Posted on June 25, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Romance is in the air.  Well, not quite.  Our property is perilously close to a farm and just today I saw, or should I say, I smelled, the manure spreader heading up Hawthorne towards Sylvan Valley.  Any day now, when the wind shifts from the North, we should be graced with the lovely aroma of liquid pig manure.  It doesn’t get any more romantic than that.  Unless, of course, you are planning for your big day.  The month of June is upon us and love is in the air.

Do you remember your wedding day?  If you’re my age you might not remember what you had for breakfast this morning.  Was it a church wedding?  What was the weather like?  Speaking of weather, the day before we got married, a hurricane roared through the area wreaking havoc on the shoreline, leveling trees and causing extensive property damage.  Was this an omen of stormy days ahead for me and my new bride?  We’re still together after 31 years so maybe that large branch that whacked me on the head on our wedding day knocked some sense into me.  Or did my bride smack me up the side of the head?  Darn.  There goes that memory thing again.

So, what factors determine the outcome of a marriage?  Some of the elite might look at the level of education and suggest that the first argument is just around the corner because the couple lacks “higher learning”.  Back in my college days, all that meant was going to class with a hint of marijuana in the blood system.  OK.  So neither of them studied Chaucer or can readily cite the Pythagorean Theorem.  Basic home maintenance skills trump that, hands down.  

Others judge on the basis of the income levels of the betrothed.  But as my wise old grandfather said, “it’s not what you make but what you spend”.  Most of us know that money and education are no guarantees of wedded bliss.

But I can tell you with near certainty what might be the best indicator of the survival of a marriage: the first waltz at the wedding reception.  May I respectfully suggest some songs that should not constitute the first waltz: “Does This Ring Hurt Your Finger”, “She Got the Gold Mine, I Got the Shaft”, and “Take This job and Shove it”. Oh, and how about “ My Best Friend’s Wife is the Love of My Life”.

Guys.  In all due respect to Charlie Pride, Jerry Reed , Johnny Paycheck and Paul Anka,  these songs just don’t strike the right chord when you whisk your new bride onto the dance floor.  She might not appreciate your taste in country music and the subliminal messages that this genre of music so cleverly disguises.  Be careful because her first request might be “Send in The Clowns”.

Take it from me.  Throw up a lob ball and let her hit it out of the park.  Ask the DJ to crank up “Can I Have This Dance” by Anne Murray or a modern-day equivalent.  You don’t want the first waltz to be the last.

Posted on June 24, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

For some of you, this is your first visit to my website. By and large, I write short humour stories and I am always on the lookout for fresh fodder so please send along story ideas. Ocassionally,  I do a serious piece like the one I did the morning after the Boston Marathon.

Currently, I write regular columns for The Casket and also The Fairview Post in Fairview, Alberta. Typically I publish 2-3 stories a week on my website along with casual commentary similar to the piece you are reading. Check out the video tab too as I use this to introduce many of my stories.

I am also working on a book of short stories which will be published early this fall.

Tomorrow’s story is about weddings, specifically the wedding reception. I can assure you that I have the same fondness for yard sales as I do for wedding receptions. I am always intrigued by the choices of music for the first waltz. The story is called “Last Waltz”.

You will also notice a tab for motivational speaking. If you belong to an organization that might be interested in my services, send me a note. My presentations are a combination of humour, inspiration and a dose of common sense. I have spent a good deal of my career meeting with people who have shared their hopes and dreams… and fears.

Have a great week as we head into the summer of ’13.

Posted on June 22, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

According to all statistical evidence, childhood obesity is nearly an epidemic in North American.  Children rarely walk to school, or anywhere else for that matter.  Part of this stems from concerns about safety but a larger part is that many of them don’t get out much.  They don’t need to meet friends face to face any more.  As long as they can move their fingers at the speed of bee pollinating flowers, there isn’t much urgency to walk, or god forbid, run anywhere.   And even when they do poke their heads outdoors, they walk like zombies, with head phones on to drown out the sounds of nature, texting madly all the while.

I was out for a brief walk this morning.  I was waiting for Sobeys to open, so I decided to walk the perimeter of the mall parking lot.  After I passed the Canadian Tire store, I looked off to my right and just beyond the tree line I could see the perfectly flat expanse of land that was once called “The Salt Ponds”.

The Salt Ponds was located to the rear of the confluence of the West River and Brierly Brook.  I suspect that the name came from the fact that these rivers contain tidal water that comes in from Antigonish Harbour.

When we were kids, this land flooded all the time for obvious reasons of topography.  In the winter it turned into a gigantic outdoor skating rink.  For a generation of kids this is where we learned how to skate, play hockey, figure skate and, most importantly, how to shovel snow.

In the winter time at the end of the school day, dozens of kids from the neighborhood descended upon this wonderful piece of real estate.  You must remember that in those days, families of 8 and 10 children was the norm so it didn’t take too many households to generate enough bodies for a game of hockey.  We would gather up our skates and walk over to Church Street, descend a steep bank and then lace them up at the edge of our natural rink.

If it had snowed the previous night, everybody took a turn clearing the ice.  This was not optional.  If you didn’t help shovel, you were persona non grata.  The rules of the jungle were applied equally and fairly.  Even before the puck was dropped you had worked up a pretty decent sweat.

A game could last for hours and on weekends it could last past sundown with substitutes coming and going throughout the day.

When is the last time you felt the exhilaration of skating with reckless abandon on a cold, crisp winter night, with the moon as your only source of light?  We all dreamed of becoming Maurice Richard, Gordie Howe or Bobby Hull.  I don’t ever remember heavy hits or the hint of a fight.  This was hockey in its purest form.

And after a rain, followed by freezing temperatures, the Salt Ponds became the biggest rink on earth.  With no snow to slow the puck, an errant shot on net could take upwards of two minutes to retrieve.  Sort of like a television timeout.

We absolutely hated to go home for supper facing the prospects of being badgered to do homework.

As I completed my walk, I lamented the passage of simpler times when getting in shape didn’t entail joining a gym.  We were blessed that we didn’t have many recreational facilities.  We used the landscape to create our own.