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.

The Suitcase

Fashioned from the aluminum skin of a Hawker Hurricane, the suitcase was sent home from England in April 1946. Uncle Harry had stayed on after the war with the 3rd Canadian Storage and Kit Disposal Unit. How he got there after going overseas with the 10th Field Battery, 1st Division in 1939 is a convoluted story that doesn’t belong here.

Some time in early 1946 Uncle Harry (a Captain by then) asked one of the personal in the unit if he could make a sturdy suitcase for use when he finally got his ticket home. How the skin from a Hurricane was found is unknown, suffice it has a story to tell also.

Harry came home in the Spring of ‘46, the suitcase in hand with other crates to follow. Unpacked, it went into the basement on Maple Street until his untimely death in 1948. I don’t know when I first noticed it in our house; it just seemed to be always there. Probably dad used it for a trip north in 1949 or ‘50. It then sat quietly in our house for years. Alone, and with its memories. Inert but somehow alive.

In the early 60’s I joined the navy. In ‘62 or ‘63 I needed some ‘stuff’ sent down to me so my dad said he would find something to put everything in and send it down by rail. Several weeks later the suitcase arrived at the Fleet Mail Office in Halifax. I brought it aboard ship, emptied it, then put it in storage with my kit bag in one of the vacant ammunition lockers. The suitcase sailed many a mile with me but didn’t see the light of day until I was getting my kit together for my draft to the shore base, HMCS Stadacona, and my release.

Jammed full of my civvie clothes, some souvenirs and a bottle of Woods Old Navy rum, the suitcase was placed on the baggage car and made its way to St.Catharines. I used it once in a while over the years but soon nylon flight bags made the suitcase redundant and for the past thirty or more years it has sat in a closet, travelling only when we moved from house to house and province to province. Always quiet but full of tales.

I am going down to Halifax on Wednesday to see my oldest grandson who is in the navy. I have a few things to drag along so I thought, “It is time for the old suitcase to have another adventure,” and with that I will jam it full of ‘stuff’, and deliver it to its newest keeper.

My friend Pat was by the other day so I told him the story of the suitcase. He looked at me and said, “Jimmy, if that thing could only talk. It has been sitting idle for all these years with so many stories to tell and now it will have another one.” Who knows where this carefree suitcase will be in another 60 or so years. And what tales it could tell!

On the helm.

I can’t believe it. A week from tomorrow I will be back at sea aboard a Canadian frigate. I’ve been thinking about the chances of being allowed to take the helm for a minute or so but I know that is really out of the question. Thinking about it did, however, remind me of one night when I was on the helm of my old frigate.

The wheelhouse was roughly an 8' by 8' enclosed room behind the bridge. It lacked any windows so steering was by magnetic compass or gyro repeater. For the most part we used the repeater. In the centre of the room was the old wooden-spoked wheel. To the left of the wheel, an engine room revolution counter and to the right, the engine room
telegraphs.

It was middle watch (midnight till 0400) and we were maneuvering into position to follow line astern. As it was pitch black outside we could only keep station by following the stern light of the ship ahead of us. On the bulkhead (wall) above the gyro repeater was a small hatch that when opened up gave the helmsman a view through the bridge to the sea.

The bosun's mate opened the little hatch and said, " Okay, 'Stainless' just keep your eyes on that stern light." I wasn't tall enough to see through the hatch! I was quickly relieved from the helm and I dashed back to the quarter-deck and rooted through the gash that was going to be chucked overboard during the morning watch. I found an orange crate and hustled it back up to the wheel house. I took over the wheel again and for the remainder of my hour on the helm I stood on the box and drove the Cap de la Madeleine. The box stayed tucked away in the corner and I made use of it on several other occasions. The box probably travelled with the ship to Italy when she was sold for scrap.

The 'Y'!!

I’ve just taken a couple of more Tylenol and placed a pillow in my chair at my lower back. Soon the pain should ease off and with the support, sitting at this computer will be much pleasanter.

If you are wondering how I got in this state I can answer you by using four simple yet well-know letters – YMCA. Yes, the ‘Y’. That place of body and mind perfection has contributed to this painful state I now find myself in. My good friend Don used to tell me, “Forget about stupid exercise and be like me. Sit at your computer with a can of Planter’s cashew nuts on hand and a bowl of After Eight Mints (mints lovingly robed in dark chocolate) placed near the keyboard.” He was a wise man, was my friend Don. I’m in.