Posted on September 21, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

We don’t think much about our home furnishings unless the pets have torn them to shreds and replacement is inevitable.  The most likely time to replace furniture is when we are moving to a new home or apartment and a change of décor is in order.  Some furniture is special and will follow you forever.  However, there is one iconic item that always poses special challenges in good times and bad, and that is the piano.

For many homes in our part of the world, the piano was the centrepiece of the living room, if not the entire house.  Long before the advent of television and the internet, the piano was the primary source of entertainment for a whole generation of our ancestors.  A good fiddle player and an accomplished sidekick on the piano could entertain the entire neighborhood well into the night.  The other part of that winning combination was often alcohol and tobacco.

Most pianos I have seen are the garden variety and a few were even less so.  I remember in my youth that a few of us, living in Victoria at the time, pooled our meagre resources and bought a piano for less than $100.  I don’t think it was a Steinway.  More like a beer stein.  Somehow my sister could miraculously get a tune out of it.  And the more we partied, the better it sounded.  You know how that goes.  One fateful night, at the end of our tenure on the west coast, the piano met its sorry end when we had our own version of a beach party.  I can still see water pouring off of the top of the piano down onto the white ivories.

And some residences are home to “grand” and “baby grand” pianos.  These are magnificent works of art and can produce amazing sounds at the fingertips of masterful classical music types.

But in all cases, there comes a time that you have to relocate the damn piano and that’s where the fun starts.

It’s tough enough to decide what to do in good times with a piano but throw in an impending divorce and things can get dicey.

Take the couple who were going through the delicate task of dividing their assets.  Things were progressing until it came to valuing the magnificent upright grand that graced their elegant living room.  Having reached an impasse they agreed to auction it off and split the proceeds.

Four burly characters arrived on their doorstep on the appointed day and carefully transported the piano to the auction house.

A few weeks later a notice appeared in the local paper about a block of items coming up for auction.  The former owner of the piano, who happened to be interested in antiques, decided to go and check it out.  To his surprise, his very own piano was among the items on the block that day.  The bidding started and on this day it appeared that no one was interested in the piano so just for fun he threw in a stinker bid of $300.  “Going once, going twice.  Sold!”

He handed his ex $150 on the day she vacated the house for the last time; her share of the piano proceeds.

A few days later, four burly men from the auction house showed up at the same house from which they had removed the piano a few weeks earlier.  They seemed perplexed as they moved the piano back into the exact location from whence it had come a short time ago.

He sat and pondered the 52 white keys and 36 black.  He thought of playing Beethoven but instead chose the Everly Brothers as he hammered out the first notes of “Bye Bye Love.”

Posted on September 19, 2013 under Thursday Tidbits with one comment

Note to self. DO NOT ever write a story about politics again. Ever. In the story, “Playing in the Mud”, I wrote about voter apathy. Well, my hunch is that once people saw the picture of campaign signs at the top of my story, they immediately went somewhere else on Facebook or chose to do the laundry. Really folks, the story wasn’t that bad but only a small number of people read this one. Oh well, live and learn.

The next story, coming Saturday is about pianos and divorce. Have you ever tried to move a piano? Have you ever tried to move a piano in the throes of a divorce? And just how, pray tell, do you equally divide that asset? Does one spouse get to keep the white keys and the other one , the blacks? This is actually a true story with only the slightest hint of embellishment. It’s called “Playing the Same Tune.”

As many of you know, I’m always ranting on and on about wellness. I speak often of the merits of diet and exercise. While I no longer run marathons, I still keep active mainly by walking. So my good friend, Matt MacDonald, or “Matt the Mover” as I like to call him, convinced me to start wearing a pedometer to count the number of steps I take each day. ( I have been averaging around 12,000 ). Like the calendars I use for 30 day challenges, it is another way to make oneself accountable and conscious of their health. My wife noticed me wearing the device, clipped to my belt. And, wait for this, she told me that researchers in Edinburgh , Scotland have just done research with cattle who were hooked up to pedometers. I am not lying. I mean, everyone  is into fitness by the sounds of it. I haven’t written the story yet but the ideas are swishing around in my head like a cow’s tails. I wonder if unfit cows are put out to pasture?

I have just about decided on the title for the book and you’ll be the first to know. My website is being redesigned and I hope to unveil the title and the cover of the book by the beginning of October. I know you are breathlessly waiting.

We’ve got some really good momentum going with ticket sales for the fundraiser next Thursday the 26th.

Hope everyone has a good weekend.

Posted on September 17, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Ah, the good old days when the air was clean and sex was dirty.  Those were the days, when having fun for a kid consisted of climbing trees, riding a bike or playing a game of ball in a field.  But before all this came the sandbox.  This is where we started to learn about socializing, cooperation, and sharing.  It is also the place where future bullies learned about throwing sand in other people’s faces.  And when the rains came, these kids made mud pies and threw them at others.

And then they grew up and became politicians.

Politics has always been a blood sport and, as the expression goes, “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen”.   I had a fleeting taste of the nectar that is politics, having been elected three times as a municipal councillor.  What were the good citizens of Antigonish thinking when they chose an old hippie to lead them on the path of righteousness?

Not very much, I guess!

I remember the very first time I ran for public office.  I was a real neophyte so I enlisted the support of a handful of political types to teach me the ropes.  Compared to provincial and federal politics, municipal politics is child’s play.  I insisted to my team that we play by the rules at all times.  A few nights before the election, we held a meeting of my team to go over our Election Day strategy.  The polls were open from 8 AM-8PM.  After I exhorted everyone to be respectful of the regulations, one member of the team we’ll call J. piped up. “I will play by your rules from 8AM until 6PM.  After that we’ll play by my rules.”

At about 6:02 p.m. the first of many people, reeking of beer, showed up at the polling station.  They came right up to me and said, “J. sent me”.  I think I know where J. had found them.

Pretty innocent stuff.

Following the lead of our dear neighbors to the south, Canadian politics has turned nasty and vile.  No longer is it acceptable for a candidate to stand up to say what he or she “would do for their country.” No, now our future leaders want you to go out in the backyard with them and watch as they fling mud balls at each other.

The exception to this rule might be in our riding where the discourse is quite civil.

Are you surprised that voter apathy is at an all-time high and that voter turnout is at an all-time low?  Are you surprised that we get the governments we deserve as a result of this apathy?

I’ve been told by many a politician that attack ads work.  All they do is compel me to vote for any party but the one behind these contemptible commercials.  I’ll support anyone who will walk the high road on this one.

It is time for people to collectively put on their Peter Finch outfits, stand in the middle of the Trans-Canada Highway and yell at the top of their lungs “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore.”

Where is Tuxedo Stan when you need him?

( Tuxedo Stan was a cat that ran for the Mayor of Halifax. RIP, Stan )