Go ahead, accuse me of lying
By Robert LaFrance
I was gobsmacked last evening when it started raining and continued raining all night. Then I cursed: After a drought, I had nothing else to complain about and would have to actually have to come up with a non-weather subject for this column.
Ah, well. Into each life a little rain must fall.
I considered turning to U.S. politics, but that would be like shooting big fish in small barrels. Donald Trump’s latest crimes, Jerry Falwell Jr. and family’s sexual escapades, more cases of Republicans trying to shut down the post office so many people can’t vote on November 3rd…it goes on.
Zucchini…Who can possibly not be interested in zucchini? I was at the Irving one day last week and joined what seemed like a vital discussion of that particular squash. Several of my friends, acquaintances, and guys I didn’t like at all were standing near the guard rails and talking about zucchini. Eventually they got so excited that they sat down on a nearby park-type bench.
George was saying that he had never had such a crop of zucchini and Gary was saying he hadn’t either, except that Gary’s was his worst ever, probably because he had fertilized that bed with bone meal, much beloved by various rodents, like squirrels and chipmunks. After his fourth replant he abandoned that particular bed, like a disgruntled husband, and planted all squash in his compost pile. He quoted from E. B. White: “The bright and fraudulent pictures in a seed catalogue”.
Excited yet? Me either, or me neither, depending on your use of English.
It went on from there and became a heated discussion only when Artram said that anybody who didn’t know that bone meal, made from the ground-up parts of animals, wouldn’t attract vermin must be missing a screw or at least have a loose one or two. Gary nearly stood up to argue but decided against it, probably because Artram had retired in 2017 as the Saskatchewan Rough Riders’ best and toughest defensive lineman in history.
I backed off from that exciting discussion and went in search of another subject for this column.
So I went up to Mary’s Bake Shop and Luncheonette for a bowl of her blistering hot chili. Whenever I have sinus problems I have some of that and breathe freely for days afterward, even if people in the same room as I don’t.
Most of the available tables were full of social distancing folks who were not talking about zucchinis. Occasionally I could hear the name Trump coming from a group of people who were apparently not talking about the American dictator wannabe, but about a certain game of cards that had taken place the previous weekend. I never did find out if they were talking about the game 45s, Texas Hold-em (can’t seem to get away from the good old U.S.A.), euchre, or Hearts, but by that time my mouth was afire from the chili. I was hoping it would spread to my ears but no such luck.
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Over at Mister B’s eating establishment, the subject was roads. I thought “oh, no, not a brawl about the state of our roads!” but it wasn’t a brawl at all. All four people at the table were agreeing with each other. I sat quietly (as I always do) at a nearby table, ordered (requested, I mean) an Alpine while I pretended not to listen, although my ears were expanded to their full extension.
Their discussion – should I say venom? – was directed toward a foreigner (Moncton travelling gent) who had unwisely said that rural areas shouldn’t be snowploughed in the winter (the best time for ploughing) because it cost too much. Only the cities like, coincidentally, Moncton, should have its streets cleared of the white stuff because nothing goes on out in the sticks anyway.
I wondered how this chap had escaped with his life and quietly asked that question of one of those four chaps. He looked at me quizzically for a few seconds, than pointed out the big picture window at the back of Mister B’s, right next to the pool cue stand.
There, twisting slowly in the breeze and hanging from a hemp (for extra strength) rope, was the former Moncton resident, one who had clearly been talking when he should have been listening. Pinned to the front of his shirt was a piece of Bristol board and on it were the words: “I guess I was wrong”.
Speaking of Stompin’ Tom Connors, and I know we weren’t, but I just wanted to echo some words of that great Canadian nationalist who thought Canada was the place to live and grow, and not that place that spawned Donald Trump, an entity who never met Stompin’ Tom: “The greatest land on earth, the land of meat and mirth, and I can’t think of another word that rhymes with mirth…”
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My father, Fred LaFrance, died a couple of decades ago after, as they say, “a period of failing health”, which makes sense even if the period is a minute or a month. He had lived at home in Tilley almost all his adult life. When he was eighty or so, he started going blind. After that he began proving that, far from being harmful to the human body, some kinds of mold – or mould if you prefer – are great.
One day I visited him on Churchland Road and, after I looked in the fridge, noticed that his bread, cheese and doughnuts were covered with blue mold. I asked how often he got somebody to check his food supply. “Herb was in here yesterday,” he said, and before I could say anything, he grabbed some Danish blue cheese (which was really cheddar) and took a big bite. He lived for years after that, which should teach us all a lesson. Note: Don’t try this at home. I could be lying.
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