Posted on September 10, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

When you live in a university town, there is a constant ebb and flow that follows the school year.  Students arrive en masse in September and leave in late April.  You see a lot of moving vans and teary eyed parents.  The tears are a mixture of sadness and apprehension that their children are preparing to leave the nest forever.  At least that’s the hope.

After a year or two of living on campus, many students opt for off-campus housing in the form of rental units.  There’s only one thing worse than helping your children move and that is the delicate task of helping them clean their apartment when the lease is up.  If you want to see tears, watch a parent clean up after a horde of quasi-adults.

There is a hierarchy of dirt.  There is our own, our children’s and finally, that of total strangers.

We can all deal with our own squalor, as bad as it might appear.  We have moved a little bit more than the average family.  Once it was a move to the county to accommodate a flock of chickens and a few roosters that graced our property in town.  There is a longer version to that story including our haphazard attempts at corralling and transporting the flock.

At the best of times, doing the final cleanup in your own home is soul destroying work.  But it can be worse.  A lot worse.

Inevitably, your children will want to leave home.  Some say they will be gone for good by the time they reach the age of thirty.  It starts in high school when they plead to share a summer rental with buddies.  A piece of advice to parents: under no circumstances, allow your teenage child to do a sublet with buddies.  Ever.  Even if they guarantee never to come home again.  One memorable year, we were pressed into action and undertook the cleanup of the rental at the end of the summer.  It is hard to describe what we encountered upon entering the house but, by all accounts, we should have been wearing hazardous waste suits.  Fukushima looked like the Public Gardens in comparison.

As bad as it seems, cleaning up after yourself and your offspring is mere child’s play compared to cleaning a complete strangers’ grunge.  Recently, a friend moved to Halifax and was taking up residence in an apartment.  The sign outside the building said “ready for occupancy”.  Unfortunately it did not contain the disclaimer that the preferred occupants would be recent hires of Molly Maid.

The young woman, about to attend law school, took one look at the filth left by the predecessors and was already pondering her first law suit.  A small tear welled in the corner of her eye.  She and her mother rolled up their sleeves and formed their own version of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.  The place was rendered spotless with the help of Mr. Clean and a bottle of Yellowtail merlot.

I would like to be filthy rich some days.  If I could just skip the filthy part.

Posted on September 9, 2013 under Monday Morning Musings with no comments yet

“The hills are alive, with the sound of music.” Eat your heart out Julie Andrews. I took this picture of Betty at “Ridge Lookout” on a hike this past weekend. I posted this picture on Facebook and have decided that I should put a picture of Betty with every story I write considering the response I received.

For you locals, if you are interested in seeing one of the most spectacular vistas in the county, here`s what you need to do. Head out the Cloverville Road and at the fork veer right onto the Fairmont Road. Continue along heading towards the back road that eventually comes out at Jimtown.  You will pass the Walsh Post Road and Brophy Road. Continue along Fairmont Road and you will see a sign on the right hand of the road for access to the Fairmont ridge trail. Don`t attempt this if you have a weak heart as the grade on the logging road is quite pronounced. We encountered one flat section of the road that had a huge puddle ( maybe 40 feet in length ). The road ends and then you have to locate a small trail leading to the lookout. It is reasonably well marked with orange ribbon but I wouldn`t do this walk anytime near dusk. In total it takes about 30 minutes to get to the top. Take a picnic. You won`t be disappointed.

Admit it. Cleaning your own house prior to moving is one of the most soul destroying exercises imaginable. However, there are things far worse. How about cleaning up after one of your children who has occupied a sublet with some buddies over the summer months. Or cleaning a mess left by complete strangers. Coming this week is the story `Down and Dirty` which explores this topic in all its sordid detail.

I was chatting with my buddy Phil the other day and  was reminiscing about growing up next door to the radio station. I started to tell him some stories about the early days of the station and some of the colorful on air characters. This is definitely a local story but I`m sure that anyone who comes from a small town that has a radio station can identify. Let`s see if you remember these names: The old timer; Armand; Danny Gallivan; Dr.Cecil; John a Go Go; Gus; Ray Mac; Freeman; and some of the more contemporary voices like  Kenny, Rhonda and Marilyn. The story is called `In The Shade of The Chestnut Tree. “

I received a lot of feedback on the lottery ticket story. While I made light of the situation, it definitely hit a nerve with a lot of people. Seriously, there has to be a better way for the lottery commission to manage the whole lottery ticket business. I am not the only person who finds this aggravating in the extreme. And I even heard back from a convenience store owner who invited me to spend a day on the other side of the counter. Pardon my French but can you imagine what a shit show that must be, dealing with lottery ticket freaks all day long.  Just hit me with a stick and put me out of my misery.

Have a great week.

Posted on September 7, 2013 under Storytelling with 3 comments

Once again, marijuana is stealing all of the headlines for all the wrong reasons.  The leader of the Federal Liberal Party, the man who might be our Prime Minister someday, announced truthfully that he has smoked marijuana.  Now there’s shocking and ground breaking news.  He may have even inhaled.  Maybe we can apply under the “Freedom of Information Act “and ask his respirologist, just to be on the safe side.  If this is his worst vice, let’s call an election tomorrow.

I was pondering all this chatter in the news these past days as I stood in line, embracing my wholesome sandwich.  “Who did and who didn’t” seems to be all the buzz.  I noticed that the lineup wasn’t moving very fast.

Have any of you read the classic story “Pride and Prejudice”?  The opening sentence goes like this: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man of good fortune must be in want of a wife”.   Jane Austen must of have been smoking something when she wrote this.  A single man with money wants to stay single and keep his money.

I have my own version of this famous quote. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that I will always choose the wrong lineup in a store”.  This is especially true when there is only one cashier.  The law of averages is not working in my favor when this happens.

I have parted ways with many of my vices.  I eschewed all smokeables over 35 years ago.  I haven’t had a drink of alcohol in years and recently I gave up the worst vice of all: sweets.  I attend mass twice each weekend and at this rate will soon be considered a candidate for a monastery if I give up the last of life’s great pleasures… lottery tickets.  Gotcha!  I know what you were thinking.

On this particular day, I didn’t have time to pack a lunch so I ran across Main Street to pick up a delightful sandwich at a small convenience store.  I took my place in a small lineup and within minutes the lineup swelled to six people.  Unfortunately, the first person in the lineup was clutching lottery tickets.

I don’t have anything against lottery tickets but there ought to be one place in the town where all the lottery ticket freaks can hang out.  It is painful enough watching people spending the equivalent of a week’s grocery money on lottery tickets and smokes without having to watch them lay out their tickets and have each and every one validated.  You think they don’t know already exactly to the penny how much they’ve won?

After an exasperating ten minutes of watching this charade, it came time for payment.  The combination and exchange of cash, debit and lottery winnings would have befuddled the governor of the Bank of Canada.  I was all but ready to sacrifice my sandwich to a sound flogging of the customer.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and the ordeal ended.  That is, until the next person in the lineup fumbled with her purse and hauled out a wad of lottery tickets.

Someday, I expect the store manager will find a mouldy turkey breast sandwich, sitting amongst the “Guns and Ammo” magazines.