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.