Posted on August 31, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

We take our senses for granted.  Actually, we barely notice them until something happens to one of them.  This occurred to me a few days ago after having minor surgery on my ear.  Is there anything better than listening to a magnificent piece of music?  Or gazing in wonder at beautifully manicured flower garden?  Or smelling a freshly mown crop of hay?  Or the divine taste of the first bite of a lemon meringue pie?

Growing up, I had a pretty keen sense of hearing.  That is, until I got married.  I have discussed this perplexing issue with my physician on numerous occasions.  Seems that he has the same affliction.  I can hear water dripping from a faucet three floors away in a hotel, yet my wife says I don’t listen.  I can go to a symphony concert and hear every note being played by every instrument, yet my wife says I don’t listen.  My clients at work have commented on my ability to listen yet my wife says that I don’t listen.  Kind of reminds me of the Simon and Garfunkel tune, Sounds of Silence – “People hearing without listening”.

I come from a musical family and everybody has a pretty good ear for music.  We all have, at some juncture, either played an instrument, sung or did both.  Our parents were musical and when we were kids, our house, “39”, was the epicentre for house parties.  Before the advent of television, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, house parties were the prime source of entertainment.  We owned a piano and over the years our parents’ friends would congregate at our house to drink, smoke and sing.  And speaking of the sense of smell is there anything more charming than the aroma of cigarette smoke?  They all chain smoked and the living room would be filled with the acrid blue cloud.

Our own children have inherited the musical gene and like “39”, our house has always been a place where musicians are not only welcome but encouraged to come for jam sessions and family get- togethers.  The kids, too, have a good ear for music.

Not surprisingly, I have come to the conclusion that hearing and listening are two distinct skills and in the presence of my wife, I only exhibit one of those.  I would feel rather bad if I was the only man on the planet who has been accused of not listening to his wife.  It seems to be a very common phenomenon and just another one of those mysterious differences between men and women.  Maybe it has something to do with familiarity.  After all, what single voice have you heard more in your lifetime than that of your spouse?  Most times, that voice is soothing and familiar, like an old sweater or a pair of slippers.  It is a voice that comforts, encourages, chastises and occasionally praises.  And sometimes it is the voice that grates like fingernails running down a blackboard.

How and when do men arrive at that singular defining moment in their marriage when they start to tune out their wife’s voice?  For some, it is moments after the wedding ceremony when the bride tosses her wedding flowers to a roomful of hysterical single women at the reception.  For the rest of us, it just happens over time like erosion at the beach.

And so, I make my way to Amherst to have a small lesion removed from my ear.  My brother is an ear, nose and throat specialist.  While some question his dexterity with a hockey stick or golf club, his surgical skills are unparalleled.  Just ask one of his recent patients, Vincent Van Gogh.  Many years ago on an annual golf vacation, I commented on his golf swing after a particularly frustrating round of golf.  “You look like you’re swinging a baseball bat.” “But I like baseball”, was his quick rejoinder.

I hadn’t thought of either of my ears lately.  Have you?  My wife suspects that nearly fifty years of golf with exposure to the sun, may have something to do with the growth behind my right ear.  I have my own theory.  In my youth, I was an altar boy.  In our parish there was a priest who had suffered a debilitating brain injury and his ability to say mass was severely compromised.  I was conscripted by the pastor to serve mass for this priest on a daily basis in a small chapel at the rear of the cathedral.  This, I did, without argument.  At the end of every mass, he would grab my ear and twist it.  I guess this was his way of offering the sign of peace.  After multiple twisting’s in my youth, I think my ear is now ready to fall off.  I wonder if I will be trading in my glasses for contacts should the surgery fail.

I shouldn’t complain.  I have a friend from the United States who inexplicably lost hearing in one of her ears and suffers from vertigo.  That’s the bad news.  Of course, when she wants to tune out her husband, which oddly enough happens from time to time with women, she simply has to tilt her head in another direction.

The procedure goes without incident, although the attending nurse in day surgery is in therapy undergoing counselling after listening to the verbal exchange during the operation.  They don’t teach that in nursing schools.  My brother suggested that I cover the ear while showering for the next few days and to avoid scratching the affected area of the ear.

If you saw me you would understand why I don’t own a shower cap.  The afro that I proudly wore in the late ‘60’s looks like stubble in the field after a combine has passed over a crop of wheat.  My wife can now buff her fingernails on my head and save herself the price of a manicure.  The affected area of the ear had stitches and was slightly inflamed the morning after the procedure.  After careful consideration my wife wrapped a compost bag around my head and captured the image on her Blackberry.  The resulting picture looks like a cross between Gollum of Lord of the Rings and Mr. Condom head.  I won’t win a beauty pageant with this picture in my portfolio.  However, I emerged from the shower without undue harm to the ear.

It is day two and now I am detecting a slight itch behind the ear but my brother’s words are reverberating inside my head – “thou shalt not scratch”.  I am not the only member of the family with a slightly warped sense of humour.  My wife, recalling a surgery on one of our cats, thought a protective cone around my head would do the trick.  Using brown wrapping paper, she tailored a perfect replica of an animal cone and placed it around my head.  At last count, it had received 100,000 hits on YouTube.

I don’t think the operation will improve my listening skills when it comes to my wife.  So I will continue to keep my nose to the grindstone and my ear to the ground.

Ear today.  Gone tomorrow.

Posted on August 29, 2013 under Thursday Tidbits with one comment

  SEEN AT THE FALL FAIR – A BUNCH OF POLITICIANS

Ok. Now there I’ve gone and gotten myself in trouble for suggesting politicians resemble a cow’s butt. Sorry. You know me well now. There are no sacred cows in my world.

We had a blast at the Eastern Nova Scotia Exhibition. We took our granddaughter and did all the mandatory stops. She went on a few of the rides and I went on the Ferris Wheel with her, the first time I’ve done that in at least 25 years. I think the operator was the same guy that was there back in the 1950’s when I was a kid. He won’t win the congeniality award.  She played a few games of chance ( the ones that guarantee a prize to children! ) and we visited all the barns. She got to sit on the biggest horse at the Ex – a 2100 pound Clydesdale. And on our way out, we couldn’t quite get past the cotton candy stand and we settled on a candy apple. Coming up next week, I will have a story called “Fall Fare” which sums up all that is good and evil at the Fair.

When is the last time you thought about your ears? Unless you are getting an ear pierced or you wear glasses, you probably don’t pay much attention to them. A little while back I had some surgery on my ear, performed by my brother. There are some interesting twists and turns in the story and I am seriously pondering humiliating myself once and for all by posting a picture that was taken at the time. What do you think Connie? If enough people clamor to see it, I may post it. Coming Saturday, “Getting an Earful”.

One of the librarians at People’s Place library told me a funny story the other day and I rushed home and put pen to paper. I have asked her to proof read and edit it before I publish it. The story is 100% true but I have embellished it somewhat. I’ll let you know if it passes her scrutiny.

I hope everyone has a great long weekend and be careful if you are playing washer toss while drinking. I am aware of someone who was injured playing this game. Is it possible to play washer toss sober?

Posted on August 27, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

On most days I walk to and from work, a trek of about two and a half kilometres.  The good news is that the trip to work is all downhill and the wind is at my back.  Of course, I have to come home at the end of the day and while the walk is not arduous, the north wind is always blowing in my face.  In the summer this is a wonderful thing.  In the dead of winter, it can be torturous.

This street is a major thoroughfare, and this being a university town many students use this route to get to classes.  Some things never change.  As long as I can remember, the first class of the day has always commenced at 8:15.  Last spring, on my way to work, I came over the last hill which brings one to Main Street, and on both sidewalks was a long line of students with their back packs, making their way to campus.  It looked very much like a column of ants.

Now, lest you think I am being disrespectful to be referring to students as ants, may I remind you that ants are very industrious, bright insects.  They are the animal with the largest brain in proportion to their body size.  They are known to be the smartest type of insects with about 250,000 brain cells.  There are warrior ants who engage in hand to hand combat and apparently execute well-planned strategies to overcome their victim.

In a rebuttal to the phrase “It’s a man’s world”, the male worker ants have a lifespan of between 45-60 days while the queen ant can live upwards of 20 years.  Reminds me of that old country and western song; “She got the gold mine. I got the shaft.”   And apparently, slavery is alive and well in the colonies… the ant colonies, that is.  The slave- maker ant raids the nests of other ants and steals their pupae.  Once the pupae hatch, they are made to work as servants within the colony.  Sort of like a hostile corporate takeover.

And finally, ants are capable of carrying objects 50 times their own body weight.  One of the varsity football players would have to lift a mid-sized car over his head to equal the strength of an ant.  Some have tried.

The ants walking down the sidewalk on this winter morning are the engine of the local economy. Antigonish has been welcoming students since 1855. Technically the university was started in Arichat but later relocated to Antigonish.  While there has always been a healthy tension between town and gown, it is a symbiosis akin to anything in the animal kingdom.

Every time I witness this parade down the sidewalks I start humming the soundtrack from “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs; High ho, high ho, it’s off to work we go.  Let us
celebrate this ant colony.  Brains and hard work should pay off for them too.