Posted on March 16, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

The pilgrims have left St. Peter’s Square.  The fifty-six hundred or so accredited media have packed up their cameras, looking for the next big buzz.  After several weeks of hype, conjecture, pomp and circumstance, we have a new Pope.  Francis 1 checked out of his lodgings and paid his own bill in order to collect valuable Air Miles.  Many of us have one giant conclave hangover.  A mere puff of white smoke brought Argentina to Rome and indeed the world.  But what fate befalls Emeritus Pope Benedict?

Speculation is still rife about the former Pope’s decision to pack it in.  The official line from the Vatican press is that Benedict felt he was too old and infirm to carry on.  But the bottom line is that he quit his job.   He and his handlers must now face a very uncertain future.   Is it possible that the Curia was unaware of sweeping changes to the Employment Insurance rules?

When Pope Francis 1 signs Benedict’s Record of Employment, he must in all good conscience, indicate that the reason for issuing this document is that the former pontiff quit his job.  Officials at the Employment Insurance office will be as surprised as anyone with the news.  So far they have received a severe backlash from seasonal workers over the proposed changes including tougher qualifying standards.  Once unemployed, claimants will have to be more diligent in documenting their efforts to find work, travel farther to secure employment and may have to settle for something less than their ideal job.

Because he quit, Benedict won’t get his first pogey cheque for several weeks.  A special collection will be held at churches around the world to get him through the waiting period.  The Pontiff Pogey Project.

Is it possible that the former Pope was fired or pushed to step down?  Did “pustch” come to shove?  We certainly hope not because there’s only one thing worse than being a quitter, and that’s being a rabble rouser and getting yourself fired.  The optics are very poor.

Retirement is not a possibility for the ex -Pontiff.  As he pledged a vow of poverty, he has no RRSP savings and apparently has not taken advantage of the new Tax Free Savings Accounts.  A recent audit found that he has very little disposable cash. His coin collection will be virtually worthless now that the penny is no longer legal tender.

So what is Benedict to do?  Several blueberry and apple growers in the Annapolis Valley are looking for seasonal migrant workers.  And local lobster fishermen are looking for a few good men to bait traps and band the lobsters.  He could, of course, become a department store greeter and welcome people in ten different languages.

If all else fails, he could use his influence, earthly and otherwise, to get a seat in the Canadian Senate. The pay and perks are excellent and you only have to show up a couple of times a year and prove that you can inhale and exhale.  I mean, it’s better than the lottery corporation’s “Set for Life” game.

A retirement party will be held for Benedict at the local Club 60. Best wishes only.

Posted on March 15, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

If you are like me, you just might be “conclaved out”. I have written a post conclave story and it’s NOT about the new pope. It’s about Benedict, his sudden retirement and his job prospects for the future. A little bit irreverent…if you offend easily!
Coming up next week, my story that will be published in the local paper on Tuesday and put on the blog on Wednesday is a shopping story. As you will come to know, I am definitely not a shopper and when a man goes shopping with his wife as she looks for the perfect bathing suit, well…
Look for “Show and Tell” on Wednesday the 20th.
Happy St. Paddy’s day.

Posted on March 12, 2013 under Storytelling with 6 comments

If you grew up in Antigonish in the 1960’s as a teenager, there were three places that pretty well controlled your universe; St .Ninian’s Cathedral, the bowling alley (affectionately known as “The Alleys”) and the Parish Center, or for those short on vocabulary, The Center.  For better or worse, they were all places of worship.  Many of life’s lessons, both good and bad, were learned in that small piece of real estate.  If you walked quickly, you could get to all three within five minutes; less if you were being chased by the cops.   It was a time of innocence and a time where lasting friendships and memories were cemented.

While some may indeed have fond memories of the Cathedral, it was at the Alleys and the Center where life unfolded.  The mere mention of Gillis, Buddy, or Josie quickens the heartbeat as these people were our pseudo parents, our protectors, our teachers and our friends.  I mean, who would have the common decency to loan a guy the money to buy a Carmel Cake when he was down on his luck?

Picture yourself on a warm spring evening, sitting on the black railing outside the alleys with many of your soul mates, just watching the world pass you by.  This is where you tried to figure out the meaning of life or more importantly how to find the money to go to the dance at the Center after squandering your allowance at the Alleys.  Occasionally you would spot a few of the bad ass kids from school lurking under the bridge which crosses the Brierly Brook whilehaving a puff.  And you just watched people walking past and the cars going up and down College Street.  There`s something magical about just hanging out and we were pros at it… mostly because the lot of us were broke most of the time.

Every building has a distinct smell and the Alleys were no different.  The smell of rental bowling shoes has its own distinct aroma.  So did the soda machine.  The Alleys smelled like, well, the Alleys.  You’ll just have to take my word for it.  In the early days it was just the bowling alley and at its peak it was a thriving, bustling place.  All of the baby boomers and their parents bowled…just not together.  Besides the smell of the Alleys there was the constant sound of pins being knocked down, the resetting of the pins and the bowling balls making their return to the scoring table area.  And the irrepressible Buddy who made everyone welcome.

As time went on, the Alleys expanded and provided yet another way for us to spend our meager resources.  A pool hall was added to the complex.  Can’t you still see John standing at the small cubicle which housed the time clock?  You paid by the minute and if you were a gifted player like Fingers, you probably never paid… your opponent did.  All the while you listened to the strains of “Nashville Cats”… “played clean as country water, played wild as mountain dew”.

When you has exhausted all of your capital at the Alleys and were too bored to sit on the rail outside, you could just meander around the corner up to the Center.  In those days it was the epicenter of the community.  It was truly a multi-purpose facility, owned by the parish but operated under the wise hand of Gillis.  Every imaginable activity was housed within the walls of that red brick building, strategically located at the midpoint between the tavern and the cathedral.  Talk about urban planning!

In addition to the gymnasium, which hosted physical education classes from the elementary and high schools nearby, the building had several rooms used by the CWL and other community groups.  And of course, there was the concrete bunker overlooking the gym floor which was used as a bar for social functions and doubled up as the fish pond during the parish bazaar.

There were sporting events, dances, political rallies, wedding receptions, banquets, graduation exercises, variety concerts and yes, even fights – scheduled and non-scheduled.  There were a lot of hours during the week when there wasn’t anything going on and this is when the Center became a legitimate spot to hang out.  You really get to know people when you take the time to talk with them.  To this day, all one has to do is mention the Center or the Alleys in the presence of an old friend and you’re right back there sitting in the bleachers or playing a game of ping pong in the room behind the bunker.  We did a lot of hanging out in those days.  Sadly, today much of our interpersonal contact and that of our children and grandchildren is done through the use of electronic devices.

Some of the greatest basketball games I have ever witnessed happened on that hard court including a memorable St.F.X game which went into double overtime.  I can still remember the scoreboard which was a slate and a piece of chalk.  You had to be good at addition and able to erase quickly. Who of our generation can’t remember the titanic battles between the old AHS and the St. Andrew High School (perhaps foreshadowing the current relationship between the Town and County of Antigonish)!   If you close your eyes you can still see Tilly Walsh and George Phee going toe to toe.  And on one special evening, we witnessed the wizardry of the Harlem All Stars.  When you jammed people in to the Center for a basketball game, with the fans literally breathing on the players, now that was atmosphere.

But it was the Saturday night dances that most of us remember, for better or for worse.  I was lucky enough to view dances from both the bleachers and the boards.  Back in the golden days of live performances, The Strangers and The Escorts were regular performers on the grand old stage at the Center.   I had infinitely more fun (and success!) as a musician than as a guy trying to pick up a girl.  Back then, the county kids went to the county high school and the town kids, or “townies”, went to the local high school.  The dances were one of the rare opportunities to mingle and there was always a subtle but palpable tension in the air when Saturday night rolled around.  Fisticuffs were quite common except when word got out that A.B. was going to be the bouncer.  On particularly raucous evenings, sometimes amongst the fights a dance would break out.

The early part of any school dance was quite predictable. The girls sat on the bleachers on one side of the room and on the other side of the bunker sat the boys. Occasionally there would be a row of chairs around the perimeter of the basketball court when Gillis was expecting a large crowd. The boys, mostly pimply faced, nerdy and geeky, all rolled up into one tidy package of testosterone, trolled the room, looking for a girl to ask to dance.  But not just any dance… it had to be the last dance.  The moment you heard the first organ keys of “Whiter Shade of Pale” or the opening keyboards of “Hey Jude”, there would be a stampede, as all of the guys headed for the bleachers.  But alas, the Darwinian theory prevailed and only a few succeeded in getting their dream girl onto the dance floor. The rest of us got “shot down

In 1968, Mary Hopkin sang the song that epitomized youth then, as it does today. Those were the days my friend.

Those were the days my friend, we thought they’d never end

We’d sing and dance forever and a day

We’d live the life we choose, we’d fight and never lose

For we were young and sure to have our way