DIARY
Totally
irrelevant unconnected thoughts
by
Robert LaFrance
When I am out pruning apple trees,
resting in my hammock or piling wood until I put my hand on a snake, I often
think of subjects to write about in this column. Trouble is, these short
thoughts don’t have any connection with each other so I can’t write an entire
column on any of them. Hence what follows:
It is said that everyone should have
a ‘bucket list’ of items they want to experience before they cross over to the
next world. One of mine is making sourdough bread. It seems like such an easy
thing to do, but after nearly seven decades on this planet I have never done
it. My friend Flug has done it, during the time he was a Parliament Hill
barber, and it is said that Donald Trump has even made it. I suppose that would
be a great reason not to make it, but I am fearless.
Speaking of Donald Trump…no, never
mind.
I have been watching the European
Soccer Championships, the Euros, and am amazed at one thing that is not
directly associated with soccer down on the field. Occasionally the camera
operators will zoom in on someone (usually a gorgeous woman, but as a married
man I don’t notice that) and of course that person’s face will appear on the
huge screens at the stadium. Invariably that person will wave at the screen
instead of at the camera. I’m not sure what that says about soccer fans, but
there you go.
On the subject of tattoos, I am
amazed at the number of people who have opted for them. Athletes of course are
among the most enthusiastic of these people. David Beckham, now retired from
professional football (soccer), seems to be covered with them from his ears to
his chest and possibly other places I don’t want to know about. I suppose my
question would be, as it is by most people who look at tattoos, is: what
happens when you decide you don’t want your tattoos any more. Not one to
describe a problem and not suggest a solution, here is mine: get your tattoo
artist to completely cover your tattoos with flesh-coloured tattoos, whatever
your flesh colour may be. However, I would guess that most tattoo artists may
be hard to find, but the French Riviera is a good place to start.
Rolling pin time. Feeling energetic
one afternoon last week, I grabbed the old weed-eater and started trimming
around some apple trees, then moved over to trim the long grass near the house.
Then, like the proverbial moth to the proverbial flame, I started weed-eating
(sounds unappetizing, does it not?) around my wife’s dahlias. Of course I cut
one of those off first thing…When I regained consciousness and with a rolling
pin depression in my skull, the world was a different colour, almost luminous
with flashing lights. Just think, back in the Sixties and later, people used to
take LSD and get a similar result. It was much cheaper this way.
We drink quite a bit of skim milk
here and have found that it is quite hard to get the covers off the 2-litre
plastic jugs. I could do it all right, but I’m sure that someone with little
hand strength would have had a tough time dealing with that particular problem.
Then, a few weeks ago, the milk company made a change in the design of the
covers. They are now much easier to take off. However, they are now almost
impossible to put back on. More and more I’m finding that the world is run by
incompetents who don’t leave their offices, labs or ivory towers long enough to
see ‘how the other half lives’.
Talking to a professional
genealogist last week, I was once more impressed at how complicated the whole
thing is. If they get one name wrong in a family tree, that can result in a
whole series of mistakes and have one be the descendant of Jack the Ripper
instead of Jack Kennedy. I did my own family history in the late 1980s and
found it quite fascinating that my line of LaFrances (same line as the Grand
Falls LaFrances) originally had the surname Pinel. About 1650 a carpenter named
Gilles Pinel came from Aunis, France, to Quebec City with his wife Anne Ledet.
Then over the next hundred years, the family name went from Pinel to Pinel dit
LaFrance to LaFrance and here I am. Blame them, not me.
By the way, Gilles lived to be
almost 70, but in 1655 his father Nicolas left the scene at age fifty when he
was blasted in a battle with First Nations people. The weapon used was an
arqubus, or an ancient musket. We LaFrances do tend to take the wrong road.
-end-
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