Travelling man (Sept 18)

NOTES FROM THE SCOTCH COLONY

A bus trip from Montreal

                                    by Robert LaFrance

            After spending all too few glorious days visiting my grand-daughter in Montreal (I believe her parents were there too), I jumped on a bus that, ten hours later, deposited me in front of Squeaky’s in Perth-Andover. I had been missing my grand-daughter for about ten hours.

            Before I told you something about the trip I want to give you a good reason why the rest of us don’t live in cities.

            It was about 7:15 am on that Tuesday when I was sitting in my bus with another five dozen people and we saw, off to our left, something that made us all sigh in relief that we weren’t there.

            Ten lanes of city-bound traffic were stopped solid. We watched and watched and couldn’t see it budge an inch, or even a centimetre. Meanwhile we were zipping along at 100+ km/hr as we headed for, in my case certainly, rural Canada. Ten lanes of traffic back there. I didn’t know there were that many cars in Quebec.

            I will mention more about my trip later on, but first this anecdote: as our bus neared Perth-Andover, I received a text message from my wife, who was to pick me up at Squeaky’s which is the Maritime Bus Lines pickup point. “I might be a few minutes late,” she wrote. “They’re paving Fred Tribe Road and the flagmen and women have us backed up for a long way, maybe 15 vehicles. It’s a gridlock here.” My mind went back to those ten lanes of traffic going into Montreal.

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

            It was a great visit to Montreal, at least for me. My daughter and son-in-law may have wanted me to git after two hours, but I hung on and kept Violet Grace entertained with trips around the streets of Verdun in her stroller. I mean, she was in the stroller and I was pushing it. We often allowed one or more of her parents to come along so they could pay for everything.

            There is a playground near to their apartment that is on 5^th Avenue near LaSalle;  Violet sure loved visiting there and trying out all the equipment. I mean ALL the equipment. Picture this 71-year-old grandfather trying to keep up with the 13-month-old girl who zoomed from the slide to the swing to the see-saw to The Thing. I call it that because neither I nor anyone else had any idea what it was called, but, for some reason, it was Violet’s favourite.

            Then of course there was a whole lot of sand on the ground. At a guess I would say that the city has to bring in a truckload of fine sand once a month because all the many kids who played in were taking it home on their clothes and flesh, some even putting it in their mouths. Not to mention any names.

            Alas, my vacation from retirement was over all too soon, and on September 10^th I set my alarm for 5:30 am and quietly went out to the street at 5:45. The taxi driver pulled up to the door right on time and my journey back to New Brunswick had begun. This guy drove like a taxi driver too, if you know what I mean. I noticed that the city speed limit was 50 km/hr but my driver added a zero to that. We were zooming down Ontario Street (Is a name like that even legal in Quebec?) when I stuck my head out to see that we were going 495 km/hr. I put my head back down and prayed some more, to whatever gods I could think of.

            We went through what seemed like half a dozen tunnels with the taxi driver doing a continuous narration. If I understood correctly, the Lafontaine Tunnel was going to be replaced with a new one within a few years. I said that was nice, could he keep his eyes on the road please? At 495 km/hr one could only imagine how much would be left of old Bob LaFrance if we hit something more determined than we were.

            Once out of the tunnel(s) I could see some famous Montreal landmarks, the Molson Building, Maple Leaf Gardens, construction cranes. I mentioned these to the taxi driver and he said Maple Leaf Gardens is not called that any more, and besides is in Toronto. The Montreal Canadiens play at the Bell Centre, right near the building where my son-in-law works. You learn something every day.

            By the way, the taxi driver didn’t actually say that my son-in-law works near the Bell Centre; I supplied that information. However, he knew everything else.

            I mentioned that the taxi I was in was crossing Verdun and downtown Montreal rather quickly, now here’s a question for you: On the Trans Canada Highway, the part that goes past Perth-Andover, the speed limit is 110 km/hr, but in the quickly-moving city of Montreal and the quickly-moving province of Quebec, the speed limit on the TCH is only 100 km/hr. Go figure.

            I wonder how fast my Montreal taxi driver would drive on the New Brunswick Trans Canada Highway? I can picture him crossing the provincial border above Edmundston: “Yahoo! Now I can open this thing up!”

            In Ste. Foy, where the Quebec City bus station is located, all the lunch counter signs were in French of course. I told the guy I wanted two (I was hungry) boites aux letters. “You just asked for two mailboxes, sir,” he said. “Sure you don’t mean croque-matin?” Apparently I did, because they were delicious.

            Aside from the joy of seeing Violet Grace, those were a few of the high spots of my trip to another country, Quebec. I am home in Kincardine and after I finish writing this column I plan to go split some wood for the winter of 2020-2021 and then have a cold beer, perhaps a Molson or whatever that’s called now.
                                                  -end-

Cooking on the barbie (Sept 4)

NOTES FROM THE SCOTCH COLONY

A love affair from Melbourne to NB

                                    by Robert LaFrance

            Sitting on my front porch two days ago, I was surprised to see my former friend Hartley Cucumber driving his Gremlin up our front driveway. It was the same Gremlin he bought new in 1978, the last year of its production, under the theory that a car that ugly must be mechanically sound. Apparently he was right.

            (I say ‘former friend’ not because we’ve been enemies all these years but because I haven’t seen him since 1981 when I moved from Tilley to Birch Ridge.)

            “And there you are sitting by your barbie the same as you were when I last saw you,” he commented, once he had negotiated his exit from the ancient vehicle. After greetings and his explaining that a ‘barbie’ was a barbecue, we got caught up on old times, of which we didn’t have many.

            One major reason for that was that he had emigrated to Melbourne, Australia in 1978 and within ten years was a millionaire – in those days considered rich – and decided to write back home to New Brunswick and ask the love of his life to join him in Australia.

            Within two weeks that love was travelling the streets of Melbourne and, in spite of its ugliness, was drawing ‘oohs’ and ‘aws’ from pedestrians and other humans. You will have guessed by now that the love of his life was not a woman, but his 1978 Gremlin that had resided in a barn in Tilley all the while Hartley was making his bundle.

            “Esmie is a beauty, ain’t she cobber?” he said to me, and I had no polite choices to use as an answer.

            “It’s a historical marvel,” I said. “Did you get it brought over to Canada on a ship?”

            “Oh no,” he was appalled. “Esmerelda went to Melbourne by ship in 1990, but it took years for her to forgive me for her seasickness. This time I leased a Boeing 747 freight plane and rode with her all the way from Melbun to Halifax. We’ll never be separated again. I tried three or maybe it was four – marriages to actual women but they didn’t work out. Now I’m going to settle down in Canada and just drive Esmerelda around.”

            And there, my friends, is the story of a fanatic. We ‘got caught up’ on what’s been going on in Victoria County, NB, since 1981 and wished each other farewell after a long hiatus. “I just have to stop in Perth at the post office and then head up Tobique for a bit of a rest,” he said as he and Esmerelda were about to back out of the driveway.

            About two hours later my friend the Perfessor came by and the first words out of his mouth were: “Too bad about that Gremlin that got demolished in town. A tractor-trailer driver, coming down Route 105 because the Florenceville bridge was closed, got confused and ran right over the top of that Gremlin while it was parked near Beech Glen Road.”

            I didn’t tell the Perfessor about Hartley and the love of his life but I felt bad about the Gremlin. It was flattened, according to the Perfessor, to about the size of a TimBit.

            But I didn’t reckon with the determination of a fanatical millionaire. Exactly one month later a 1978 Gremlin with a fresh paint job pulled into our driveway. Hartley, beaming like Donald Trump after a successful trip to Mcdonalds and the bathroom, got out and said: “Esmerelda is back!”

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

            After that exhausting story of Esmerelda and her prince, I will now turn the subjects of this column to various pieces about life in Victoria County, NB.

            Back when I was growing up, or trying to grow up, in the 1950s (I was born in 1948) our family would always attend the South Tilley Fair to see the many agricultural exhibits, to play games, meet neighbours and go to the Saturday night dance in the hall that burned a few decades ago.

            As many readers of this column know, about eight years ago I started a Facebook page called ‘Old Photos of Victoria County’ and today it has about 4600 members. There are thousands of photos, but very very few of the South Tilley Fair events. I wish people reading this column would take a look at their old photos and see if they have any they would submit.

            I have had the same problem, only worse, with getting photos and stories about the old Silver Slipper dance hall, now a private residence, that is located in lower Perth. It used to have a large silver slipper (Coincidence? I think not) on the peak of its roof. I think the Hafford family used to own it at one time and one of them still has that slipper somewhere.

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

            Years ago a man named Raymond Sisson of upper Arthurette was known to some as The Burdock Man and for good reason. He would drive around the county and either cut all the burdocks he saw along the road or go see the landowner and ask him or her to get out there with shears or dynamite and get rid of the pesky plants.

            The first time he stopped here I scoffed a bit until I realized he was serious. Then I saw he had a large clump of burdocks in the back of his vehicle. I could tell he hadn’t cut them because their roots are very sweet (which they are) but to help beautify New Brunswick. Raymond, now gone, was going a good thing although most people didn’t realize it.

                                                end

Perth-Andover Rap II (Aug 21)

NOTES FROM THE SCOTCH COLONY

Power outages are fun, aren’t they?

                                    by Robert LaFrance

“Due to unexpected high call volumes, our representatives are serving other customers. Please remain on the line,” said the confident voice after I phoned the 1-800 number.

I asked myself: Who are these ‘other customers’ and how to I get on that list? Maybe then I could have my choice of background music. I could hire my 89-year-old  nephew Jed to do squirrel imitations. The generator next door sounded better. Maybe they’re giving poor musicians a start.

I woke up at ten to eight Sunday morning and felt that something was wrong, and it was. My neighbour’s generator was on. I went out to check on the chickens but remembered I don’t have any.

It took so long (54 minutes more) that I was playing a computer game on my ‘laptop when a ‘representative’ called. I said I didn’t have time to bother with him or her, who was a tired sounding Jennifer – or Shirley, or perhaps Fred. He or she said: “Crew on site’. Power on before 9:30.” I didn’t have the heart to make a fuss. It wasn’t her/his fault anyway.

            My takeaway from all this? Let’s have a fundraising supper at Perth Elks or Burns Hall so NB Power can rent some real music. This guy Mozart and his pal Don Messer would be an improvement.

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

            The big chill is looming

When I say ‘the big chill is looming’ am I talking about winter and the ‘S’ word, or am I talking about the federal election sort of planned for October, or am I talking about Donald Trump?

            Who knows, but since I’ve been throwing stovewood into our shed for the past week, I am going to go with the first one.

            I used to actually like winter, believe it or not, but then the police confiscated my cannibis sativa crop and I immediately wished I could win a lottery and spend the period December 1^st to April 15^th in a warmer climate, like Welland, Ontario.

            My sister lives there in the winters and in Tilley in the summers. No wonder she does prefer Welland in the winter, because they get hardly any snow, the temperature rarely drops below the freezing point and local churches sell homemade peroghys (a kind of potato pancake). Also, two of the local pizzerias are tied for making the best pizzas in Canada. When I lived in Hamilton back in the late Sixties and early Seventies a place called Capri Pizza was on top, but that was then.

            I mentioned Welland’s getting ‘hardly any snow’, that’s true, but about sixty kilometres away is the city of Buffalo, NY, where a 60-cm snowfall is considered a light dusting. During a given snowstorm Buffalo might get 50 cm and Welland might get a trace of snow from the same storm. That situation arises because of what meteorologists call ‘lake effect’ snow from nearby Lake Erie.

            So that’s why this year I decided to emigrate, at least for a while to that great nation to the south – Mexico. You didn’t think I’d consider inhabiting the same country as the disaster known as Donald Trump, did you? On the other hand, he might get up one morning and tweet that he was about to take over Canada for ‘national security’ reasons. Don’t count him out. Trump is too incompetent to be Minister of Garden Vegetables in the Canary Islands.

            As I have said before in this column, our late Prime Minister Pierre Eliot Trudeau compared living next to the USA to a mouse’s being in bed with an elephant (we’re the mouse), but now it’s like a mouse living next door to a horse’s ass.

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

            I was browsing around the Internet and Facebook last week when I came across a video called Perth-Andover Rap II, which turned out to be a follow-up or sequel to, logically enough, Perth-Andover Rap I.

            It was wonderful! Those youngsters, led by Perth-Andover Baptist Church Pastor Michael Fredericks, did a great rap video about the village of Perth-Andover and it was GREAT! I won’t say any more about it right now or I might spoil it for you, but I highly recommend it.

            Sadly, after I watched this video I heard that Pastor Fredericks had been transferred to Truro, Nova Scotia. I don’t know whether this transfer was his idea or the church’s, but this area will certainly miss his creativity and talent. I interviewed him several times on various subjects and always found him bright, articulate and helpful – and patient when he saw I got it wrong in the paper.

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

            I am getting the impression that that blackflies are bad this year, but I also said that in 2018, 2017, 2016, etc.

            “This is the worst summer ever for blackflies,” commented Sid, as he paused in his lawn mowing. I continued walking along Kintore Road and came across Shirley and Ed McMahan, who both commented: “This is the worst summer ever for blackflies.” Farther down the road, or up the road, whichever it was, Ron Gladmiun said: “This is the worst summer ever for blackflies.” The Jackson twins, Diane and David, stopped their 4-wheeler for a minute to say: “This is the worst summer ever for blackflies.”

            The Perfessor agreed with them all. He had just ordered a 45-gallon drum of fly dope.

                                                 end

A very good band (Aug 7)

Bob’s into Heavy Metal now

                                    by Robert LaFrance

            Saturday, July 20, found me in Woodstock, NB (as opposed to Woodstock, New York or Woodstock, Ontario) and doing something I never would have predicted in a million years, or at least 100,000. I was sitting in Woodstock, in a Dooryard Festival venue tent and listening to ‘heavy metal’ music.

            And enjoying it.

            One of the featured groups was a 4-member band called Monteith, and one of the featured musicians in that band was my son Kinley who is officially now ten times the guitar player I ever was. Not a fan of heavy metal music generally, I decided to go to the live show so that my son would realize I supported him in whatever he did. And Wow! I really enjoyed myself. The rest of the band – Dan Monteith, Shaun Monteith, and Chaddus Provost – were great too and made the show into something to be remembered.

            I especially enjoyed a DragonFire cover they did called “Through the Fire and Flames”. The guitar solos were not possible, but they did them.

            I think the band has a great future if that July 20 show is any indication. Very professional and very skilful! Based in Northampton, across the St. John River from Woodstock, they have performed in many places now, including Fredericton, Saint John (where they won a Battle of the Bands this year), FollyFest in Gagetown, Moncton, Listugij, PQ, Tracadie, and other places. Go for it guys!

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

            In other observations from this area: As I write these immortal words, I am getting a bit hungry because my wife Darlene is in Montreal where she is visiting our daughter, son-in-law and a little girl named Violet Grace.

            My wife has been gone two days and I am hungry for some good food. The problem is that she was so eager to see our grand-daughter that she forgot to show me where the electric stove is located so I can’t cook something, and she only left me five dollars and some change in case I want to buy groceries or eat out. Barely enough for a bottle of beer plus tip.

            Before she left though, she did list the more-or-less edible items in the fridge so I wouldn’t starve to death on the kitchen floor. “There are some cooked new potatoes from last Tuesday, some beets, ice cubes, Lady Ashburnam pickles, rye bread you bought in April, and I think there’s some milk.” She sure looks after me.

            To bring a little truth into this story, I should mention that I was cooking 7-ingredient omelettes when she was going into grade one. I was just looking for sympathy.

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

            My friend George staggered into the club last evening, although he has been more likely to stagger out. He was tired after staying with his son while his wife was away. (It must be catching.)

“I just finished watching a cartoon with my son,” he began, after ordering a tall cold beer. “The cartoon was about two mice called Pinky and the Brain. Brain says to Pinky, who for some reason has an English accent: "Pinky, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"

Pinky answers: "I think so Brain, but how are we going to get the Lady Gaga in a helicopter?” That more or less describes how things are around my house. I ask my son  how his day went. "Saturday afternoon I think.” comes the answer. I asked my youngest daughter what she plans to plant in her little garden and does she even want one, and she answers: "Chocolate, but is it tall enough?”

            Is it television, computers, our diets, nuclear testing, or is it just me when I say people rarely LISTEN to one another any more? What? Where was I anyway? What am I doing here? What is this thing with letters and numbers on the little keys?

             I know of a person who paid so little attention to his or her car that she put 35,000 kilometres on one oil change. I know a man who went out to get the mail and forgot his pants. (Not me.)

            It could be that there's so much information out there that every last one of us is suffering from overload. If we could just re-format our hard drives (clear out the old brains) back to a point where we could start learning again it would help our general well-being. Or not.

Talking to a farmer on the weekend, I may have gotten an idea. He was saying that some years he doesn't do anything with certain fields; this has the effect of rejuvenating them. It's called "lying fallow". Maybe that's what we all should do for a spell each year.

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

            A final note: If any of my readers are carpenters I have some advice for them. I am not referring to the old saying ‘measure twice and cut once’ but another warning – don’t build a sawhorse unless you have a sawhorse in the first place to hold the boards and 2x4s you will use to make the sawhorse.            I bought some lumber last week to make a sawhorse but when I got it home I realized I needed a sawhorse to cut up the boards.
                                              end