Another rock; another beach

I wonder how big this beach rock was before that fateful 19th of August, 1942. Before it was blasted into the sky time and time again by German mortars; before it was chiseled and spun and skipped along the beach by German machine gun and rifle fire; before it was kicked by leather Canadian boots or crushed by Canadian tanks?

Dieppe. Jesus Christ, who sent the men into that hell!! A stony beach; a break wall; concrete tank defenses; towering cliffs on either side of the beach; German machine guns sighted in on every inch of the shoreline.

Before the landing craft could hit the beach German artillery and mortars were splashing, crashing and bursting around and into the assault craft. Some men were blown out of their landing craft, picked up by another and blown out of that one. Almost as many dead and wounded arrived on the beach as did the living.

Machine guns chattering from the cliffs; raking the swarms of infantry men as they hit the shore. To make it to the wall was nothing more than sheer luck, egged on by guts and or fear.

Rocks jamming tank bogey wheels. Tracks thrown off. Tank crews swept by machine gun fire as they were escaping their vehicles. Some tanks made it into the villages. None came back.

Operation ‘Jubilee’ it was named. No jubilation that day!

Pinned down; the ‘zip’, ‘zip’, ‘zip’ of Mauser and machine gun bullets above the din of mortar explosions. Rocks, pebbles, sand and bodies hurled into the air; the rocks to fall back to the beach; the bodies to eternity.
Men of the Canadian 4th Infantry Brigade: Royal Regiment of Canada, Royal Hamilton Light Infantry, Essex Scottish Regiment. The Canadian 6th Infantry Brigade: Fusiliers Mont Royal, Cameron Highlanders of Canada, South Saskatchewan Regiment, Canadian 14th Tank Battalion (Calgary Regiment) – 907 of them joined in the Regiment of the Dead. Nearly 600 hundred of them wounded. Almost 2,000 made prisoner.
The raid was called a reconnaissance in force. The men would later call it suicide.

Acts of heroism – plenty!
Self sacrifice? Plenty!
Sheer stupidity? Only in the planning rooms back in England.

We have Dieppe towns and villages. Dieppe streets and schools. Do many people know where the name of their town, village, school or street came from? Probably not. Do many of them care? Probably not.

Such is Canada.

Lest We Forget

.

Bermuda Beach Party!!!

Mr. Warren was our Weapons officer. He had joined the Royal Navy as a boy seaman and transferred to the RCN after the war. He was probably the best officer I ever served under.

On this occasion we had just come into Bermuda after several weeks of strenuous exercises with the Yanks. Mr. Warren invited all the senior weapons rates to a beach party near Fort St.Catherines -- his treat.

The following afternoon about fifteen of us plus Mr. Warren walked to the beach on the other side of the island. Sandwiches, pop, and plenty of booze. Several hours were spent pissing it up on the beach when Mr. Warren said, "Come on then, lads, lets go to the Sportsman's Club (a bar on St.George's Island) and I'll stand you a few more drinks. Off we went.

By early evening we were pretty boisterous. Mr. Warren entertained us with stories and songs from his old RN days and we in turn sang the standard filthy RCN ditties.

Another round of beer and rum was placed on the table and Mr. Warren said, "Now, men, I shall treat you to an old naval custom." He went up to the bar and came back with a few pages of newspaper. Grabbing his beer he climbed on the table and began another rousing bawdy song. All of a sudden he dropped his shorts and underwear, stuffed the paper between his rear cheeks, set a match to it and began to dance. "The dance of the flamin' arseholes boys!," he called out as he jigged around the table top.

We all cheered and cheered.

When the flames got perilously close to his arse he hollered, "Now, lads!" We all grabbed our drinks and threw them at the flames. The flames went out and smoke swhirled from the charred remnants of Bermuda’s daily newspaper, The Royal Gazette. We gave another rousing cheer.

The bar man threw us all out.

The following morning we had to sail for where I can’t remember but we were up early breaking down those damn awnings that we rigged in foreign ports. I was not well. I was on top of the quartermaster's shack hanging on to a gun director as I worked on the awning, and worked on not throwing up. From the deck Mr. Warren cheerily called up, "Good morning, Steel, everything okay up there?" "I've been better, Mr. Warren," I claimed, "but I'll survive." "Good, good, Steel, carry on then." Off he went down the deck, smiling and greeting everyone he met.

He never mentioned the infamous dance and no one who was there ever brought it to his attention. He was just too good a man to embarrass.

And we sailed off into the mystic.

Afghanistan -- crap!

Afghanistan — shit! I’m having trouble with this war. Democracy, liberate women, build schools, build hospitals, get rid of the opium fields, get rid of the Taliban, get rid of corruption. . . all sounds good. Trouble is there is too much ‘all’ to get rid of.

How about concentrating on getting rid of the Taliban first then get on with the other objectives. Better yet, just let the Afghanis revert to the tribalism they so love and enjoy and we will get on with the life we so love and enjoy. Should the Taliban (or whomever the terrorist of the day nmay be) start up their training camps again, well then, we just have the USAF carpet bomb the buggers back to the hills again.

I personally don’t believe we should lose another soldier in this war. Let’s face it, within a year of our claiming victory (whenever that may be) and returning home, the Taliban (or some other fanatical group claiming their God to be on their side) will sweep down from the hills and scurry like rats throughout the countryside, raping, murdering, spreading fear and undoing every modernization the west has established in the country.

Our culture with all its democratic perks is not wanted in Afghanistan; was never wanted in Afghanistan. Communism was not wanted in Afghanistan; was never wanted in Afghanistan. The rule of the British Raj was not wanted in Afghanistan. Never was, never will be. The Afghanistan with all its war lords and religious zealots is obviously what the people of the Afghan want. Well, for sure, that is what the men of Afghanistan want.

Grow dope, beat your women, brainwash your children with religious bafflegab so they will go out and slaughter anyone who thinks just a little different from them, that is the culture . Their life style has been going on like that for centuries — millennium to be more exact. Why should we send young men and women in harm’s way to change such a backward lot? We should not. Never should have.

On buying new pants

So I gave in. Yep, no pressed jeans for the wedding. New trousers.

Back from the park this morning. Maria says, “Okay, Spot’s done in, let’s go for a walk downtown to Herzog’s and get you a good fitting pair of pants.” I, done in also, acquiesce and off we go.

We walk at a good clip and enter Herzog’s clothing store in a half an hour. A fine looking old gent dressed to the nines pulls himself off of a stool and greets us warmly. “What can I do for you this morning folks?” Maria tells him I need new pants; dress pants; pants that fit and don’t hang like bags.”

“Hmmmm,” he muses, “you look size thirty-four.”

“Nope,” say I, “close but I’m a thirty-two.”

“Hmmmm,” says he again, “what colour are you looking for?” I tell him the colours of my three sports jackets and he immediately says, “Tope, you will want a tope colour. Tope goes with everything.” I acquiesce again.

We go over to a rack that has dress pants just waiting to be purchased. He picks out a pair for me. “Well. . . just take these to the fitting room and try them on. We will go from there.”

Into the room. Off shoes and shorts; on new strides. I have forgotten my glasses and I can’t read the size nor can I read the price. Except for the length they fit perfectly. Not baggy, not too snug. Herzog’s do alterations so the extra foot of length is no bother.

I step out to show Maria and the gent. Maria thinks they look great as does the salesman (why wouldn’t he?). “I’ll take them,” sez I.

“Just stand over their and I’ll turn them up and pin them,” directs he.

Pinned, I return to the change room. Off with the new; on with the old.

He makes out the bill. I pay. $79.00!! My first car didn’t cost that much. Never mind, they are a good looking pair of strides and I feel quite comfy in them. “You can pick them up next Friday,” says the old gent.

“By the bye,” I say to him, “what size are they?

“Thirty four.”

“Jeez,” I reply, “I’ve been exercising and keeping a good diet for months.”

To which he replies, “Keep at it.”

Eyes, ears and nose! Arrrrrrrrrgh!!

It’s not my balding head that is a sign of age. It is not my white goatee that is a sign of age. Not my memory lapses. Not my aching back or my aching knees. It is not getting up to pee two or three times a night. It is not my failing eyesight or my failing hearing. Old age has struck me broadside on three fronts. They are:

1. Eyebrows growing uncontrollably. Good grief, they hang behind my glasses when reading thus interfering with the written word. They lash my forehead when walking into a brisk breeze. They get stuck in my eyes. Spot latches on to them periodically. I try to trim them but I can’t do it without glasses. I put my glasses on and I can’t get at the eyebrows. I am very seldom at a barber shop (are they still called that?) so don’t get them done professionally.

2. Nose hairs: Why is it for 60 years the hairs remain in place; that is, up in the nose. Since the sixth decade they have been growing like bramble bushes – wild. I tried scissors but when I stuck them in the nose they would bring on a sneezing fit which proved quite dangerous if I didn’t get the scissors out of the hole in time. I think my girls picked up on my aging process when one year for Christmas they bought me a nose hair electric trimmer. I still sneeze but I am now sneezing safely. I won’t get into the cleaning of the trimmer. I dread the Christmas morning when I open their gift to me and find a box of Depends.

3. Ear hairs. You would think God would have figured into the process that when one ages, one’s hearing becomes less acute so why would He make ear hairs grow in tangled masses thus blocking off the hearing canal. I suspect He is a bit of a joker. If I didn’t trim my ear hairs every week, I’m sure within a month or so I could comb those hairs up over my bald spot. For added youth-like appearance I could let my eyebrows grow and comb them up over my bald spot too. I guess I should learn to appreciate what hair I do have. I should also appreciate that all my friends look older than me.

Night nuisance!!

What a night! Once again I awoke in the morning wondering if one of life’s greatest puzzles can ever be solved. And I had had such a lovely evening!

Barbeque in a back yard with good friends, then on to our monthly euchre tournament. Fellows against the gals. We – the guys (as is the norm) – took two out of three. Usually we play best out of five but with the hot dogs and salad we ran a little behind time.

I had a coffee before we dined on the fine Angus beef dogs; a cranberry and soda during supper then another coffee during the euchre match. Over the course of the evening I probably took in about 12 fluid ounces. Over the course of my night in bed I probably got rid of 96 fluid ounces!
How is that posible?? I figure that conundrum is more puzzling, and the answer more important to mankind, than how the pyramids were built. That and how clams reproduce? I digress.

Every hour on the hour! Eyes pop open; urgency in my bladder. I can remember when I was just a little guy (meaning young) I would dream I was taking a pee, only to wake up to find I was indeed taking a pee. . . . in the bed, alas. I seem to have out grown that. Now when I dream I’m having a pee I somehow know I’m dreaming so I get up before I really do pee. I suppose there will come a time when I will revert to my younger ways. I think I’ll buy shares in Depends, what with the baby boomers fast approaching the age of incontinence.

Spot sleeps a good twelve hours without getting up once during the night. I wonder what his secret is. Maybe it’s all the cookies he eats during the day. Absorbs the fluids. Worth a try. In the meantime perhaps I should invest in a chamber pot. For obvious reasons my dad used to call it a ‘thunder mug’. They were great fun at the cabin. More on that in a future blog.

It’s now after 5 p.m. To have a coffee or not to have a coffee. . . . . .

The morning visit

Nice morning, today. Went for a good walk. Found myself in an old neighbourhood near by. Stopped by my old friend John’s house and rapped at the back door.

“Hey, John, feel like some company?”
“That you, Jim? Come on in.”

John was sitting at the kitchen table. He is alone now. Has been for three years. John is eighty nine. Looks a lot younger.

“What’s up, John?”
“Ah, nothing Jim. Just sitting reading the latest Legion Magazine. Did you see this one?”
“Yeah, just read it the other day. Good article on HMCS Levis.”
“Just reading that now Jim.”

John was in the Royal Canadian Navy during the war. Just a young man when he joined up in ’41.
“Jesus, Jim, I can’t believe it is damn near 70 years since I went in.”

We chat about this and that. John laments being alone. “This isn’t so good, Jim. All my friends are gone. Wife gone, even my in-laws are gone.”

“Do you keep in touch with anybody you sailed with?”
“Shit, Jim, they are all gone too. Ever show you my rec room? Full of stuff. Come on down to the basement.”

We go down the steps. John is pretty sure-footed for pushing 90. “Christ we used to have some great parties down here years ago,” he says as he flicks the light switch to on. The bar lights up. Faded pictures of young men in navy uniforms, pennants, ships’ crests; citations on the wall, beautiful pen and ink sketch of his first ship, HMCS Skeena.

We talk. He points out badges and crests. “You were on the Skeena when she went down, weren’t you John?”
“Yes. Christ, fifteen of our boys were lost that night for no bloody good reason at all. The old man told us to abandon ship when we didn’t need to abandon ship.”

His Skeena was a Canadian River Class destroyer. Delivered from England in 1931. Saw a lot of convoy duty and had shared in the killing of a sub. Took part in the Normandy landings, patrolling the Channel for twenty-four hours before the landings.

October 24th, 1944 she was employed with the Escort Group 11. Nice waters. October, just south of Iceland. Great! That afternoon an Arctic gale came roaring down and caught the group on the high seas. They headed for the safety of Reykjavik Harbour in Iceland and by 11 pm (2300 hrs) they were anchored between Engey and Videy islands.

“Our anchors dragged and we were thrown onto the rocks some hundred or so yards off Videy. We were taking a hell of a pounding but we were really quite secure on the rocks. We couldn’t get a line ashore but we felt if we could ride out the night we would get rescued in the morning but the old man gave the call to abandon ship. The Carley floats were dropped over the side and some of the boys got down in them and tried to get away from the ship and the rocks. The waves just picked them up and smashed them into the rocks. Some of the boys tried to swim away but they were caught up and were either tossed on the rocks and died or just plain drowned.

"After about 15 minutes of that the old man cancelled the abandon ship. There was nothing we could do for our mates. They were gone in minutes. Next morning some Icelanders got a line to us and we got ashore. I wound up in the back of a vehicle and somebody handed me a glass of gin and hot water. I didn’t stop at the one glass. I drank the whole f--king bottle! Woke up in the American base hospital. The American doc came by and said, ‘Lad, if I’d known you were drunk and not in shock I wouldn’t have let you in my hospital.’ I was a little ashamed.”

“How many mates did you say were lost that night, John?”
“Fifteen, Jim. One from St.Catharines. Did you know there was four of us from St.Catharines on that ship, Jim? We lost Kenny Stewart that night. I’m the only one left now.”

We went back to the kitchen. Shoot the breeze a while longer. “Gotta get going John.”
“Come on back again soon, Jim.”

I leave John. He’s an old man. He has young memories. I’ll stop in again next week.

Canada in space

Okay, okay; enough already! Time to get over it. The AVRO Arrow has been dead for fifty years for God’s sake. Good grief, every time the Yanks do something in space that works we have to proclaim that we could have done it too if in 1959 the government of the day hadn’t scrapped the Arrow.

And talk about bush league: “Oh, look, it is the Canada Arm placing the billion dollar thingie in the starboard space widget.” Come on folks, the Canada Arm is probably assembled with thousands of parts manufactured in China! Yes, yes, the technology was developed in this low self esteemed country and that is a good thing but I wonder how many of the people working on the project are third, fourth or fifth generation Canadian??

Time to suck it up and give credit in the world where credit is due. Lets not forget that every aero space engineer who went to NASA back in the 60’s after the AVRO shut down is now well into retirement or well into decomposition.

I think a major coup that would put Canada onto the world’s stage for space research would be the day that our engineers fire the first Skidoo into orbit then direct one of our aging astronauts to take it to the moon and give it a run. If need be we can call the vehicle the Skidoo Arrow. Maybe Celine Dion could pilot it. That should make us all feel good again.

Moon landing.

Good grief, forty years ago today man first stepped foot on the moon. Seconds later he put another foot on the moon and had two feet on the moon.

I was 25 years old!! Good double grief!!

Where was I when Neil Armstrong took that first step for man? I was on the afternoon shift in the General Motors Plant #2 boiler room. I had taken a twelve inch portable TV in to work that night and while waiting for the great event my 2nd class engineer hooked it up and watched a very blurry evening of TV. Probably the first time someone had smuggled a TV into GM. Another 1st I’m very proud of.

The landing was a little later than expected and our relief shift came in without Neil setting foot on the moon. I stayed on, glued to the TV. The TV was on the stoop of a canal-side doorway so the six of us (my shift and the relieving shift) gathered ‘round it waiting for those first pictures to arrive from the moon.

We all thought the lander would crash. More so as the moon dust began to fly and we couldn’t see the surface. Well, we all know that it landed safely. It seemed to take for ages before anybody got around to getting out. Finally with the camera rolling Neil made the step. It was all rather anti climatic because the picture was terrible and the sound equal to the picture.

Doesn’t matter because we all know -- especially over in China and Russia -- that the Americans never made it to the moon. It was all filmed in the back lot of MGM.

And I didn’t get paid over-time!

Gad zooks and forsooth, even.

Forsooth, egad!, and odds bodkins!! Yes, I say, I doth went to a Shakespearian play last night. Except for not understanding half of the language spoken, the Merry Wives of Windsor was most enjoyable. Can anyone make sense of this?

SIR HUGH EVANS SHALLOW Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star-chamber matter of it: if he were twenty Sir JohnFalstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire.

SLENDER In the county of Gloucester, justice of peace and'Coram.'

SHALLOW Ay, cousin Slender, and 'Custalourum.

SLENDER Ay, and 'Rato-lorum' too; and a gentleman born,master parson; who writes himself 'Armigero,' in anybill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, 'Armigero.'

SHALLOW Ay, that I do; and have done any time these threehundred years.

SLENDER All his successors gone before him hath done't; andall his ancestors that come after him may: they maygive the dozen white luces in their coat.

I doth thinketh not.

But really, I must doff my Michael Jackson-like fedora to all the actors for remembering such lines as the above and to put them across so that, I, the unwashed one, could follow what was going on.

I think the last live performance I went to see was a puppet show held at St.Thomas church in 1953 or ’54. I remember it to be quite violent so I suspect it must have been a Punch and Judy show. When I got home I whacked my friend Ron Cuthbert with a piece of two by four. If it was all right for Judy it was all right for me.

I wonder if Punch and Judy have been banned or at least rated PG?

The Merry Wives of Windsor was not violent though the great Falstaff wound up in a laundry hamper and dumped into the Thames. And then Mr. Ford walloped him with a cudgel. Poor Falstaff, alas. All he wanted was a bit of rogering.

I think I must see if Coles notes still exist. Coles notes?? I’m dating myself. I’ll just turn to good old Google.

Until next time. . .
Prithee, no more prattling; go. I'll hold.

This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in oddnumbers.

Away I go.

They say there is divinity inodd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away!

New visa requirements??

Good grief, first the Czechs and now Mexican nationalists will require a Visa before entering Canada. I say, what the heck is wrong with Master Card or American Express? But, really, why are we making it more difficult for these people to enter our country. If we want to be more cosmopolitan like our European neighbours I think we should have an equal amount of Gypsies to roma, er, roam our cities trying to make an honest buck. Fair is fair in this global economy.

I really don’t understand why our government in all its wisdom has slapped a visa requirement for our brothers and sisters from Mexico. We certainly can’t be worried about them taking our manufacturing jobs because all of our manufacturing jobs have gone to Mexico anyway. If anything we should be applying for immigrant status in Mexico.

No, I can see no wisdom in the draconian acts of our government. I can only see retaliation in kind from the Czech and Mexican government. Well, maybe not from Mexico because they don’t want to stop the Canadian tourism dollars from rolling in. Does anyone realize that Mexican nationalists make up the fourth largest tourist group to spend money in Canada? Did I hear, “Yow, another shot in the foot!” coming from the opposition parties?

Think how many Mexican tourists our city will be losing because of this edict. With St. Paul St. now being two way traffic our merchants had even considered Spanish language signs in preparation for the thousands of Mexican visitors thronging St Paul St. in their quest for high fashion from Out of The Past or booking suites at the Leonard Hotel.

And think of the work our Roma brothers and sisters could find along our two way street as they work those folks trying to reverse park near the old Wally Wemnant building (a tourist attraction in itself) or the traffic build up at all the three way stops. Goodness, the opportunities this government has squashed.

Perhaps a Fall election would see a change to a more benevolent government and we can reopen our borders to the huddled masses once again.

Or not.

The price of frolicking.

The price of a trip with my bulldog Spot to Charles Daley Park? Priceless.

The enjoyment with Spot frolicking in the waves? Priceless.

The price of having Spot’s eye checked and treatment by his vet after he ran into a branch while frolicking at Charles Daley Park? $175.00.

The real price of a trip with my bulldog Spot to Charles Daley Park? $175.00 + gas!

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!!!

The Glorious 12th. . . . sort of.

Well, here it is, nearly the end of the day. And what a day it should have been. The Glorious 12th!! But in this day and age and in this country of the politically correct, the Glorious 12th dare not be celebrated.

No more King Billy riding his white horse at the head of the Orangeman’s Day parades; no whistle of the fifes or rat-a-tat of the drums; no skirl of the pipes and no banners flying. No Catholics kids throwing rocks at King Billy and no Protestant kids hurling insults at the Catholics. Sheesh, what’s become of our country? Now the only excitement comes during the Gay Pride Parade.

Good grief, I can recall marching and piping in a Toronto Orangeman’s Day parade probably thirty years ago. The parade route must have been five miles long. It was a scorcher, believe me, but there was the good king mounted on his white horse, leading a thirsty mob of marchers like you’ve never seen. I can’t say the streets were exactly lined with cheering crowds but we didn’t mind for at the end of the parade we would be heading right over to the Queen’s Own Rifles mess where the great thirst would be quenched. And quenched it was!! Not a dry t’roat in the house!!

But now, nothing, alas. Well, we do have Santa Claus parade but it is rather tam -- no brawls along his parade route. The Grape and Wine Parade is pretty good but it is done in the reverse, i.e., the marchers are sober and the bystanders are drunk.

I think probably the St. Patrick’s Day parades are holding their own; marchers and crowds pleasantly hammered and all. But they too are tame; no good religious riots breaking out. Not like the good old days. What the heck, if we can’t have a good natured inter-faith donnybrook now and then it kind of takes the fun out of parading.

In the good old days there would be empty bottles hurled back and forth along the Orange route. Now during the Toronto’s biggest parade we just have to duck out of the way of flying condoms.

Never surrender!

The wafer scandal!!

Off with his head!! Good grief, a Protestant Prime Minister takes the communion wafer at a Catholic service! It gets worse; he doesn’t eat it! Rumour has it the wafer may still be in his jacket pocket.

Pray we do not see a spate of suicide bingo-hall-bombers.

As usual the free press has jumped on the ridiculous to make it an issue in order to sell papers. Or maybe, dare I say, it has made it an issue to cause dissension amongst the Christian churches. “My religion is better than yours so you can’t share in the body of Christ. Nyah, nyah, nyah.” I think the press has missed the true story.

The wafer was really pocketed so our Prime Minister could secret it to the headquarters of The Christian and Missionary Alliance church to be analyzed for magical ingredients. If such ingredients are found, only then will the PM eat it, and then call a Fall election.

Everybody lighten up . . . . for God’s sake!

Working around 'things'.

When is a mess not a mess? When it is my desk.

I do my best thinking in the midst of messiness. I do my best painting in the midst of messiness.

I clear my desk every three months and my art table every, ah, umm . . . every now and then. Can’t remember the last time I cleaned it.

I don’t like to put things away. I might need that thing or those things the next day. Probably not but I like to be ready. And I wasn’t even a Boy Scout. Well, I did join the Cubs but I didn’t like the beanie so I quit.

I sometimes don’t even put the caps back on my tubes of paint. Then when I do decide to tidy the table I can’t find the caps. I have plenty of tubes of solidified acrylic paint. I haven’t thrown them away either.

One thing I try to remember to place the top back on is my bottle of India ink. I forgot it once. I bumped the desk and sent the bottle onto the floor. I keep my chair over that section of the rug. Maria hasn’t noticed it yet. Good thing Maria doesn’t read my blogs.

I use wax paper for my mixing pallet. I don’t throw those out either. I have a bunch of them stacked up on the photo copier. I suppose I could get rid of those.

I drink coffee when I’m writing. I’ve ruined three, maybe four keyboards. Coffee and electronics are not compatible.

I have things hot glued to my desk; mechanical toys, stuffed toys, figures, sculptures; important things that I don’t want to sweep onto the floor when I do clean up. I clean with a Swiffer Duster. It gets around things without me having to move them.

Some things I have not moved nor have I dusted since setting up in this room some two years ago. The model of my ship looks like it is caught in an ice field. In a snow storm. Some important “things” are buried under the dust. I know they are safe there.

Spot is neater than me. I don’t dust him either.

Goodness, is that something moving under that dust bunny??

No more! No more!! Pleeeeeeeeeeeease!!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrgh!!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakkkk! Tell me it is over. Somebody, please tell me it is over!!!

I have never felt like throwing my rubber brick through the TV screen (flat 36” wide) since the sickening coverage of Princess Di’s death, burial and near resurrection. Good grief, can’t poor Michael get on with being buried and let all the commercial, cable and satellite stations get back to normal (such as normal can be).

I can’t imagine one more word that can be said about the man. Even somewhere in the vomiting cornucopia of known and unknown facts being spewed out by all and sundry/black and white, I suspect his underwear size has been given to the public. I think I must have missed that. It was probably aired on CNN’s Larry King Live and picked up by MSNBC’s Chris Matthew’s Hardball sometime during the past week.

Worse yet, my dear wife of eons has been watching the memorial service today. How could that be? Better yet, why could that be?? Are Spot and I the only one’s on this planet who are not glued to that damned TV watching and listening to folks giving words of love and praise to somebody who for 99% of them just two weeks ago was so bizarre he was untouchable? What am I missing?

I think I’ll turn to BBC Canada and see if the Brits are covering this show of shows. . . . . Good grief!! Even the staunch and upright BBC has gone bloody nuts, mates; they are using the CNN feed. Truly I tell you, the sun has indeed set on the British Empire!!

I’m going into the bedroom closet and hang out with Spot. Call or email me when it is safe to come out.

Where’s my brick!!

Ahhhhhhhhhh. . . sanity.

Damn rocks!!

I must learn to stay away from Charles Daley Park. Why? Because there are far too many flat rocks on the beach and I can’t stop picking them to use as canvases for the incredibly fantastic cave-like rock art paintings I have been doing.

What started out some time ago as a few serious folk art pieces has turned into the regression of my artistic talents, if indeed I had any to begin with. My works are looking like they should be displayed in the halls of an elementary school, preferably outside a room full of grade twos or threes.

I just can’t stop painting. Two maybe three a day. Last night, with the TV being what it isn’t at this time of year, I sketched four unbelievably naïve drawings on beach rocks I had dragged home in the afternoon and painted two of them. This morning I painted another one. I have not painted any this afternoon because the right brain (what is left of it) required some R&R. I will probably paint another one or two tonight unless, of course, Spot decides to wake up and squeak his toy at me for attention.

Some people I know, well, one person I know makes bracelets, earrings and necklaces out of beads and makes money on them. I paint rocks and they pile up in the back room. I did get rid of three or four the other day but I find myself with five of them sitting atop the scanner. I’m sure they will multiply over night.

Has anybody priced oil or acrylic paint lately? I mean the good stuff in the tubes. Cripes, you have to pay anywhere from six to nine bucks for a tube. I have discovered cheap acrylic craft paint at the Dollarama – $1.25. Probably made in China by child labour. Or out of children. They do have a surplus of them there. When I go back to painting on my expensive canvases (slabs of wood) I will melt down my VISA rebuilding my acrylic stock pile.

I feel the urge to paint! I see a strange looking, skinny dog coming soon on a rock.

Arrrrrrrgh. . . more books!!!

When is a book not a book? A book is not a book when it becomes a tripping hazard.

Four years ago I sold off about 60% of my book collection, a collection which consisted of rare antiquarian titles and almost every Canadian Great War publication ever issued. When we moved into these new digs two years ago I had plenty of free space on my shelves; enough to see me through until I weigh anchor for the last time. Or so I thought.

What is it with a book collector/reader? Can’t I just read one book at a time then place it on a shelf or pass it on? Not me, I have at least five on the go at once. Wouldn’t it be easier to borrow a book from a library then return it thus leaving shelf space for other things. . .like dust and, umm, things? No, no, I have to possess the book. It must find a place on the shelf.

The free space has disappeared. Books are crammed on top of books; books are stacked on the shelf in my closet; books are stacked by my bed; books are beginning to climb the walls. The books which do not occupy shelf space find themselves spread over the floor. I am ordered to pick them up or straighten them out at least once a week. It is almost impossible to vacuum my room without the cursed machine trying to eat a dust jacket or two.

I trip over the darn things in the middle of the night when, ah. . ., when nature calls. Sometimes this can be three or four times a night. It is a wonder I haven’t broken an ankle or worse.

Spot kicks them around during the night when he is looking for a comfy place to sleep. I think he does it on purpose so I can trip over them.

I do not have wall space remaining for another shelf. My books might have to take over the dining room. Never mind, I can’t afford a divorce lawyer.

Perhaps I should sell my library and start again. . . . somewhere in Digby County?

Where's the %$#@ sun??!!??

(Me, on my balcony.)I’m starting this at 0700 hrs, July 3rd, 2009. I will complete it in a few minutes.

I have set aside my blog plan for today and instead I am going out on the balcony, load my old sling shot and hurl rocks at the sun. Well, actually, I will hurl rocks into the clouds because I have not seen the sun in the morning for ages.

I have had it and will challenge the Great Architect of the Universe to either get that sun to do what it is supposed to do or cede his position to a kindlier god.


I will make an attempt to have today’s scheduled blog up for tomorrow which will make it tomorrow’s blog instead of today’s . . . or whatever.

If a rock could talk.

The rocks pictured here are ‘happy’ rocks. They’ve had a pretty good life over the past billion or so years. Did some travelling, winding up on the beach at Charles Daley Park just west of St.Catharines. They sat there soaking up the sun for a millennium or so until I came along with Spot my bulldog when I picked them up and toted them home. There they sat in a warm room, catching the sun’s rays at certain times of the day, until the other day when they became canvases for three more fantastically fantastic SpotRockArt creations. They even look happier now.

This rock, however, has not had a happy life. Besides the trauma it went through during its evolution it has seen terrible things in these modern times. By far the worst it was witness to occurred on June 6, 1944, when Canadian infantry, tanks and artillery fought their way ashore on Juno Beach with the 3rd Canadian Division and our 2nd Armoured Brigade in their part in the liberation of France and North West Europe.

What did this rock see? What could it tell us if it could talk? Did a boot worn from a young man from Winnipeg or Regina squash it further into the sand and stones? Did a lad wearing the kit of the Queen’s Own Rifles spill his blood on this rock? Or perhaps a tank from the Fort Gary Horse ran it over on its way to be destroyed by a German 88?

What did it hear? The screaming German shells coming in? The ensuing roar of the explosion? Our screaming shells ripping overhead? The ka-chunk, ka-chunk of the Lee-Enfield rifles? The stuttering of our Brens? The odd Sten gun? The cry of our wounded? The silence of our dead?

Did it see much of the carnage on that five mile strip of beach? Had it been churned over and over by German shells hitting the beach? Could it whisper the dying words of more than three hundred of our soldiers who didn’t make it through that fateful day?

My chum Jim McDonalds visited Juno Beach this past June 6; slipped the rock into his pocket and brought it to Canada; gave it to me. I am deeply moved.

I touch the rock. It is not a happy rock. It tells me a story. I will not paint this rock. It doesn’t need my help to tell its story.

Where are they now!?!

In the accompanying picture the reader of this blog will note that six pairs of glasses are in the frame (so to speak). I can pretty well guarantee that by the end of the day I will have lost five of them. The sixth will be on my head. Or maybe in the loo. Oh, yeah, I have another pair in the car. Lies!! I have two pairs in the car just in case I bring a pair back to the apartment with me and forget to take them back to the car next trip out.

Where do they go, these glasses. They have a life of their own. They just up and walk away, I’m sure. My glasses must have the same genetic background as my keys.

At times a pair will make an appearance under my rear end when I least expect it. I can tell they are there by the accompanying “crunch” when I sit.

I usually buy a half a dozen at a time from the dollar store. Several months ago I treated myself to a thirty dollar pair from Shopper’s Drug Mart. I left them in Halifax last month. My new prescription glasses are still with me. I’m afraid to use them lest I lose them or sit on them.

Zellers has a nice assortment of glasses. Get a good looking pair for fourteen bucks. They get lost as easy as a dollar store pair.

I’ve tried those strings or chains you attach to the glasses and sling around your neck. I had to buy one of those when I was in Belgium. Neither the glasses nor the chain thingie made it back to Canada. I don’t buy them any more.

It just occurred to me; I have seven glasses here with me now. I’m wearing the seventh pair. They will be lost by the time I finish this.

2005: A day 'On the Somme'.

Hot day. I’ve been in an air conditioned car and the heat knocks me over when I step out. Golden wheat shimmering as it undulates towards Thiepval. I’m on the Albert-Bapaume Road near Pozieres, France. It’s the road my grandfather Steel marched along in October and November, 1916. I imagine that he would have wished for this heat. Instead it was wet and cold.

I promised myself some thirty or so years ago that someday I would walk the Albert-Bapaume Rd. and stop at Pozieres where grandfather first entered the trenches when his battalion (46th South Saskatchewan Battalion) was moved to The Somme. Years ago Jim Broomhead, an old 46th vet who knew my grandfather, wrote me of is experience on entering that trench near Pozieres:

“I got my first glimpse of death and its stench at Poziers [sic]. The dead had not been removed, and they were piled three deep. What an awful site! At about Poziers we marched in single file about five yards apart. Now we came to the trench [Candy Trench]. God forbid anybody from seeing what I saw. Our barbed wire was fairly well intact, but it hung full of dead Canadians and Germans, like birds on telephone wires. The parapet had been built up, but you couldn’t avoid the arms and legs that were sticking out of it.”

Jim Broomhead had been twenty years old when he stepped into Candy Trench.

There are no dead along the Albert-Bapaume Road today. Periodically a car swishes by. Occupants totally void of any thoughts of those horrid scenes. Why shouldn’t they be. Time has marched on; like the ghosts of 1916.

I ask my friend to give me a few moments to myself. I wanted to walk with grandfather and Jim – just a few yards; just 89 years ago. . . .

Off in the distant on my right as I walk toward Albert is the Thiepval Memorial, a huge shrine to Ulster’s dead who have no known grave. To my left, several acres of turnips. I glance down. A chunk of steel catches my eye. “No turnip, that,” I say to grandfather and Jim.

I reach down; give it a tug. Another tug; a wriggle; out it comes -- a three pound chunk of a British 18 pounder artillery projectile. Judging from the area where I dug it up it had to be fired the week before, or the day of, July, 1st, 1916. It has been waiting for me, and only me, for 89 years.

I doubt the turnip patch was producing turnips when grandfather and Jim marched by. I have picked up one of the seeds they were sowing.

I slide back into the air conditioned car. “What’s that?” my friend asks, pointing to my chunk of steel. “Something grandfather left for me,” say I.

We head up the road to Bapaume.

The bizare cult of death

The cult of death . . . what the??? Strangers hugging; much wailing and gnashing of teeth; thousands of stupid teddy bears piled up and sixteen billion flowers wilting in the sunshine. What the?? Yes, I’m talking about this cult of death which rears its head every time some one famous kicks the bucket.

I suppose by now one can’t get within a hundred yards of Michael Jackson’s star on the walk of fame what with the mountains of flowers and teddy bears surrounding it and overflowing into the street. And who can get near the Neverland gates for the mounds of death gifts strewn or stacked around them?

Can anybody be that grieved when someone dies? I think not. I think what we are seeing is nothing more than ‘look at me suffering’ narcissistic bone heads who don’t have an original thought produced from within their grey cells.

Is there any chance that this could be genuine grief?? You gotta be kidding. Genuine grief from millions who have nothing better to do than read the gossip columns and watch soaps every day? Not a chance. These people just want nothing else but to be noticed. They want something to make them sound or look important when in the welfare office line up, puffing their ciggies and waiting for their next hand out.

Hey, don’t get me wrong. I’m not knocking poor Mike. I think the young man was a genius. A little bizarre but a genius just the same. In fact he was a lot bizarre. I just question the motive of the hundreds of thousands of keeners who put on such a public display of grief when 99.99999999999999999999% of them had never seen the man. I feel bad at the man’s passing but I have yet to ring National Florists for a delivery to the Neverland Ranch. Michael meant nothing to me.

Damn, maybe I’m missing something. I’m still probably the only human being on this island earth who didn’t lose sleep over the untimely death of Princess Diana. Sorry Di, you really meant nothing to me either, even with your photo ops when you were standing in a cleared mine field. Sure, you did wonderful things for children and charities (as did Michael) but why not; you had the tax payer’s money to do it with and nothing else to do anyway. At least Michael gave a gift of his music to the world. You gave a pissed off Mohamed Al-Fayed.

And what about these piles of teddies, flowers and love notes that appear at the place where some one unfortunately lost their life in an accident or a gang shooting? Most of the people dropping off these useless gifts don’t have a clue who the deceased was. Nope, somebody died, better get my death weeds on and dash down to the site with a teddy bear. To make it worse, these wanna be grievers will – if they have one – drag their child along to show how they too can become a professional griever. Maybe even get their photo in the paper. Have people nothing better to do?

I’m not saying death isn’t a terrible thing. Sure it is to those who knew the deceased whether family or friend. (Not a good thing for the deceased either.) But to gather in moaning mobs at the instant of some celebrity’s death or to keen and pound one’s chest at the death of someone you don’t know, borders on the macabre. Sick too.

Certainly I feel very sad when I read of the death of a child either by accident, disease or foul play but to weep and wail and bare my soul in public is not normal. Okay, okay, so I put a bottle of Jack Daniels on Jim Morrison’s grave over in Paris. But what the hell, it was for Jimmy!

It's a girl!!

It had been forty-six years since I had been to sea so it was with much excitement that I stood on the quarter-deck of HMCS St.John’s a few weeks ago waiting for the lines to be brought in and the ship to move off down the harbour.

The order to ‘single up’ was passed and I noted the quarter-deck party worked as one, as hand over hand they brought the first stern line in. A few minutes passed and the order to ‘let go aft’ was given and once again the party showed great team work in bringing the last line in. They then scurried about making the quarter-deck ready for sea; ropes ‘flaked’ neatly out on the deck in a seaman like manner; everything looking quite tidly. I was thinking, “What a fine lot of seamen! They handled that just like we used to do.” I did, however, notice that one of the men had rather long hair. “Good grief,” says I, “that man is a girl!! How can a girl do a job like that?? Gad zooks, in my day. . .” Then I remembered Ordinary Seaman Bevington.”

Ordinary Seaman Bevington was a wardroom steward. He really wanted to be a seaman. On an afternoon when we were returning from some deployment we were making ready to come alongside in Halifax. Bevington joined us on the quarter deck and picked up a heaving line, informing Petty Officer Huffman that he would like the opportunity to throw the line ashore to one of the dockyard maties. Huffman, I suppose thinking this would free one of his men for handling the hawser, agreed.

As we approached the jetty and Bevington was within easy distance of throwing the weighted end of his heaving line ashore, we began to drift away from the jetty. Bevington froze. He just stood there with the heaving line coiled in his right hand.

"Jesus Christ, Bevington," Huffman hollered, "Throw the god damned line!"

Bevington did just that . . . but he neglected to hold on to the end – the end which he should have tied to our hawser on the ship. The line snaked out, the monkey's fist landed on the jetty but the tail end fell into the harbour. We drifted away but with some brilliant helm and engine room orders, the skipper brought the stern alongside again and we were able to get a line to the jetty. The PO literally kicked Bevington's butt off the quarter deck, threatening to personally neuter him should he ever show his face there again.

Watching the young female bosun’s mate handling the ropes now, I figured she could hold her own on deck with any of the men, more so should they be like our Bevington.

Blogging on a rainy afternoon

With the success of grinding out yesterday’s blog I thought I would give the-inspiration-on-the-balcony another try today. Unfortunately this was a total disaster because of the violent rain and electric storm that roared in just as I was dozing, er, I mean just as I was getting inspired. So I returned to my room, and while Spot hid in the closet I sat at the computer, ready to compose the latest entry.

I was thinking as I was composing this that I could possibly be killed by about three million volts of electricity coursing through my body should this building be hit. At the least, my keyboard could melt and my hard drive fried. I carried on and left my lot in the hands of Odin or whoever was the going god of the day.

First in my thoughts was why I even bother buying a 649, and when I do, why I even bother checking it. I know full well that the most I will ever win is another stupid ticket. I checked my ticket and I didn’t even win another ticket. Which reminds me, I expect to win big on the Heart and Stroke lottery. Seems to me the Early Bird draw is happening soon. I could be purchasing property in Digby County before the summer is out. Stay tuned for the results.

For whatever reason the Olympics entered my mind. (Probably something my chum Pat mentioned in a hashish haze.) Now, talk about elitist sports!! In my humble view the Olympics are nothing more than another money making rip-off by the corporate world, done under the guise of good sportsmanship, healthy bodies and pure minds. In a word, it is all horse shit! Actually that is two words.

Let’s face it; if you don’t have money, you are not going to be an Olympian. If you don’t have a rich benefactor to dole out the bucks, you are not going to be an Olympian. If you are from a third world country you have a better chance of becoming an Olympian because chances are the government of the day will look after you. In fact you will have more of a chance of becoming an Olympian than a poor member of Western society. Mind you, produce medals or else.

If you don’t have good looks you can forget about being an Olympian. Good looks will help sell the products the corporations who bought air time make. Good looks will get you on the talk show rounds. If you aren’t good looking you are not sellable, i.e. a corporate mint. After all, money is what the Olympics are all about.

About the only Olympic sport which I think is worthy of the name is the women’s hockey. No prima donnas there. Most of the girls had to raise their own money to get to the venue and some even had to lose their jobs in order to play.

Then again, what has hockey got to do with being an Olympian? True Olympics are not a team sport. One on one, or running a race, that’s being an Olympian.

If gold medals had have been handed out for Out-running Naval Shore Patrols I would have had more gongs than Michael Phelps!

Build affordable housing instead of useless Olympic Villages!

Blogging on a summer's afternoon.

I have been finding it very difficult if not impossible to get back into my blogging routine. I’m afraid the quick dash to Halifax including a trip to sea on HMCS St.John’s broke my stride and I’ve yet to get back into it. Until today.

Today: A lovely warm summer’s day. A day when it is best to sit on the balcony and let one’s mind wander. Not particularly hard for me to do as my mind has lacked any power of concentration since I was sentenced to learning establishments back in 1950. I probably would have become a much sought after brain surgeon had it not been for windows in schools back then.

What could mathematics offer me when there was a great maple tree outside the window choc-a-bloc with hidden adventures? Or a cloud in the sky looking like some great sailing ship or maybe even a Kraut Messchershmit? Oh, yes, many an English class was spent in battle over the English Channel, my Spitfire wheeling in for the kill, sending another Heinkel into the cold waters below.

Today I retired to the glider on our balcony, book in hand, knowing I would drift off into a fantasy world where a blog would come to mind. I drifted off into a deep sleep.