Posted on June 19, 2013 under Storytelling with 2 comments

I have a confession to make.  When I went to university, I did not attend every single class.  Let’s just say that the transition from high school to university provided me with many distractions.  Unfortunately, books weren’t one of them.  Back in the late ‘60’s, we led a pretty sheltered existence.  I remember with absolute clarity sharing one bottle of beer with twenty classmates at the grade 12 grad party at my parent’s house.  Drinking just wasn’t part of the deal back then.  Many of us made up for lost time once we got on campus.

At an institution of higher learning, the library was, and continues to be, a focal point for the accumulation of knowledge.  At least that’s what we are led to believe.  Unfortunately for many of us, the most important floor in the library was the basement.  Many of us didn’t discover that there were three other floors above ground until late in our university careers.  As they say in sports, “too little, too late”.  In essence, the basement was a lounge area where you could go to share academic ideas far from the watchful gaze of the librarian.  And to play cards.

 My well-rounded education in card play began in the library over forty years ago.   I learned about 45’s and auction.  Some cribbage was played and the Capers played a game called tarbish, also known as bish.  Bish in the “Nish, as it were.  I liked all of these games and some of my hard earned student loan money ended up in the pockets of guys like Roy during poker games that lasted all day.  There was always a delegated “student” at any given time who would actually go to class and take notes for everyone else.

But the one game that I learned in the bowels of this hallowed building, which has remained a friend for life, is bridge.

If you’re not a bridge player, there’s no point in trying to describe it.  But like many other endeavors, there are varying levels of expertise.  I am at the lower end of the scale because I never took the game, or myself, too seriously.  I play what is affectionately known as “kitchen bridge”.  I know enough of the basics to be able to play with most people but you will never find my name in the local paper as one of the winners of duplicate bridge down at the local Club 60.

Bridge is a wonderful game which requires a lot of skill and a very good memory.  In theory, you should be able to remember every one of the 52 cards that is played every hand.  Some people have a photographic memory and are brilliant players.  Others are not quite as fortunate.  A very accomplished player was playing with a novice recently.  After several questionable and bizarre moves by his partner he asked her “ When did you learn to play bridge?  I know it was this afternoon, but I was wondering what time exactly”?

A lot of married couples play bridge together which is the ultimate test of the marriage vows. Regarding the origins of the game, it is said that there once was a married couple who hated each other.  They met another couple that also hated each other.  One night they all got together and invented bridge.

I remember early in my tutelage, playing with a crackerjack of a player.  I was stumbling along making mistake after mistake.  At one point, after a particularly poor play on my part, I asked my partner, “how would you have played that hand”? “Under an assumed name” was his terse reply.

I play with a few family members on a regular basis.  We play hard and we keep score and adopt a “take no prisoners” attitude.  But at the end of the evening, we never tally up the score.  Winning isn’t important.  It is a fabulous game and it brings old friends together.  When we play with our mother, all my siblings know not to call her unless they won the lottery or to announce a death in the family.

Nothing trumps bridge.

 

Posted on June 16, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

So far, Father’s Day has bordered on perfection. I wrote a story at 5:30 this morning and then went for a brisk hour long walk to the East End and back. I hung out with my granddaughter, Leah Rose for part of the morning.

Later today I will watch the final round of the U.S. Open golf tournament with my son Peter and we will dine on lobster.

However, there was one hiccup… the hour and fifteen minutes I spent at the Cathedral attending mass. The sermon was far too long and was made worse by a sound system that made the priest virtually unintelligible.

And then, James MacPherson sang the Our Father and all was right with the world. Half way through, I whipped out my Blackberry and videoed the performance. The sound quality isn’t the best as I was in my perch in the back row of the tenor section.

Please go to the video tab on my webpage and have a listen.

And happy Father’s Day to all the men and thank their wives for putting up with them ( us ) !

Posted on June 15, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

“Let’s go canoeing”, said one of my fellow teachers back in the spring of 1978.   I had never canoed before but was assured by just about everyone that the canoe ride down the  Peace River,  from the B.C. border to the Dunvegan Bridge, was a piece of cake.  With the long weekend in May approaching I decided to” take the plunge” with five of my teaching colleagues.  How prophetic that description turned out to be.

We were driven to the drop off area on a Friday after school.  Along with camping gear we were well stocked with food and drink.  Especially drink.

We pitched our tents on a warm evening, had some supper, sampled the supplies and went to bed, dreaming of conquering the Mighty Peace.

We were up at the crack of dawn.   After placing several cases of beer and just two loaves of bread into the first canoe, someone asked me, “What are you going to do with all that bread”?

As advertised, it couldn’t have been much easier.  Off we went and once we got the hang of steering the canoe, it was blissful.  For ten hours we coasted, occasionally lashing the canoes together.  We saw plenty of wildlife along the banks of the river.  They looked at us with disinterest.  They must have known we were teachers.

As the day drew to a close, we found a small island of tranquility, right in the middle of the river, which would be our home for the night.  We pitched our tents, ate a hearty supper, had a few drinks and howled at the moon appreciatively.  A slight breeze came up which kept the mosquitoes at bay.  By the time we settled in it was windy and there was a noticeable drop in temperature.

Part way through the night, we heard the pitter-patter of rain drops.  By daybreak there was a river of water running through our tents.  The mood of these voyageurs was slightly more sombre than it had been 24 hours previously.

We were cold, wet and a bit seedy as we packed up our belongings.  What lay ahead was the day from hell.  We expected it to be so and weren’t disappointed.  We battled a head wind all day.  We struggled for every inch of water.  A few of the canoes tipped when whitecaps crested.  It was a long, cold day of abject misery.

I thought of the pioneers, Radisson and Groseilliers.  They wouldn’t be whining.  I recalled Pauline Johnson’s classic poem, “The Song My Paddle Sings”.  My paddle was singing, “Get me the hell off this river”.

As we approached the Dunvegan Bridge, hail rained down from the heavens.  Like six drowned rats, we were rescued on the shore by friends who took us back to Fairview.  We were tired, cold and famished.  A feed of Chinese food at Jimmy Der’s Dragon Inn helped to revive our spirits.

At the end of the school year I took a trip to the West coast.  With my quest for adventure satisfied for the time being, I opted to take the ferry to Victoria.

And where’er your lot may be
Paddle your own canoe.

Sarah Bolton, 1853