Robo-Calls, Schmobo Calls - I get them too

I am a Robo-Call victim, sort of

                                                            by Robert LaFrance

Let’s get an important item out of the way first. I want to say hello to the tough folks at Victoria Glen Manor nursing home in Perth-Andover, NB – I mean the ones who read and listen to my column every week. You have to admit they have to be tough to endure that after working hard all their lives. If one man or woman says: “I was a farmer for thirty years” and another says “I’ve been reading Bob’s column for five years”, which one would be tougher?

All right, you don’t have to say it out loud.

On to the first of this week’s subjects: why, it’s the Victoria Glen Manor. Within a few weeks, and maybe even sooner, Bert Gagnon and some of the other residents will be putting their vegetable seeds, tomato and other plants into planters so they will be ready for Bob LaFrance to visit in the late summer and steal a tomato and maybe a cucumber or two if I can get them to look the other way for a few seconds. (I’m from Tilley, so I’m tricky).

Last fall when I wrote the story in the paper about Bert’s plants, I was tempted to grab one of those delicious looking Beefsteak tomatoes, but he and others were watching very closely; this year will be different. I will escape with a big tomato and if I can slip a nice cucumber in my camera bag I’ll do it. I’m that type of guy.

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On to the political arena (lots of slippery ice there), I feel that I now have to make a comment about those so-called Robo-Calls made during the last federal election campaign. I am one of the many victims.

Well, okay, maybe not technically. I didn’t get any calls during the actual campaign almost a year ago now, but I’ve gotten calls since. The reason I mention these now is that I have found out why these calls occur right at supper time. (One acquaintance of mine calls it ‘dinner time’, but how can you have dinner in the evening? It’s at noon.)

About eight months ago I stopped to peruse what was on special at a yard sale in Aroostook. I thought the guy looked a little shifty, but that adjective has often been used about me, so I stopped anyway. He had these plates for sale, really good looking plates for a nickel each, with forks having a distinctive pattern. He said they must always be used together.

You’ve already figured it out, haven’t you? I don’t mind telling you, it took me a while. Whenever we use those plates and forks, we get a Robo-Call. “You are one of the lucky winners of a South Seas Cruise…” and you hear the sound of a ship’s whistle. At least I think it’s a ship’s whistle, although it does resemble chili night at the club. ‘The Sounds of Silence’ it ain’t.

At other times it’s “Megan, from Cardholder Services” and she’s calling to tell me that I might be in danger of having my identity stolen. Those who know me are pretty much persuaded that anyone who wants to purloin my identity would be certifiable, so I usually tell Megan where to catch the bus to Halifax – not mentioning that the public bus system in the Maritimes is not shifting to many bums around these days. I hope Megan doesn’t go to a bus stop and wait, unless she has a good supply of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and dill pickles.

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This column is going well, isn’t it? My next subject is my recent defeat of insomnia. Lately I have been sleeping better and it does make a difference in how one's day goes. Murphy's Law doesn't seem to affect one as much when he is rested and not stumbling around like an African Wolfhound in a taxi. The reason for my recent serenity is what I found in a wall when I was stripping off sheetrock (or Gyproc) from a house down the road. The owner wanted to put barn boards – of all things – on his living room walls.

In a daily newspaper from the middle 1990s was a story originating from the United Nations in New York and from Sweden – a steam bath I think. It was an announcement by 182 countries who had met to discuss human rights and such things, although about 155 of those countries wouldn't know a human right from Hiram Kinney’s left.

The pledge endorsed by all 182 countries was this: they would “wipe out global poverty and injustice by the year 2000". There was no mention of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. You do have to admit, though, that when you drive down the Trans Canada Highway you don’t see a speck of global poverty.                

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Yup, we're still spoiled

The secret behind justice and understanding

                         by Robert LaFrance

            A few months ago I wrote a column about how spoiled we all are these days; the flood that struck this area March 23-25 served only to underline that theory - again. I’m not right very often; let me have this one, willya?

            It was only one day before the flood struck Perth-Andover that I complained about not having enough socks. Today I am thinking of that old story: “I complained because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” I hope we can all get together and help the flood victims get their lives back together.

            Before the flood, I was looking over some of my columns from years gone by. In early April 1995 the subject of flooding was part of my column. “The river ice has gone out, leaving Perth-Andover residents angry because it's been such a DULL spring…This year they stayed in their houses, didn't get any appearances on the national news, and just generally cursed the fates who refused them all that attention…It's been a mild winter, followed by this rather milquetoast spring…No flood, no flat tire for a week at least, and my eardrums have now recovered from last week’s rock concert. By gar, I think it's spring!”

            It sure goes to show you how even I – usually brilliant, or is that my cousin Sam? - can sure say some dumb things. Like a lot of other people, I thought Perth-Andover was relatively safe from flooding, but this one came along so quickly that it was a shock to every human and computer model ever built. I went uptown on Thursday morning because a lady called me and said that there was a report on the scanner that water was across the road above Perth. Friday morning it was over the road below Perth and Friday afternoon it was over Perth and parts of Andover.

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            Since people, especially flood victims, have heard enough about the flood for a while and just want to get on with life, I’ll move on to another subject – Babe Ruth. What could be more logical?

            One of those 1995 columns (which I sat and read with the aid of a jar of lemonade) was talking about Babe Ruth’s being somewhat of an economic power back in the 1920s and 1930s. When he endorsed a shaving cream, its sales tripled, but it turns out he was a mere flea compared to the likes of Sydney Crosby today, Wayne Gretzky or Michael Jordan back in the 1990s. Where the Babe's using Gillette might make that company's stock go up ten or fifteen percent over time, that only amounted to a few million dollars, which, as we know is only a couple of our own paycheques. A million here and a million there soon adds up to money, but still.

            In the 1990s Jordan had taken one basketball season off and had tried his hand at professional baseball, in the minor-minor leagues. When he tired of that, just the RUMOUR that he was coming back to play basketball had a bit of an impact - you might say - on Wall Street. He did commercials for Quaker Oats, McDonalds, General Foods, Nike, and Sara Lee. The total increase in value of those five stocks - and the increase is attributed to the rumour alone - was $2.3 BILLION.

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            An old friend visited the other day. And yes, I do have friends even if we don’t like each other. Len, from Esterhazy, Sask., stopped by while I was splitting wood, something I usually leave for my wife to do because I have a sore elbow. After we said our hellos, Len watched me split wood for a while.

            "It’s using a howitzer to shoot a raccoon," he told me, demonstrating his still-sharp metaphorical skill. He was referring to my using a maul to split drywood. “It reminds me of the time we lived out on the tundra (Qu’appelle Valley, hardly the tundra) with those army cadets who were supposed to be helping us build a barracks for “C” Company. Remember that? One or two of the cadets went into town and got drunk, then spit on the sidewalk or something, so the army disbanded the whole squad of cadets and sent them home.

            "Those bad apples should have been weeded out because they went bananas,” Len said. “Every outfit has some lemons."

            I asked him if he wanted to add any more fruit to that basket and was afraid for a moment he was going to mention spoiled pomegranates and crushed grapes. He went on: "Those government ministers like Peter MacKay, their free plane rides and all their other scandals – nothing happened, and THEY embarrassed a whole nation. Brian Mulroney went on to honoured retirement, sort of, and it wasn't Richard Hatfield's marijuana, right? There's only justice and understanding if you have money."

            Now there's a revelation.

                                

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"Simplify, simplify, simplify" - Thoreau

Making the simple life even simpler

                        by Robert LaFrance

            One of the greatest influences in my life has been the writing of Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) whose most famous book, Walden, is almost (I said almost) like a bible when I want some advice. After all, I grew up in the Sixties and now I’m in my sixties; it’s time to listen once again to his advice.

One his greatest pieces of advice was: “Simplify, simplify.”

            In 1845 he decided to do just that and last week I did the same thing. He moved from the town of Concord, Massachusetts to a cabin in the woods near a lake called Walden Pond and stayed there for over two years. A similar thing happened to me in 1980 when I left the city of Tilley, NB, moved to the smaller urban centre of Birth Ridge, NB, and then, four years later, moved to the rural community of Kincardine, which is part of the Scotch Colony. Then last week I simplified again.

            NOTE: Nobody told me when I moved here that the word ‘Scotch’ referred to an ethnic group rather than a kind of lemonade, but I’ve made do. At the lemonade store I simply (hear that Thoreau?) tell them I’m from Tilley.

            What happened last week was that I got rid of my TV remote control. “Simplify, simplify” came the voice of Thoreau as I flung (flang?) that remote control into the garbage bag. Before long I felt I was getting closer to ‘back to the land’ as I got up out of my chair—several times—and walked over to the television where I manfully and manually (digitally, you might say) changed the channel. I could feel the healthy blood coursing through my veins. It felt good.

            Then my friend Flug came over to watch the game. Manchester United was playing Chelsea FC on one Sportsnet channel and Manchester City was going to play Tottenham on another. “Got the chips and lemonade all set to go?” he asked, as he settled into his favourite chair which, luckily wasn’t mine or we would have had words.

            It was soon evident that when I had thrown away the remote control I hadn’t thought the whole thing through. Thoreau wouldn’t have made that mistake in 1845 as he sat in his one-room cabin near Walden Pond. I don’t know where he would have had his fridge sitting in relation to the TV, but I am thinking he would have been more efficient than I was. By halfway through the first half Flug and I were more exhausted than the football (soccer) players we watched. First it was walking all the way out to the kitchen for lemonade several times (I think it was 29), for chips, and then, to make matters worse, walking all the way over to the TV every ten minutes to check on the other game.

            My 2012 experiment in simplification was abject, wretched and dismal. What would Thoreau have done?

            “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,” he wrote way back them, “to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” It seemed that I had more to learn about living ‘deliberately’, and not accidentally, which I had been doing.

            Move the fridge into the living room next to the TV? Dig the remote control out of the garbage can where I had flung (flang, etc.) it? Or turn over an entirely new leaf, appropriate enough in springtime, and get rid of TV, fridge, and even my beloved iPod Touch and its ability to listen to live radio from Saskatoon at two o’clock in the morning? Maybe even go outside and take some exercise?

Whoa! One thing at a time.

            “Simplify, simplify,” wrote Thoreau. “Instead of three meals a day, if it be necessary eat just one. Instead of a hundred dishes, five, and reduce all other things in proportion.” That one meal a day business is the spot where Henry David and I part company, but otherwise his advice to simplify seems like a winner. Our newest car has a gauge to show us when the inflation in one of the four tires is low, but it doesn’t say which one. My son’s car shows exactly which tire is down on air, so I was thinking we could trade. That is, until I heard a distinct rumbling from the direction of Concord, Massachusetts.

            “Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life?” he asked. “We are determined to be starved before we are hungry. Men say that a stitch in time saves nine, and so they take a thousand stitches today to save nine tomorrow.” I couldn’t have put it better myself. By the way, I see that my wife has thrown out the garbage and my remote control. Thoreau would smirk. On the other hand, perhaps existentialists aren't allowed to smirk.
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The case of the quivering garden tool

My tiller quivers in anticipation
 

                        by Robert LaFrance

            As my late father used to say around this time of year: “That sun’s got some power to it now.” I’ve just been out enjoying the sunny weather – NOT!

            I have a cold that would make Hiram Kinney cringe and can’t enjoy anything but hot toddies followed by more hot toddies. Not two days ago I was saying that I hadn’t had a cold all winter. I never learn. Even at the age of 63.8 years, I still can’t help but gloat, and every time I do, I get whacked by the Invisible Fist of Lead.

            It could be worse. I could be sentenced to spend the spring in Syria, which just keeps on slaughtering its citizens, I could be forced to listen to “Achy Breaky Heart” for ten hours straight, or I could be reduced to selling used cars in Qatar. Imagine that – where the average citizen lights his or her cigar with $100 bills, and there I am trying to get rid of a 1991 Cavalier station wagon with a paint job done by a brush. I’ll keep my cold if those are my options.

            Spring is here; it arrived yesterday at 2:14 am Atlantic Time. Of course I am writing this column well in advance of that day, but that doesn’t stop the sun from having ‘some power’. I picked up a Vesey’s seed catalogue this morning and looked out at my tiller as it sits, lonely as a cloud, in my garden. It is up on planks and covered by lots of canvas, but did I fancy that it sort of quivered with anticipation?

            This time of year is quite a shock to a sports reporter, which evidently is what I am, not to be confused with a sporting reporter. Most of the local sports teams are done for the season and I find myself covering dart tournaments and the younger hockey teams. The surprising thing is – and I find this out every spring – those kids’ games are at least as entertaining as the more mature (?) contests. Novice and Atom – they try their hearts out, they don’t fight, and on every team are a couple of kids who you know are going to be great players in high school and beyond.

            And the parents! Wow! I covered some hockey games on March 10 and there must have been well over one hundred fifty people in the stands and watching their young gaffers out there. When there are tournaments, parents make snacks for the ‘hospitality room’ so that the other teams and their parents can have a sandwich or an orange between periods of the game. Local businesses donate and donate to minor sports; remember that when you go over to Maine to shop instead of staying in New Brunswick. I doubt if Presque Isle businesses spend a lot of money helping out our young athletes.

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            Here are a few other observations that I jotted down in my notebook as they occurred to me. (Notebook made and sold in Canada.)

            A couple of months ago we couldn’t turn on a radio or television without hearing about the starvation in Somalia. Six months before that it was Eritrea, and before that it was parts of Haiti and Niger. Does my cynical soul see a pattern here? Do I see that fundraising companies – who might send a quarter of what they raise to these poor countries – are on the move? Surely we all know that the people in these countries are starving all the time and need help all the time, not just when the Fund for African Relief decides to make a moving TV ad? Those who want to donate should look a lot more carefully than they do at who actually gets the money. Snake oil salesmen are just as prevalent today as in the 19^th century. We have to find a way for the PEOPLE to get the donations.

            It’s been a few years now since Canada Post, in its wisdom, got rid of many thousands of rural mailboxes (including ours) and replaced them with those group boxes whose locks do tend to freeze up at times. The move was part of governments’ unremitting assault on rural Canada, so it had to come; there was no use fighting it. When I moved here in 1984, we even had Saturday mail delivery. My point is, we still have our mailbox and it’s been quite useful for people dropping off aardvarks, umbrellas, and books, and I recently heard of another use: because it’s black in colour, and level, I will use it on hot summer days to fry an egg al fresco.

            Down at the club last evening I and a couple of the guys who like classical music (Ernest Tubb and Madonna) and who read music were discussing a Mozart piece in which he slipped an arpeggio in there right in the third movement. Just then Charlie Grandon came and sat down. “Hey, I heard you talkin’ about arpeggios. You orderin’ a pizza? I don’t want none a them arpeggios on mine, and I don’t want no anchovies either.”

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