Posted on March 25, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Pinehurst

 

 

I am proud of my Scottish heritage.  Ditto for the Irish.  My mother was an O’Flaherty.  Doesn’t get more Irish than that.

We live in “New Scotland” and our home town hosts one of the longest running Highland Games in North America.  Many people in my hometown bleed for anything Scottish.  I am not one of those, though you would have hardly thought this years ago when I took my kilt on a road trip.

Let me put this out there right now.  My wife wasn’t the only one wearing a dress on our wedding day.  She looked stunning dressed in a traditional white wedding gown.  If you are a Scot and you live in Nova Scotia, it is a moral imperative to get married in a kilt.  So there we were, at the conclusion of the ceremony, being piped arm in arm out of the great Cathedral, wearing our frocks.

It is not enough to celebrate our heritage on Robbie Burns Day.  I have been known to consume a “wee dram” of scotch, but so far have managed to escape the clutch of the haggis.  Who, in their right mind, (other than a Scot), would eat the entrails and internal organs of a sheep, mixed with suet, oatmeal and seasoning … and boiled in a bag? And not just any bag … the sheep’s stomach!  Entrails are often known as “offal”, a precursor for the modern word, “awful”.

In our home town, we will make any excuse to wear our kilts and party.  Kilted golf, kilted skiing and kilted “heavy events” are just a few of the opportunities for men to bare their legs, and possibly other body parts.

Which leads me directly to Pinehurst, North Carolina.  If you are a golfer, Pinehurst is as close to heaven as you are going to get.  Twenty years ago or so, I joined 7 lawyers from Vancouver for a week of golfing at Pinehurst.  (Sounds like the start of a lawyer joke).   All of these guys were type “A” personalities.  I knew I would have my hands full.  And lest I leave you with the impression that I could afford to be hanging around with corporate hotshots, let me confess that I was there as a guest.

Every evening, after 36 holes of golf (you don’t expect A types to stop at a measly 18, do you?), we would clean up and head to the elaborate dining room.  It resembled a southern mansion from “Gone with the Wind”.  Jackets and ties were required to gain entry.  My formal attire was a kilt.

The first stop was the martini bar.  I don`t like martini`s but I did not wish to appear to be a wuss.  On this night, there was an overflow crowd in the dining room, requiring a wait.  I believe more than one martini was consumed.  An inauspicious start.

An elegant and talented musician played softly on a grand piano as the room filled with resort guests.  He, and all of the wait staff, were of African American heritage. The noise level from the shrinking violets at our table increased exponentially, as bottle after bottle of wine was dispatched over a two hour period.

And I was getting some very curious looks from the servers.

People of Scottish origin understand what it means for a man to be a true Scot.  There are no undergarments worn under the kilt.  Don`t ask me why.  Just accept this as gospel.  And on this occasion, I decided to take one for the team.

I am certain that the cooks and most other employees were tucked into their beds by the time we got up to leave.  There was much singing and fellowship as we started our exit from the dining room.  About half a dozen female staff bid us adieu, but not before one of the guys came up behind me and hiked the kilt over my bare, white derriere.

It is hard to describe the squeals and howls that resounded around the largely empty dining room.

I haven’t been back to Pinehurst but I expect that if I show up, I will be the butt of their jokes … if they recognize the kilt.

 

Posted on March 24, 2014 under Monday Morning Musings with no comments yet

Me and David Duval

 

 

Back to reality. It is so nice to see the snow again and to know that a major storm is coming our way on Wednesday.

Can one person make a difference? Absolutely. Last Thursday when I was leaving Florida, I saw one person single handedly change the atmosphere in the departure lounge at the airport. We all know what it’s like when our vacation is over and we have to face the reality of going back home to work and cold weather…. especially if it’s an early morning flight. Multiply that by a couple of hundred passengers and you get the picture. A man who was running a newsstand was like a bolt of unbridled joy. I was his first customer of the day and I haven’t experienced anything like this in some time. Coming up soon, “Making a Difference.”

Have you ever walked up to the front door of a sitting Premier’s house and asked to
enter to have a beer and sing some songs? I didn’t think so. But that’s exactly what happened one Victoria Day ( the holiday ) in Victoria ( the city ) British Columbia. Political science junkies will remember that Dave Barrett was the Premier at the time. My father was out for a visit and a me and a few of my siblings took him to the Victoria Day parade. Mr. Barrett was the parade marshal. Well one thing led to another and before we knew it , we were on the Premier’s doorstep. What happened next will surprise you. It certainly surprised us! “Grin and Barrett” will be published soon.

I still have two other stories in the lineup for editing. “Everything You Wanted to Know About” is my take on sex education…then and now. Any seven year old with access to a computer can find out more on the subject in 5 minutes than many of us learned in our teenage years. Both of these scenarios are disturbing for very different reasons.

Attention people of Scottish origin. “ Right Up Yer Kilt” is a story about a golf trip to North Carolina to a high end golf resort. You have every reason to wonder what I was doing at such a place. You’ll have to read the story to find out. The last night of the trip, we were having dinner in their signature five star restaurant. I was wearing my kilt. I was with seven “type A” lawyers from Vancouver and … there was alcohol involved. I’m sure you could write the story with this limited amount of information.

Peter and I had a great time in Florida watching the pros play at Bay Hill ( golf ). I gave Adam Scott a few pointers on Wednesday before official play began! He went out and shot a course record tying 62 the next day. I was impressed at how he handled the throngs of autograph seekers. I also had a brief chat with David Duval after he finished his practice round last Monday. Non- golfers won’t find this the least bit interesting be he is one of a very small number of professional golfers (4) to have ever shot a 59 in competition. ( for 18 holes ). I told him about my 59 which I shot for 9 holes at the age of 10. He had a good chuckle.

Golfing should begin again soon around here… once they remove a foot or so of snow from the course.

Have a great week.

Posted on March 22, 2014 under Storytelling with one comment

 

 

Those of us who live in a northern climate and travel in winter embark at our own peril.   Especially if an airline is involved.   You can almost count on interruptions, delays, missed flights and baggage gone wild.  You can expect lineups, tired passengers and agitated client service personnel.   Kind of makes you wonder why you bother with winter travel at all.

But when you have the “winter from hell” and you just have to chase down the sun somewhere, you are willing to put up with some inconveniences.

Once you reach your destination, especially if it’s Florida, you expect unparalleled service.  And if it’s Orlando, then prepare yourself to be serviced to death.  This city is no Mickey Mouse operation.

On a recent trip to Florida, my connections were so awesome, (a happy set of coincidences), that I arrived earlier than expected.  I actually got there before my bags, but the lovely folks at U.S. Airways delivered them to my resort while I slept.  The only downside of having literally no wait time between flights was that I arrived in Orlando starving.  With a full belly I am rational and pleasant.   Hungry and tired?   I don’t have the proper vocabulary.

Because I didn’t have to wait for baggage and it was still light out, I thought I would grab my rental and head to the resort, only 30 minutes away. The car rental area of the airport is massive and my car company was at the farthest end of the line.  When I got there, there was a small lineup, maybe 10 people, but even this was surprising as all the other companies seemed to be moving people through quite rapidly.  I sized up the situation.  I thought I’d better not tackle this chore on an empty stomach and risk strangling one of the agents.

When I returned later after gobbling down two re-heated slices of pizza (I could have had filet mignon and it wouldn’t have tasted any better), the line had multiplied.  Disney type lineups, if you’ve ever been there.  I had a reservation as part of a package deal so I had no other option.  I was sorely tempted to go one stall over.  A no frills company didn’t have a single customer.  The agent looked as lonely as the Maytag repair man.

There were 30 of us herded like cattle.  There were two agents.  Have you ever rented a car before?  You know that it can take 10-15 minutes to process the paperwork.  I knew I was in for a wait as I chatted with some of my stall mates.

There were two men being waited on when the ordeal kicked into high gear.  It was obvious that there was a problem.  A communication problem.  The consensus from those of us in the lineup was that they were Russian.  Someone recognized the language.  Maybe they were Crimean for all we knew.  Forty –five minutes and the lineup never moved.  Cri mea river.

The mood in the lineup was going from bad to worse.  Just how long were we there?  Well, Lifemates set up a booth and two strangers in the queue got to know each other well enough that they were engaged before they got to the head of the line.  An expectant mother delivered a baby and the youngster was able to crawl by the time her parents had keys in hand.

And then a miracle happened.  A third agent showed up.  There was slight, sarcastic applause.  The joy was short lived as one of the other agents took this as a signal to go on break.  This was Friday, March 14^th.  The following day was March 15^th.  Beware the Ides of March.

One hour and twenty minutes later, I was at the head of the line waiting for my chance to have a few words with the agent.  I slyly turned to my fellow “life mates” (cell mates?) and offered my spot in the line for $50.  Most failed to see the humour.

I took several very deep breaths and approached the counter.

I looked at the agent.  He looked at me.  I stifled a withering stare as I gazed at his name tag.  He didn’t even have a name.  He was a trainee.

I had plotted my strategy as I had had some time to ponder what to say.  Very firmly and slowly, I said, “I want my car and I want the keys”.  Translation: “If you try to upsell me with more insurance, fuel surcharges, or automatic passes through the toll highways, I will gouge your eyes out with my bare hands”.

He seemed to get the message.

While he processed the paperwork, I looked up on the marquee at the advertising.  One sign in particular caught my eye.  “Travelling at the speed of Hertz.”

It hurts all right.  Hurtz like hell.

It was pitch black as I eased onto the Interstate.