major TV documentary about bacteria on food, because every house I’ve been in lately has smelled of Lysol and other toxic chemicals which seem to be the rage nowadays. We’re supposed to wash our hands 87 times a day, preferably with carbolic acid, in order to stave off all the dread diseases we come into contact with every day. My friend the Perfessor said the other day: “No wonder people get sick; they don’t come into contact with a germ until they’re in their forties!”
                                                   -end-

The humour of NB Power (August 3)

DIARY

Where do I apply to join ‘other customers’?

                        by Robert LaFrance

            On the evening of Saturday, July 23, the power went off at our estate here in Kincardine. It happens, to us and to everyone else, so it wasn’t a big deal. After three or four hours it returned with a flourish.

            What was exceptionally annoying was that I was waiting on the phone for well over an hour and an half, just to report the power outage. Surely there is some mechanism for NB Power to have an automatic response when one phones to report a power ‘interruption’.

            Remember, this is the year 2016, when there are driverless cars that can go from Halifax to Vancouver.

            How hard would it be to have a computer setup that, once the customer punches in the location of the outage, can answer right then: “Okay big guy. We got it. We now know that you have a power interruption at your place. Light your kerosene lamp and read a book. Drink some lemonade.”

            Apparently this is rocket science. Instead, after I had I dialled NB Power and punched in the location of the outage on my smartphone, I waited and waited and waited. And waited – for 93 minutes.

            Even that wouldn’t be totally annoying, but every minute or two a Voice came on to remind me that “due to unexpected high call volumes” all their people were busy with “other customers”. My question was (if I could have found a human to talk to): who are these “other people” and how do I join that happy throng?

            Let’s go back to the phrase “unexpectedly high call volumes”. Because I planned to attend the Highland Games on July 23 in Fredericton, from Wednesday on I had been looking at weather forecasts. Each day I was seeing ‘possible thunder showers’. On Friday morning the weather people (my old crowd) were saying ‘probable widespread thunder showers and possible power outages’.

            So, NB Power, why was the power outage call volume “unexpectedly high”?

            Anyway, long story short(er), all is well and the power is back on. By the way, it was caused by an unexpected lightning strike. They usually don’t announce it before they hit trees and cats. And the bottom line is: Many complaints like mine could be avoided if we could just call in, report the outage to a computer somewhere, and go back to the lemonade and special brownies.

            By the way, the Southern Victoria Pipe Band played well in the Highland Games and I was back home Saturday evening, just in time for that lightning storm. Timing is everything.

                                    *************************

            Other major news in our province:

            The Saint John Transit Commission, according to CBC Radio, has made some scheduling and other changes to “enhance revenue”, according to a company spokesman. Isn’t it interesting how times have changed in the accounting game? In the old days those changes would have been implemented “to make more money”.

            Some things are stranger than fiction. Last week the news story went around the world that the city of Mosul, Iraq, had set a new temperature record. According to the CBC Radio news report, people in that place – as if they didn’t have enough stress – were suffering under an air temperature of 55ºC. People were heading for Baghdad for some relief. It was only 54ºC there. A temperature of 55ºC is the equivalent of 131ºF. Can you picture Achmed and Gimsel meeting on the street? “Quite a scorcher today, huh?” says Achmed. Gimsel doesn’t answer. He’s a little spot of grease on the sidewalk.

            I’m going to have to drive to Moncton this afternoon and visit Flug who is ‘incarcerated’ there. That’s almost like being in jail. On July 7^th he was all set to leave for the Cayman Islands to visit his money and was going through a baggage check at the airport. The highly educated and intelligent security guy was asking what was in a small bag in Flug’s suitcase and he answered “toothbrush, toothpaste, stuff like that, and lip balm.” The security guy heard “lip bomb”. You’d think Flug would be more careful in airports; three years ago he shouted across the airport lounge at his friend John Lallaree: “Hi, Jack!” That joke’s been going around for years; you would think Flug had heard it, but he only had eyes for Yew, his girlfriend at the time.

            There must have been a major TV documentary about bacteria on food, because every house I’ve been in lately has smelled of Lysol and other toxic chemicals which seem to be the rage nowadays. We’re supposed to wash our hands 87 times a day, preferably with carbolic acid, in order to stave off all the dread diseases we come into contact with every day. My friend the Perfessor said the other day: “No wonder people get sick; they don’t come into contact with a germ until they’re in their forties!”
                                                   -end-

The humour of NB Power (August 3)

DIARY

Where do I apply to join ‘other customers’?

                        by Robert LaFrance

            On the evening of Saturday, July 23, the power went off at our estate here in Kincardine. It happens, to us and to everyone else, so it wasn’t a big deal. After three or four hours it returned with a flourish.

            What was exceptionally annoying was that I was waiting on the phone for well over an hour and an half, just to report the power outage. Surely there is some mechanism for NB Power to have an automatic response when one phones to report a power ‘interruption’.

            Remember, this is the year 2016, when there are driverless cars that can go from Halifax to Vancouver.

            How hard would it be to have a computer setup that, once the customer punches in the location of the outage, can answer right then: “Okay big guy. We got it. We now know that you have a power interruption at your place. Light your kerosene lamp and read a book. Drink some lemonade.”

            Apparently this is rocket science. Instead, after I had I dialled NB Power and punched in the location of the outage on my smartphone, I waited and waited and waited. And waited – for 93 minutes.

            Even that wouldn’t be totally annoying, but every minute or two a Voice came on to remind me that “due to unexpected high call volumes” all their people were busy with “other customers”. My question was (if I could have found a human to talk to): who are these “other people” and how do I join that happy throng?

            Let’s go back to the phrase “unexpectedly high call volumes”. Because I planned to attend the Highland Games on July 23 in Fredericton, from Wednesday on I had been looking at weather forecasts. Each day I was seeing ‘possible thunder showers’. On Friday morning the weather people (my old crowd) were saying ‘probable widespread thunder showers and possible power outages’.

            So, NB Power, why was the power outage call volume “unexpectedly high”?

            Anyway, long story short(er), all is well and the power is back on. By the way, it was caused by an unexpected lightning strike. They usually don’t announce it before they hit trees and cats. And the bottom line is: Many complaints like mine could be avoided if we could just call in, report the outage to a computer somewhere, and go back to the lemonade and special brownies.

            By the way, the Southern Victoria Pipe Band played well in the Highland Games and I was back home Saturday evening, just in time for that lightning storm. Timing is everything.

                                    *************************

            Other major news in our province:

            The Saint John Transit Commission, according to CBC Radio, has made some scheduling and other changes to “enhance revenue”, according to a company spokesman. Isn’t it interesting how times have changed in the accounting game? In the old days those changes would have been implemented “to make more money”.

            Some things are stranger than fiction. Last week the news story went around the world that the city of Mosul, Iraq, had set a new temperature record. According to the CBC Radio news report, people in that place – as if they didn’t have enough stress – were suffering under an air temperature of 55ºC. People were heading for Baghdad for some relief. It was only 54ºC there. A temperature of 55ºC is the equivalent of 131ºF. Can you picture Achmed and Gimsel meeting on the street? “Quite a scorcher today, huh?” says Achmed. Gimsel doesn’t answer. He’s a little spot of grease on the sidewalk.

            I’m going to have to drive to Moncton this afternoon and visit Flug who is ‘incarcerated’ there. That’s almost like being in jail. On July 7^th he was all set to leave for the Cayman Islands to visit his money and was going through a baggage check at the airport. The highly educated and intelligent security guy was asking what was in a small bag in Flug’s suitcase and he answered “toothbrush, toothpaste, stuff like that, and lip balm.” The security guy heard “lip bomb”. You’d think Flug would be more careful in airports; three years ago he shouted across the airport lounge at his friend John Lallaree: “Hi, Jack!” That joke’s been going around for years; you would think Flug had heard it, but he only had eyes for Yew, his girlfriend at the time.

            There must have been a major TV documentary about bacteria on food, because every house I’ve been in lately has smelled of Lysol and other toxic chemicals which seem to be the rage nowadays. We’re supposed to wash our hands 87 times a day, preferably with carbolic acid, in order to stave off all the dread diseases we come into contact with every day. My friend the Perfessor said the other day: “No wonder people get sick; they don’t come into contact with a germ until they’re in their forties!”
                                                   -end-

American birds are invading (July 5)

DIARY

Astronauts are liars

                        by Robert LaFrance

            One young gaffer I know gave me an idea for a name to call those who go to yard sale after yard sale after yard sale – they are ‘yard sailors’. He got the idea from Gregg, a friend of his who used that name to describe a break in billiards or pool. When the balls all go zooming around the table and none goes in, that’s a yard sailor.

            After having recently done some actual research, I have found that all those astronauts who said they went to the moon were lying. In July 1969 Neil Armstrong was allegedly the ‘first man on the moon’ but in actual fact he landed in a field near Riley Brook. Some canoeists on the Tobique River took photos, but didn’t know who it was at the time. A recent look at those photos showed Armstrong stepping down out of the ‘spacecraft’ and greeting Elvis, who wasn’t dead yet.

            I sure miss the old Duffer, that is, Mike Duffy. He (literally) filled the TV screens for a year and helped Canada get rid of The Evil One, but as of late, since he was found ‘not guilty’ (not to be confused with ‘innocent’) in court of 7,812 charges of corruption, theft, using eye makeup etc., the journalists who had been trashing him for months and years were falling all over themselves to lick his rejuvenated boots.

            On the subject of translators, or more properly interpreters, I recently watched a conference held in Spain and was quite amazed that the Spanish language apparently needs 17 words to one English one to say the same thing. A Senor Rodriguez, who plays for the Blue Jays in Hamilton or wherever they’re located, was being interviewed by a CTV reporter who was aided by an interpreter. “How did you feel about the umpire’s call in the sixth inning?” asked the reporter. The interpreter asked the question in Spanish and, I am not kidding, it was at least 75 words, possibly 125.

            It seems as if we’re safe for a while, but it probably will be less than two years before we are subjected to another election, provincial and then federal the next year. Indeed the imminent convention for the NB Tory leadership promises the same thing. Here’s one thing we can count on for every candidate to say: “We promise to lower taxes”. Here’s an idea: All candidates should be obliged to sign a document promising to “leave taxes as they are and don’t raise them but use what we have in the most efficient way possible”.

            Leftenant or Lootenant? How do you pronounce it? How about shed-yule or skedule? I have to admit I don’t know the proper way – if there is one – to pronounce words like that. Tomato? Tomaaa-toe? Some even say tamayta. Anyone who has any inside knowledge about this, please send a postcard to me in New Zealand. I won’t be there, but it’ll give ya something ta do. English is a strange language, but it’s mine.

            I know that nobody cares about this, but sometimes, only sometimes, I miss the penny. Giving it up, as well as the one dollar and two dollar bills, ripped my life apart. That might be a slight exaggeration, but every once in a while I wish I could go to the store and pay the exact amount for my purchases. When my bill is $27.87, I feel like a cheapskate when I only give them $27.85.

            I may have mentioned this before, but our house is quite close – too close for comfort – to the American border. Out the bedroom window I can see Mars Hill Mountain which is of course in Maine. Quite a coincidence because the town of Mars Hill is over there too. Since we moved here in 1984 (I’m still an outsider) I have noticed there are hundreds of the birds called American Goldfinches. The difference now is that they’re all carrying tiny guns.

            As one who regularly watches TV news, I am struck by the recent policy of the producers to have news readers like Peter Mansbridge do their reading while standing. No more sitting at a desk. What’s that all about? What if Peter or Wendy Mesley had corns, or heel spurs, or blisters from a too-long hike in the wilds of Toronto? Inconsiderate I call it.

            About ten years ago I received a Tilley Hat for Christmas and have been quite pleased with it, especially with the feature that says I can get a new one free if it gets worn or gets indigestion or something. That very thing happened last week, and now I want to warn all owners of Tilley Hats that their promise is worthless. I drove all the way up to Tilley, NB, the community where I was born, and could not find the factory that makes those famous hats. 

                                                 -end-                           

American birds are invading (July 5)

DIARY

Astronauts are liars

                        by Robert LaFrance

            One young gaffer I know gave me an idea for a name to call those who go to yard sale after yard sale after yard sale – they are ‘yard sailors’. He got the idea from Gregg, a friend of his who used that name to describe a break in billiards or pool. When the balls all go zooming around the table and none goes in, that’s a yard sailor.

            After having recently done some actual research, I have found that all those astronauts who said they went to the moon were lying. In July 1969 Neil Armstrong was allegedly the ‘first man on the moon’ but in actual fact he landed in a field near Riley Brook. Some canoeists on the Tobique River took photos, but didn’t know who it was at the time. A recent look at those photos showed Armstrong stepping down out of the ‘spacecraft’ and greeting Elvis, who wasn’t dead yet.

            I sure miss the old Duffer, that is, Mike Duffy. He (literally) filled the TV screens for a year and helped Canada get rid of The Evil One, but as of late, since he was found ‘not guilty’ (not to be confused with ‘innocent’) in court of 7,812 charges of corruption, theft, using eye makeup etc., the journalists who had been trashing him for months and years were falling all over themselves to lick his rejuvenated boots.

            On the subject of translators, or more properly interpreters, I recently watched a conference held in Spain and was quite amazed that the Spanish language apparently needs 17 words to one English one to say the same thing. A Senor Rodriguez, who plays for the Blue Jays in Hamilton or wherever they’re located, was being interviewed by a CTV reporter who was aided by an interpreter. “How did you feel about the umpire’s call in the sixth inning?” asked the reporter. The interpreter asked the question in Spanish and, I am not kidding, it was at least 75 words, possibly 125.

            It seems as if we’re safe for a while, but it probably will be less than two years before we are subjected to another election, provincial and then federal the next year. Indeed the imminent convention for the NB Tory leadership promises the same thing. Here’s one thing we can count on for every candidate to say: “We promise to lower taxes”. Here’s an idea: All candidates should be obliged to sign a document promising to “leave taxes as they are and don’t raise them but use what we have in the most efficient way possible”.

            Leftenant or Lootenant? How do you pronounce it? How about shed-yule or skedule? I have to admit I don’t know the proper way – if there is one – to pronounce words like that. Tomato? Tomaaa-toe? Some even say tamayta. Anyone who has any inside knowledge about this, please send a postcard to me in New Zealand. I won’t be there, but it’ll give ya something ta do. English is a strange language, but it’s mine.

            I know that nobody cares about this, but sometimes, only sometimes, I miss the penny. Giving it up, as well as the one dollar and two dollar bills, ripped my life apart. That might be a slight exaggeration, but every once in a while I wish I could go to the store and pay the exact amount for my purchases. When my bill is $27.87, I feel like a cheapskate when I only give them $27.85.

            I may have mentioned this before, but our house is quite close – too close for comfort – to the American border. Out the bedroom window I can see Mars Hill Mountain which is of course in Maine. Quite a coincidence because the town of Mars Hill is over there too. Since we moved here in 1984 (I’m still an outsider) I have noticed there are hundreds of the birds called American Goldfinches. The difference now is that they’re all carrying tiny guns.

            As one who regularly watches TV news, I am struck by the recent policy of the producers to have news readers like Peter Mansbridge do their reading while standing. No more sitting at a desk. What’s that all about? What if Peter or Wendy Mesley had corns, or heel spurs, or blisters from a too-long hike in the wilds of Toronto? Inconsiderate I call it.

            About ten years ago I received a Tilley Hat for Christmas and have been quite pleased with it, especially with the feature that says I can get a new one free if it gets worn or gets indigestion or something. That very thing happened last week, and now I want to warn all owners of Tilley Hats that their promise is worthless. I drove all the way up to Tilley, NB, the community where I was born, and could not find the factory that makes those famous hats. 

                                                 -end-                           

Words meaning 'kill' (June 29)

DIARY

One hundred Norwegian words for ‘reindeer’

                        by Robert LaFrance

            Comedian Derek Edwards, one of my favourites, has a routine during which he dwells on the fact that the Norwegian language has one hundred words for reindeer. He makes it funny, but sometimes language differences cause people to get very annoyed.

            Example: New Brunswick’s Language Commissioner Katherine d’Entremont clearly intends to antagonize every Anglophone in the province with her pronouncements and musings.

            In another part of Canada, the Northwest Territories, there are eleven official languages, most of them First Nation of course, but federal government bureaucrats can only seem to see two. A recent CBC Radio interview with an Inuit lady from (I think) Sachs Harbour where I used to live, brought forth the information that her baby’s birth certificate could only be issued in English or French.

            This is a perfect example of bureaucrats antagonizing people for no reason except to bully. What possible reason could there be for not printing a birth certificate in Inuktitut or Cree or any of the other official languages? Has Katherine d’Entremont been up there in Yellowknife advising the bureaucrats on the best way to annoy people?

                                    **************************

            I learned many years ago that a ‘flibbertigibbet’ was ‘a frivolous, flighty or excessively talkative person’. Do we know anyone like that?

            Half asleep (so what else is new?), I was watching a TV commercial advertising a new pill made by a company that had spent years and millions of dollars devising a pill to cure ‘Languorism’.

            The biggest expense was, of course, advertising it once they had passed all the government tests. That was easy; the pill is made up of very very mild aspirin and filler. In the old days, we called them placebos, from the Latin word meaning ‘I will please’.

            Here’s my point: Languorism doesn’t exist, or it didn’t before the company invented the word that actually means the state of being calm and relaxed. Mustn’t have that, must we? Of course I could be lying about all this.

                                    **************************

            I’m always amazed when I hear the word ‘euthanize’. People use it as if it doesn’t mean the same as ‘kill’. That seems to be a hard one for people to say. I remember back in the 1960s when there were thousands of CIA types running around Vietnam and they didn’t like to use the word either.

            Writer David Halberstam was the first one who made public the information that the CIA, like the Norwegians with their reindeer, had many euphemisms for the word. My favourite, and his, was the phrase “eliminate with extreme prejudice”. When you execute a Viet Cong ‘spy’ such a phrase is much better than kill, don’t you think?

            Not to get tied down to one subject, and I would prefer the CIA didn’t notice me any more than they already have, let’s go on to gardening.

            My peas are blossomed, my bush beans are looking around hopefully, my tomatoes look healthy, and my carrots are almost ready to harvest in a couple of months, so my garden is looking good – except for my beets.

            Year after year I walk hopefully into my garden and plant beets, but all I ever get for my trouble is pain and frustration. Last year I harvested seven beets, each about the size of a golf ball and that gave me hope. This year I planted twice as many and my hopes were high, but like Flug’s third wife Fifi, they have flown the coop. He tracked her down in Minto where she was living with a weightlifter, or as he would call himself, bodybuilder. And here I thought we were born with our bodies already built. By the way, ironically (referring to gardening), his name is Pete Maus.

            As the faithful and long-suffering readers of this column know, I often listen to CBC and MPBN radio stations. There are many thoughtful programs on CBC and on that American PBS station. On CBC last Saturday evening I was listening to a show called ‘Vinyl Tap’ whose announcer, Randy Bachman, relates stories from the history of rock music of which he was a great part. He was in The Guess Who and in Bachman-Turner Overdrive.

            Last Saturday evening I almost fell off my chair when he, referring to a 1980s rocker, said he had been “originally born in Winnipeg”.

            I’ve been thinking about the idea of a ‘gender-neutral’ cabinet and am wondering if that should be a criterion for selecting people who will have power over the rest of us plebes. Of course the main danger would be that, sooner or later, women will be in the majority and then we males will have to fight for equality as I have to in this very household. How I’ve suffered.

                                                 -end-

YOU keep the fracking, thank you (June 22)

DIARY

Behold a new holiday – Pessimists’ Day

                        by Robert LaFrance

            We have all heard the ‘glass half full – glass half empty’ routine, have we not? I am a ‘glass half empty’ type of guy, a pessimist since May 11, 1948, when I said to myself: “They’re going to drop me on the floor, aren’t they?”

            They did, but luckily it was on the softwood living room floor at our house in Tilley where I had been born half an hour earlier. I was only unconscious an hour or so but that explains a few things.

            I am on the subject of pessimism because the day this paper appears is June 22, when the days are beginning their downward slide toward winter. Ever since December 22 the days had been getting longer until yesterday when we reached the Summer solstice and winter beckoned.

            On another subject, people say weird things. By ‘people’ I mean WE. Day before yesterday, I heard a woman say: “We have to put on a new roof this summer.” But did she really mean the words she was saying. I pursued the matter further and asked if she and her long-suffering husband planned to ‘put on a new roof’ or did she really mean ‘shingle the roof’? It turned out that the latter was the case.

            I mentioned that I was and am a pessimist. My late father Fred LaFrance (1914-1999) was an optimist, especially when he was looking for a place to park. I swear he would have driven into a Toronto parking lot at high noon and would have expected to find a parking place forty feet from the main door. Sometimes he had to search, but he usually did find one of the elusive parking places. I remember once in the late 1960s he was driving our Volkswaggen Deluxe and couldn’t find a place in one big parking lot, but drove around until he did – 27 minutes. It is considered the modern record for PLS (parking lot searches).

            A recent headline in my daily paper caught my eye. It seems the NB government was considering a different way of having ‘fracking’ companies do their business. They think that fracking in certain areas may be acceptable, but only certain areas. Hmmm…let me see. Can we envision which areas the government will choose? There will be certain guidelines. (1) No fracking where rich people live, and (2) no fracking where influential government members live. I guess that covers it. Excuse me, I have to go down and run some pails of water before my well is contaminated.

            Those curly fluorescent light bulbs – it’s great that they won’t burn out until they have been used at least 20,000 hours. I had two of them burn out last week, and probably five or six in the past year. So I put in an LED bulb in the kitchen and noticed it wasn’t supposed to be used inside a light fixture. Anybody know why? They don’t give off heat. I can’t help thinking we’re being scammed. I don’t like curly fries either.

            Walking through my orchard with a pile of sunchokes I had just dug, I happened upon a very impressive black bear who evidently had decided he (or she, but I’ll say he) was going to rip off my face. He kept advancing and I started backing away, but after a while he was getting too close so I started throwing sunchokes (Jerusalem artichokes) at him. He would stop and chew away for a few seconds while I got closer to my house with each sunchoke. Finally I was on my porch step and close to the kitchen door. Just then my wife came out with her hardwood rolling pin and Mister Bruin took off for the woods. Possibly a true story.

            Four days ago, in a fit of nostalgia, I drove up to Tilley and the house where I was born to give myself a refresher course on what it was like when I was growing up, if I ever did. I walked out to the edge of the woods where I had built a cabin in 1976 after some years in the NWT. The cabin was long gone, but the nearby dump – used in the days before the public dump arrived in Lake Edward – held all sorts of nostalgic treasures. Part of a 1949 Monarch car was there; I remembered driving that down to Lila Goodine’s store, and there were beer bottles of the day (how did THOSE get there?) scattered around. I was quite optimistic back then, wasn’t I? I didn’t even return the empties.

                                                         -end-