Let’s pause for a moment. Granted men
aren’t much for small talk but opening with, “do you have a freezer?”
gets one to thinking:
He has a freezer to sell or
Worse, he has a freezer to
store or
He wants to cram something into
my freezer, but:
He didn’t check that, if I had
a freezer, there was room for the side of beef he won in a lottery and
He’s a snowbird in Florida
Well, my puzzlement was soon answered once
I gave a positive response.
“Great, I want you to go to the golf
club and pick up some meat.”
Typical request one gets nowadays; back
came the puzzlement.
It seems that private golf clubs impose a quarterly minimum charge for food and drinks which is normally not an issue if you happen to be within driving range (pun intended) of the golf course.
During the golf season, you eat up that
charge easily after a game and/or a dinner or two but when you’re golfing in
Florida in the off season, the golf club in Toronto just can’t accommodate you
easily, if at all – you have to get your buns to the club for that hot dog.
But, here’s the killer, the irretrievable
ball in the water, if you will; they charge you for what you don’t eat. A
banker would call it credit float; a golf member calls it extortion.
But Gord, ever the calculating one, confirmed that if he indeed picked up the food, food he’s basically paid for, it would be covered by his quarterly minimum. Clever. Really clever when he doesn’t have to pick it up.
Flash forward a month: it’s in the middle
of an Ontario February, a February that sensitive Canadians in Florida celebrate
by turning up the air conditioning and turning on the international weather
channel. Gord has my visit set up and I’m to make my way to the golf course to
pick up his frozen food on such and such a date. And we’re not talking Kraft
Dinner, dear reader, Gord wouldn’t entrust racks of lamb and steaks to just
anybody. Well, anybody with a freezer.
Putting four sets of chains on my 4 x 4 and taking out a CAA1Canadian Automobile Association one day membership, I venture forth. “Who, besides a friend with a freezer, would be out in a record setting blizzard?” I ask myself wondering why the heater has just stopped working. Well, shiver me timbers, it seems there are a lot of people out, a lot of people who had obviously set their GPSes to find the golf club’s parking lot.
I’m now snow-shoeing without snow shoes
from the last parking spot at the back of the lot to the clubhouse. As I look
back to try to remember where I parked, my ‘tank’ is slowly disappearing from
view under a blanket of snow.
“Hi, I’m a friend of Gord’s who asked me
to pick up some meat for him.”
The maître d’ eyes me
incredulously, “You came out on a night like tonight for a friend. What
silly bet did you lose?”
“Well,” trying
to justify my presence and clapping the snow off my mittens while noting that
I’m not wearing boots, “it seems I’m not the only friend to come out
tonight, the parking lot’s full. What happened?”
“Ah,” came
the all-knowing smile, “they’re members, you’re the only friend.”
“And why,” I
stupidly ask, “are they here?”
“End of the month,” the fitted jacket with the name tag Pierre replied.
“Pierre,” I rolled
off my tongue and into two syllables, suspecting that everyone knew him as
Pete,”I still don’t understand.”
My eyes moved slowly upward focusing on the
cartoon balloon forming over Pierre’s head that said, “Ah, those unfortunate
to appreciate the finer things in life, how droll, I’ll humour him, he could
become a member, dread the thought, just the type to call me ‘Pete’.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your
name.”
“Rogé,” I
pronounced suavely, two can play this game.
Mystified, Pierre continued, “You see,
there’s a quarterly charge for hospitality and if, you unfortunately don’t, how
shall I put it, hospitalityize, you can’t roll over those charges.”
“You’re out the money,” I summarized not correcting his spelling.
“Exac – te- ment,” warmed Pierre, getting into the swing of things and thankful, for
once I’m sure, to meet one of his own.
“Well, Pierre, it’s been a pleasure meeting
you, is the order ready?”
“Let me check,” and Pierre disappeared behind the swinging doors into the kitchen
which gave me the chance to look around the room and survey the members who looked
like they were questioning their sanity and mentally revising the cost of a
round of golf upward.
Not a smile did I see nor any lobster nor
glasses pairing it with Dom Perignon. You got the impression that they didn’t
want to overshoot their credit balance. Ah well, nice to know that those in the
heady financial bracket who get to enjoy a private game of golf now and then probably
got there in part by counting their pennies.
“Voilà,” announced Pierre, re-entering and off-loading a large, heavily laden brown paper bag onto my braced arms. “Et, bon appetit.”
“Thanks, Pierre, but it’s not for me.
I’m just doing Gord a favour.”
“Ah well then, knowing Mr. Gordon as I
do, he’ll probably want to share it with you,” waved
Pierre, punctuating it with a Gallic wink.
3 Massachusetts golfers arrested for violating Rhode Island coronavirus quarantine order: police1Richmond police say the three duffers went to elaborate lengths to hide their identities as out-of-towners so they could get in a round of golf at the Meadow Brook Golf Course in town on Wednesday.
Gregory Corbett, 51, Tyler Pietrzyk, 22, and Nye Cameron, 22, were apprehended at a nearby McDonald’s restaurant, where police say the men changed cars to drive to the club in a vehicle with Rhode Island license plates, the Attleboro Sun Chronicle reported Friday.
Cops issued the three men summonses for violating the quarantine when they drove back from the golf course to their vehicles at the McDonald’s in the vehicle with the Rhode Island plates, the paper reported.
In a related story, 1 Ontario golfer (sic)
arrested for violating Humber River environmental protection order: police.
“He consciously hit 80 golf balls
into the river thus severely damaging the delicate eco system,” affirmed the policeman
who answered a call from a distraught former Scarlett Woods marshall and
general factotum who happened to be passing by.
The golfer (sic), in his defense, said he was
practicing and the shots unintentionally went into the Humber. ‘I was
perfecting my slice to perfection.’
“There isn’t a jury in the world that
would believe someone, who calls himself a golfer (sic), could possibly hit 80
consecutive balls in the water,” continued the police sergeant. ‘I suggested he
slow down his swing as I slipped on the cuffs.’
Trying to avoid the arrest, the golfer (sic)
showed the officer his ‘Get out of jail free’ card which he always carries with
him. The officer, after checking with headquarters, dismissed the well worn
piece of ID but did, after the golfer’s (sic) knees-on-the-ground
incessant pleading, call the Lakeview golf club.
After a lengthy animated conversation, the policeman reluctantly took off the cuffs and let the golfer (sic) go, explaining, “They know the guy, Don Dally. They said he’s legit, tries hard but can’t stay dry. The Lakeview pro went on to explain they have water on the 18th hole there and this guy personally has made the water level rise. They confirmed he’s taking lessons to learn to slice the ball away from the water and safely into the woods.”
Richmond police say the three duffers went to elaborate lengths to hide their identities as out-of-towners so they could get in a round of golf at the Meadow Brook Golf Course in town on Wednesday.
Gregory Corbett, 51, Tyler Pietrzyk, 22, and Nye Cameron, 22, were apprehended at a nearby McDonald’s restaurant, where police say the men changed cars to drive to the club in a vehicle with Rhode Island license plates, the Attleboro Sun Chronicle reported Friday.
Cops issued the three men summonses for violating the quarantine when they drove back from the golf course to their vehicles at the McDonald’s in the vehicle with the Rhode Island plates, the paper reported.
Another thrill packed episode in the on-going saga of man versus man versus the elements, in this case, daring Don Dally at his full height challenging a pair of fitful fisherman and both sides defying the humble Humber river at low tide
When we last left Daring Don, he was retrieving a set (made up of 20 St. George’s1St. George’s is a prestigious private golf club in Toronto. range golf balls – Hey, they’re Titleists) of his errant shots that had inexorably faded into the roiling rapids and splashed the fly by knights of the rod and reel.
“Get thee to a driving range,” they remonstrated.
“Get thee to a fish store,” daring Don remonstrated right back.
And so it began, two parties of limited
skill, adherents of limited skill sports, waging verbal war on one another while
up to their knees in the muddy runoff. A crowd of limited skill sports’ fans
started to cheer them on from both sides of the river.
“Fly a feathery at ‘em,” was heard in support of daring Don.
“Cast aspersions,” came the other side’s biting retort.
“Crush his creel,” exhorted Don’s
disciples.
“Fly one by him,” came the rejoinder.
Testing the idiom that actions speak louder
than words, one of the fly casters picked up one of Don’s balls and threw it
farther downstream, making it by far Don’s longest drive of the day.
“Good one,’ encouraged
one side of the river.
To counter, Don pulled out his nail kit (He
can teach hygiene.) which he always carries with him along with his get out of
jail free card, removed the scissors, and cut one of the fly casters’ lines.
“Ooooo, game on,” came the roar from Don’s side.
While this was going on, unbeknownst to
either party, the park’s clean up crew was breaking up a log jam farther
upstream that was limiting the flow of water.“Stand back, mates,” warned
the displaced aussie supervisor, “when we pull that key log, there’ll be a
rush of water that will catch their attention in Buffalo.”
Another
episode, a golfer’s saga – chapter 3, for those of you keeping track and
with a 3 ring binder at the ready, in the on-going saga of man against
adversity, our Don Dally.
aka Daring Don of the
Valley.
Daring Don was the first to hear the roar of the onrushing water. His keen ear was attuned, being a cottage owner, to picking up the signal of impending disaster. Hadn’t Don, alone but unafraid, wrestled a beaver away from his dam (no, not a female beaver) to avoid flooding his trophy room including his collection of rare guitar picks?
Yes, daring Don, was about to test his
survival skills again.
(lights down – music up – sfx tsunami).
Don’s alert eye discerned logs among the
rushing torrent; decision time: pick up the golf balls or warn the fishermen
blithely ignorant of the impending doom?
(pause)
Don let out a blood curdling scream as a
ball escaped his grasp.
But then a grateful “Thank you God,” escaped
Don’s lips as a bruised but still playable Titleist with St. George’s Range
lettering still legible came within easy reach.
The tidal wave surged closer. But Don’s
I’ll-help-you-even-if-you-don’t-want-help’s conscience couldn’t be put on pause
and he yelled to the blithely ignorant fishermen casting, now that one of them had
refitted his cut line, their lures.
“Give me a line,” barked Don.
“Your mother wears army boots,” came the rebark.
“No, throw me a fishing line, I’ll lash
it … just a minute”…”there’s another golf ball … got it … I’ll lash it to a
passing log and save us all.”
The fishermen then realized that things
were about and figured they had nothing to lose even though they detested Don’s
dastardly ways and cast their lines in Don’s direction.
Don’s eyes widened with an unmistakeable
look of fear … “Wait a minute,” came the wail… the fishermen froze… “Can
you guys pick up that golf ball that’s heading your way?”
The onrush of logs and water was getting
closer (music up again). The crowds on both sides of the river, sensing the
biting banter was put on hold, headed for higher ground quickly taking out
their cells phones and checking their e-mails.
Don seized the moment, while seizing
another golf ball, “I’ve got most of them now,” he proudly beamed and
planned his jump perfectly, landing on top of a passing log. Don now feverishly
(Music up again: let’s go from a Cm to an Ab/C) lashed the two fishing lines
around the log and belted to his company in misery, “Hold on!”
And with that, the three of them were
carried down the angry Humber (hell hath no fury like a stream’s scorn), Don
straddling the log in bronco busting fashion, and the two fisherman holding
onto their rods on a tow bouncing over the waves with the low lying, small
opening, old mill bridge looming in the distance.
How, you’re probably asking yourself, are
they going to get out of this predicament? And will they log an injury? Most
importantly, did Don get all his balls?
Thanks to an observant reader, we shouldn’t be surprised at our daring Don’s log riding skill as he could well have a genetic disposition to succeed in this area with Québec forebears who were log drivers. Research did unearth one Ronald Dallé, affectionately called ‘le mouillé, the wet one, who earned his living this way and could well be a relative but there was no supporting evidence that he also played golf and/or looked for golf balls while on the job.
W hen we last left our daring Don, he was impersonating Slim Pickins’ role in Dr. Strangelove riding a log hurtling towards the Old Mill Bridge and certain death or at least minor surface bruising. For those not comfortable with the geography, please refer to the picture below. This, of course, wouldn’t accurately illustrate what Don would be facing with a raging torrent closing off the two outside arches.
The Magwood Park crowd that had enjoyed the
give and take upstream reassembled on
the bridge for more light entertainment.
So, to recap, here’s Don astride a log followed by the two fishermen bouncing breathlessly along behind holding on for dear life to their tested in life for Canada Canadian Tire1Canadian Tire is a chain of stores specializing in automotive and sporting gear. Definitely not up scale. rods and colour matched reels.
Further evidence that Don, in a former
life, was a log driver can be assumed as he sized up his options:
Look for any golf balls that might have drifted down stream to this
point
Guess that the log he was riding could well turn 90 degrees and lock
onto the bridge and he would never get to see his balls again
Jump off this log onto a shorter limb that could pass safely under
the arch
Don, after a suitable pause, reluctantly
chose number 3 and with a sure-footed leap he landed perfectly on a passing log
(Don still had his golf shoes on, in case you were wondering – ed) that floated
under the arch while the log he had been on, as expected, jammed up against the
bridge. Whew, it was that close!
But, I hear you asking, what of the
fishermen?
Let me try to bring you in high resolution 4K this nerve-wracking, finger-nail biting, tennis-elbowing picture as poignantly, colourfully and accurately as possible. When the log their lines were lashed to slammed into the bridge, the fishermen, still holding steadfastly to their tested for life in Canada Canadian Tire rods and colour matched reels, zipped over the log, flew through the arch and then started decelerating rapidly just clear of the bridge as the 500 lb. test lines, now fully stretched, started to snap back. Nothing could save them now from crushing their creels and themselves back into the bridge. But unbelievably, just at that moment, a maxed out wave funnelled down through the arch catching the fishermen and boomeranging them high into the air. In seemingly slow-motion, the fishermen floated skyward tracing out an arc that would have them flying back over the bridge or, at the very least, landing in the path of a passing car carrying seven seventh day adventists on their way to the Old Mill2Old Mill, a working mill on the Humber in 1834, is an upscale hotel/restaurant complex today. for an inexpensive lunch with wine; surely nothing could save them now.
(music
way up: violins going crazy)
Amazingly,
with a nod to one Ripley, believe it or not, at that very moment, the packed
crowd had their hands in the air applauding the spectacle and thus were able to
unintentionally catch the fishermen and cushion their fall. Yes, they were
saved!
Somebody, who happened to have a nail kit
on their person (they’d taken a course in hygiene – ed), took out the scissors
and cut the fishermen’s lines so their tested for life in Canada Canadian Tire rods
and colour matched reels were saved, too. A miracle.
Meanwhile (violin music down, dulcimer up) our hero Don, balancing precariously but skillfully on his log, continued to surfboard down the Humber heading for the maybe dangerous, but definitely architecturally questionable, Humber Bay Arch Bridge. Again, for those with limited knowledge of internationally acclaimed must-sees when visiting Etobicoke, please refer to the picture above.
By now, our hero, visibly exhausted, lay
down on the log, wrapped his arms and legs around it securely and, letting go
of a golf ball to lighten and balance the load, fell asleep. From a distance,
he was sleeping like a log.
Last seen, daring Don had drifted harmlessly
under the bridge and into Lake Ontario as darkness fell.
(if you’re up for it, to be continued)
[i]
Canadian Tire is a chain of stores specializing in automotive and sporting
gear. Definitely not up scale.
[ii]
Old Mill, a working mill on the Humber in 1834, is an upscale hotel/restaurant
complex today.
“You’re aboard a Canada Steamship Line
freighter.”
“Not the Edmund Fitzgerald?”1 Sank in Lake Superior in 1975.
“You’re delirious, that sank a while
back …”
“I can play it in A.”2 The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” is a song written, composed, and performed by Canadian singer-songwriter Gordon Lightfoot to commemorate the sinking of the bulk carrier.
“No, no ….”
“C# minor then …. If not the Edmund
Fitzgerald …”
“The St. Laurent.”
“That’s Québec, right? French Québec?”
“Right.”
“Would you know a Ronald Dallé?” queried Don hopefully.
“No …don’t think so.”
“How’d you find me?”
“The bosun was up on the bow spriting,
it was calm, a clear night, sound carried well and he thought he heard a cry …”
“A cry?”
“More like an off-key wail …something
like … it’s a pity …”
“Kansas City! I can play it in A.”
“No …”
“C# minor then … where are we heading?”
“Right now we’ve just passed through the Welland3Links lake Erie with lake Ontario to get around Niagara Falls. canal. We’re on our way to Chicago.”
“Chicago? I can’t get into the States, I
don’t have any ID.”
“I’m captain Omen. What’s your name?”
“Don Dally or daring Don or Don of the
Valley or, if you’re dyslexic, Valley of the Don, but you can call be Don.”
“OK Don. We went through your things,
there’s a ‘Get out of jail free’ card, that could come in handy. Nice nail kit,
too. And what’s with the golf balls?”
“How many were there?”
“A dozen.”
“I’m missing 8, we’ve got to go back.”
“I’d like to hear your story, first.”
“You’ll be the only one.” (sound of studio applause)
And with that, our daring Don, dishevelled
but none the worse for wear, sat down with captain Omen in the galley and,
warming to a mug of requested Ovaltine, told his tale to date with minor
deviations (“I’m a scratch golfer that likes to play quickly …so, with the
courses not yet open, I went down to the Humber to practice …”)
Captain Omen, checking his watch, decided
it was noon somewhere and opened a bottle of Shiver Me Timbers offering a generous
dram to our daring Don.
“This should pick it up; you do drink,
don’t you?”
“Normally only estate wine but I’ll be
glad to join you.”
“That’s quite the saga. So, what are we
going to do with you? You’re right, we can’t put you off in Chicago and that’s
our only port this trip.”
“Well, I can play the blues, Chicago style blues, you know blues for the Cubs and Sox4Chicago professional baseball teams. maybe I could get a day pass, a temporary musician’s union card and play, ‘take me out to the ballgame,’ earn some money and hitch a ride to the Canadian border. I’m a CAA5Canadian Automobile Association member.”
“I didn’t see an instrument among your
things.”
“There’s a comb in the nail kit.”
“Maybe we can get you on another
freighter heading back. How good are you at jumping?”
“You’re sure you don’t know Ronald
Dallé?”
And with that, Captain Omen got on the
ship’s phone and arranged to have our daring Don transfer to the Baie-Comeau, heading
for Montréal, which they’d be passing soon.
“The Baie-Comeau,” interrupted Don. ‘Isn’t that Brian Mulroney’s6Canadian prime minister 1984 – 1993 birthplace?”
“I think you’re right,” recalled captain Omen, “but I don’t think that’s why they named
it.”
“Is there another ship? I politically lean more to port (staying in context),” lamented Don. Pleading his case, Don continued. “And I can’t play ‘When Irish eyes are smiling’7Famous duet sung by Brian Mulroney and visiting US president Ronald Reagan in 1985 in A. Maybe C# minor.”
Now, for the landlubbers out there,
transferring between ships is a risky business at the best of times. But lake
Erie was choppy that afternoon, my friends, it was near nightfall, hard to see
the gunwales (aka gunnels) so everything had to be timed perfectly.
The Baie-Comeau launched a small dinghy
with a ship’s hand, Pierre, rowing towards the St. Laurent. When the dinghy
came alongside the St. Laurent, Don was to jump on board.
Well, that’s what Don was supposed to do.
Maybe Don was tired; maybe Don’s luck ran out; maybe Don’s golf shoes needed polishing.
Whatever, when Don jumped so did the dinghy and Don missed it completely.
“Tabernac8French colloquialism when things aren’t going well.”
Pierre’s only option was to dive in after
Don. Fortunately Don was an excellent dog paddler so was able to quickly grab
Pierre in a choke hold and the pair of them splashed and kicked their way to the
dinghy.
Pierre, wondering what he’d done to deserve
this pain in the neck, wrestled Don out of the choke hold and into the dinghy.
By now, both freighters had moved on, each thinking that everything was OK. Pierre
was not a visible member of the crew, working the engine room on the night
shift so nobody would give him the gears.
Here’s the scene: a Quebécois who speaks no
english sitting opposite an anglais from white Ontario whose French-for-any-occasion
is, and he proudly used it now, ‘La plume de ma tante est sur la table.”
“Quoi?” questioned Pierre shaking the water out of his ear, or was he trying to decipher Don’s accent? Don, ever vigilant, took in his surroundings, ‘What’s that roar?”
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” is a song written, composed, and performed by Canadian singer-songwriter Gordon Lightfoot to commemorate the sinking of the bulk carrier.
3.
↑
Links lake Erie with lake Ontario to get around Niagara Falls.
4.
↑
Chicago professional baseball teams.
5.
↑
Canadian Automobile Association
6.
↑
Canadian prime minister 1984 – 1993
7.
↑
Famous duet sung by Brian Mulroney and visiting US president Ronald Reagan in 1985
8.
↑
French colloquialism when things aren’t going well
This could be it for Pierre and Don. How can they possibly get away from this disaster in the making? Here they are, burdened by a failure to communicate, rushing towards the precipice of the mighty Niagara Falls. (the Canadian Falls cause they’re more dramatic.)
How
are they to be saved, if at all?
(Piano playing the silent movie theme for a train coming down the track towards a maiden tied hand and foot to the rails1Actually, they never seem to be tied to the rails; these maidens just lie there. Couldn’t they roll off or do something and save the train passengers considerable inconvenience? Just asking. struggling to get loose.)
Don,
not only quick footed but quick witted, sized up the options; Pierre did the
same thing in French: (option in English is option f. in French)
Die (why not? Don’s been paying into life insurance for years; should at least get a tombstone out of it. Pierre, maybe not.)
Somebody could turn off the falls (Timing could be the issue here; it’s happened before – 1969)
A sight-seeing helicopter could drop a line (“Hi! Have a nice trip.”)
Go over the Falls and not die. (It’s been done already.)
They could go over the Falls and land on the Maid of the Mist[i]2 A tourist boat that travels below the falls. (Don’s already been saved by one boat, show some creativity.)
God will save them. (Puh-lease)
Deus ex machina (Ah, the great Greek cop out. We’re above that.)
No idea
None of the above
So
Don & Pierre, committed to metric, held out for #10. They furtively looked
about the dinghy. Every great lakes’ support vessel must have 4 oars, water,
knife, flare and a first aid kit. Don ripped open the first aid kit to find:
bandages, disinfectant, rolls of tape, nice scissors (Don quickly exchanged them
with the pair in his nail kit) and a coupon worth $1.00 on the next order.
Taking
the knife, Don started to scratch out a plan on the floorboard so that Pierre
would be on side. Nothing like scratching and nodding to clearly and quickly
agree on how to save one’s life.
“Before we start, and we have a minute here,” cautioned Don, “back in
2008 John Daly hit some golf balls, or tried to hit some golf balls, over the
gorge. So keep an eye out, there might be some around here.”
“T’es completement fou,” screamed Pierre.
“Not sure what you said but I think they’re Callaways3A brand of golf ball. ,” instructed Don.
Now
our daring Don, the sun blinging off his gold incisor, took charge.
“How do you say, ‘scuttle the boat’ in French?” pondered Don out loud. Not
waiting for an answer, Don, knife in hand, quickly started to dig out a hole in
the bottom of the dinghy.
“T’es completement fou,” screamed Pierre.
“Thank you, glad you’re on side,” complimented Don, well remembering his grade IX French and what his teacher always said to him.
The
dinghy quickly took on water and started to settle and soon became lodged in
the rocks just above of the falls.
Step
1 mission accomplished. Now Don (Pierre is doing the same thing only in
French.) assesses how far they are from the shore.
“A good 28 yards, what do you think?”
Pierre
has no idea what Don is saying and shakes his head.
“Oh, you’re right, we’re committed to metric: 20 meters.”
“Start pulling the dinghy apart,” directs Don and demonstrates by
un-gunwale-ing the gunnells.
“T’es completement fou,” repeats Pierre.
“I appreciate your support but we’ve got to start hewing.”
Quickly
the two desperate victims of chance start to break down the dinghy and as each
piece breaks free, Don tapes the them together and adds them to the oars he’s
already taped together.
With
a good 25 metres of wood bound together, Don slowly directs this pole of many
pieces (tempted to say a 10 foot pole but that wouldn’t be good enough nor
metric) upstream so that the current doesn’t take it away.
“Here’s the plan,” Don animates with his hands and lower extremeties.
“We’ll step on the first plank and carefully start walking towards the next.
The current will slowly turn the planks to shore and then we can dash across
the remaining planks to safety.”
“T’es completement fou,” screams Pierre.”
“I’m glad you agree, let’s go.”
And
just as Don drew it up (scratched it up), once they started to walk onto the
first plank, this patchwork boardwalk caught the current and started to slowly
rotate. Don, with Pierre close behind, started to dash.
Now the astute reader will start to relax, lean back in his chair even, knowing all will be well because of Don’s skill with riding the logs in the river. (Please refer to A golfer’s saga – Chapter 3).
But,
and well you may ask, what about Pierre? Poor marooned Pierre, caught up in a
good deed that could end his life? (should be some sort of music here)
Well,
lo and behold, Pierre was a star; he almost passed Don to the shore. Hardly a
splash marked his Doc Martens.
The
two companions collapsed on the shore, hardly believing their good luck and
watched what remained of the First Aid kit tumble over the falls.
“You know,” said Don giving Pierre a good natured slap on his back, “I
never did get your name.”
“Comment?”
“Votre nom?”
“Ah, Pierre.”
“Et”
… thinking hard … how do you say surname? … “votre nom famille?”
“Dallé. Pierre Dallé.”
Don Dally and Pierre Dallé, two crazy log driving Canucks.
Actually, they never seem to be tied to the rails; these maidens just lie there. Couldn’t they roll off or do something and save the train passengers considerable inconvenience? Just asking.
Sheila, during these troubled times and being susceptible to pneumonia, is a stay-at-home partner and I do the shopping.
Nothing unusual about this arrangement I
hear you say, ensuring that I don’t get a big head, but on my return from the excursion
to the market this Thursday, when I complained about a bout of the sniffles and
was looking for some sympathy, the nurse in Sheila surfaced and suggested I lie
down for an hour.
‘You’re so caring,’ I coughed elbow-ward, crawling to the couch and thinking I should
update my eulogy. ‘True,’ she reassured, ‘and by the time you wake up
the LCBO should be open and we’re low in booze.’
Sheila is a professional, concerned citizen;
she reads the Covid-19 hotline every day for the latest news on what’s
happening and especially what’s happening to essential services, and the LCBO,
doing their bit, has shortened their opening hours and now doesn’t let the
followers of the church of self medication in before 11 a.m.
Humbling yourself to the control of said
monopoly at this time presents you with a living example of the gate keeper
theory. It’s bad enough that you have to pay for the privilege of buying
someone else’s idea of potable potions at egregiously inflated prices but now,
during hard times, you also have to salute the corporation’s Colonel of Crowd Control
taking command outside the store.
Allow me, dear reader, to paint you the
picture. Thursday morning, overcast, just above freezing, 10:59 a.m., one
private security guard – sans mask and gloves, never been to war, never stopped
a criminal, never watches a movie where there’s smoking, never completed his
PhD thesis on crowd control in times of crisis, no awards of distinction – determines when you shall enter. We call it PTP,
the ‘Power Trip Perquisite.’
‘Hey you!’
bellows the uniform relishing his PTP moment. ‘Yes, you there in the worn
duffle coat, shuffling towards the store, can’t you see there’s a line here?
Straighten up and get to the back.’
We’re talking three unfortunate souls
wondering if it would be better to get the virus than subject ourselves to this
dressing down. Or jump this guy, doesn’t seem to be sporting a gun; how
difficult could it be?
Anyhow, more sober (well, duh!) minds
prevail and we wait, the dutiful six feet apart, for the signal, the officious
wave of the hand, that allows us to enter mecca.
Once in you can’t help but notice a large
bottle of hand sanitizer, immovably duct taped to a stand. So that’s where the
early adapters got their hand sanitizer, you surmise. You’re tempted to ask to
see the washroom.
Now, I’m one of those who takes the
reusable bag on my shopping forays. Can’t fault me for that but it means that,
today, the cashier, yes, the guy/gal who basically does nothing but bag your
stuff, now does less than nothing cause they’re not allowed to put booze in the
customer’s bag. Since I use a credit card and tap to pay, I asked him if he’d
like me to hand myself the receipt?
Now pause dear reader and drink in this actual scene entitled: Living the six feet apart rule1 The local bank branch handles it a little differently; they mark ‘X’s on the floor at the appropriate intervals. Wouldn’t you distance yourself from this choice of symbol? Couldn’t X mark the spot where somebody cashed in before they could get their cash? at the LCBO. The director hails, ‘Action!’
I’m next in
line, the customer at the cashier, all 6’ 4” of him, is herding his 8 beer can
purchase. I neighbourly mention that he chose well, that’s a favourite brew of
mine. That woke him up.
‘Stand back!’ he belched (well, he is a beer drinker). I almost lost my place in the
copy of Food and Drink I was reading. ‘Get
back 6 feet,’ he continued to bark as the cashier busied himself with the
paper bags.
‘You’re 6
inches away from the cashier,’ I rebutted thinking
I’d wasted a compliment on his taste in IPA.
His look said he
wasn’t in the mood for logic. Or casual wit. I checked out the exit and
wondered which bottle of wine I’d sacrifice on his head. Or would a directed cough
handle it?
The tension
eased but I had already decided to reverse to the Vintages section and look at
labels for another 20 minutes.
Before leaving these hallowed halls of hootch, I did a survey. I was interested in what flies off the shelves in these tortured times. What’s the booze equivalent of toilet paper? Well, it turns out taste takes a back seat to penuriousness (don’t bother looking it up, it means you’re cheap). All the bottles that were $2.00 off were off the shelves. Dom Perignon was in great supply. I thought that if you had a good chance of not coming through the other side of this pandemic that you’d treat yourself to something you’d always had a thirst for but never the financing. ‘What the hell, the living has to pay my next VISA bill now, go for it.’ Cheers.
The local bank branch handles it a little differently; they mark ‘X’s on the floor at the appropriate intervals. Wouldn’t you distance yourself from this choice of symbol? Couldn’t X mark the spot where somebody cashed in before they could get their cash?
I call him Charlie but I don’t know his
name. Not a bad looking dude, always sports a smile, pretty good shape, interacts
well with people, could use a change in hair style and some fashion advice but
all in all, the sort of guy you could
sit down and discuss sports with over a beer.
I see Charlie mornings, Monday through
Friday. Charlie has an office at the corner of Wall and Bay streets, the
financial heart of our fair metropolis.
Charlie works for a little money among those dealing with a lot; Charlie doesn’t have his hand in the business, more a hand out for the business; Charlie’s a beggar.
Although I see Charlie every day on the way
to work I don’t grace Charlie’s outstretched palm with coin. I’m conditioned to
work for my money so I want the same from even those who want a handout. Scratch
out a tune on a violin, strum the same three chords on a guitar, whatever, just
make an effort and I’ll oblige.
Which got me to thinking, what could
Charlie do to earn my custom? So I took my idea to him.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
‘How’s business?’
“A little slow
today, probably the weather. Good weather makes for happy people. Happy people
share the wealth.”
“Have you always done this?”
“I have been
gainfully employed, as they say. Things changed: went out of bounds, if you’re
a golfer. Not a lot of opportunities for a guy in my current position.”
“I have a proposition for you.”
“Fancy word but
I don’t kill people.”
“How if I buy you breakfast and we can talk
about it.”
“I’d appreciate that
but I’d be losing business.”
“Fair enough. I’ll buy breakfast and cover
your loss. Gather your stuff, my favourite diner’s across the street.”
Charlie ordered
the lumberjack special and told the waitress to hold the water. I warmed to a
black coffee, settled the expected cost of taking a coffee break and started my
pitch.
“My proposition needs a little background,
have to ask a few questions. You OK with that?”
“Shoot.”
“How much would you make in a day?”
“A good day, 50
bucks.”
“My proposition hopefully would get you
$100. Maybe more.”
“What’s in it
for you?”
‘I’m a marketer, hard to test my theories
at work. If my idea holds up, my reward will be the satisfaction of proving an
idea. And maybe get to write it up.’
“OK, let’s hear
it.”
“I’m looking at what you do as a business. My
theory is you’d make better money, steadily, if you offered your clientele
something in return. Something they’d come back for, see the value in it, not
just as a handout.”
“Clientele, I
like that. But I don’t juggle, can’t play a musical instrument and my singing
would scare you off.”
‘Offer
them a Joke-of-the-Day’
“You want me to
tell them a joke?”
“No, give them a joke.”
“I’m a little
behind in the joke department.”
“I’ll start you off.”
“A stand up
marketer, fascinating image. How is this supposed to work and please go slowly?’
‘You write up a joke on a piece of paper, do
a bit of advertising with a sign that says, let’s see, something like: ‘You’ve
earned a laugh,’ hand them a slip and see what happens.”
“You said $100, at
a buck a joke, my typical take, I’d have to write up a hundred jokes on a
hundred pieces of paper. My MBA didn’t cover that.”
‘Same joke, new joke every day and print
the jokes.’
“I don’t have a
printer.”
“I’ll look after that to start; if this
works, we plan the next step. Your job is to create the jokes.”
“As I said, I
haven’t laughed in a while.”
“That’s your skin in the action, and I’m
sure it’s something you can do. I’ll supply the first week’s jokes, you
concentrate on next week’s. I’ll see you Monday with that day’s joke on 50
slips of paper.”
“What if they’ve
already heard the joke?”
“You’re in business now, offer a money back
guarantee.”
“Should be
interesting.”
Monday
A lab rabbit’s
furry friends break into the research facility and free him from his cage. Once
outside they head for the fields to enjoy fresh lettuce and carrots, a distant
memory for their friend. Then it’s off to the hutch to enjoy the pleasures of
those winsome bunnies. It couldn’t be more perfect. He’s overwhelmed, can’t
thank his friends enough but he regretfully says he must return to the lab.
‘But why?’ question his perplexed buddies; ‘I’m dying for a cigarette.’
“Not bad, hadn’t heard that one. I’ll let you know how
it goes.”
Tuesday
“How did it go yesterday?”
“I only gave out 13 jokes. But everyone gave me a
dollar.”
“Give it time. And save what you didn’t sell for a later time; call
it inventory and think of having a sale down the road. Here’s $37 and today’s
joke.”
‘When I die, I
want to pass on like my grandfather, peacefully in his sleep. Not like the
screaming passengers in his car.’ Will Rogers
“I like it, who knew a marketer had a sense of
humour.”
Wednesday
“Well?”
“Much better, 22
jokes and two of the guys from yesterday came back for today’s joke.”
“Ah, repeat business. How are you doing on next week’s jokes? You
have to handle production.”
“Sales and production, heavy, but I think I’ve got
one.”
“Good, I’ll need it by Friday. Here’s $28.”
“You only owe me $27; a gal gave me $2.”
“Ah, an honest business man with a satisfied customer; here’s today’s smile, see you tomorrow.”
“The secret to life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.” Groucho Marx
Thursday
“Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, kind sir. 32!”
“Great, well done; here’s $18 and tomorrow’s joke.”
“What do you call the person who comes last in their graduating
class at medical school?”
“Doctor.”
Friday
“I’m a little
nervous.”
“Why’s that?”
‘Well, things are
catching on. Your jokes are pretty popular but now I’m the one that has to come
up with the jokes; what if they don’t like mine?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get feedback. You’re growing your business, that’s
good news; they don’t want you to go out of business. Let’s have a look at
Monday’s joke.”
“Why do fire engines have Dalmatians?’
“To help them find the hydrants.”
Ha, ha, pretty good, this should sell.
Charlie couldn’t hide a smile, “That’ll be $1 … only kidding.”
“You’ve missed your calling, here’s Friday’s joke.”
Winning the lottery would solve all of Cameron McSweeny’s problems but he didn’t want to rely solely on chance so he faithfully went to church each and every Sunday to get an edge through prayer.
After a year
without success, however, Cameron was having second thoughts about the power of
prayer so he doubled his efforts and went to church in the evening, too.
Frustration was setting in so Cameron, when alone in the church, decided to voice his need. Maybe God couldn’t hear with all the construction going on.
“Will ye no gimme a sign, oh Lord? Let me know you hear my plea for recognition of my faithful devotion over the years and the good deeds I’ve done to those less fortunate.”
And then, suddenly,
the church darkened. Cameron could feel his knees shake. Then the cacophony of
a thousand organs hitting E minor erupted.
“Cameron!” came
the thunderous delivery.
Frightened,
but not too out of it to realize this could be his day, Cameron, in a querulous
quaver and a searching glance, stuttered, “Aye Lord.”
“Meet me half
way.”
Confused, but
not wanting to lose the moment, Cameron quickly yet reverently voiced, “Lord?”
“Buy a
ticket.”
A week later
“Let me buy you breakfast. You look a little concerned; let’s talk
about it.”
Charlie ordered a croissant and coffee; told the waitress to leave
the water.
‘Well, it’s been two weeks.”
“Business wise,
it couldn’t be better; I’m out of 50 jokes before noon, went to the printer guy
on the corner and he helped me crank out 50 more.”
“That’s good; I’m glad it’s working out for you.”
“Well, now that
I’ve saved up a bit and have a little confidence, I’m thinking of getting out
of the begging business and looking for work.”
“Good, what did you do, if I may ask, in your former life?”
“I was a teaching pro at a private golf course.”
“You don’t lose those skills, why not go back? Didn’t you like it?”
“Oh yes, that’s
my life, just had a bit of a misunderstanding with a member.”
“I understand those things can happen in that environment and most
times it isn’t necessarily the staff’s fault.”
“Well, I don’t think that will go away.”
“How ‘bout working where there aren’t any members? I’ve a buddy who
has several driving ranges. He might me interested in adding teaching lessons.
Do you still have your card?”
“Yes, but I’m a little behind in my dues.”
“You said you saved a little from your business, how much do you
need to make up what you need?”
“About $250.”
“If you give me the rights to your story, it’ll be worth $250 to me.
I’ll speak to my friend and see if he’s interested. See you in a couple of
days.”
Next week
“My buddy would like to meet you. When’s a good time for you to
connect; I’ll call him.”
Two weeks later
“Thanks to you,
I’m out of the begging business and back in the teaching business. Can’t thank
you enough.”
“You’re welcome; I’m pleased for you. I should drop around and see
how good you really are, I’m a terrible golfer. (Smiling) And that’s no joke.”
“It’ll be on me. And oh, I have a little something for
you.”
Charlie handed me an envelope and waved goodbye.
Dear Chesterton*
You’ve earned this laugh.
Charlie’s* the one in the middle
Three beer-gut-proud, borderline-redneck golfing buddies died in a car crash and amazingly went to heaven. Upon arrival they discovered the most beautiful golf course they had ever seen. St. Peter warmly welcomed them to play the course but he cautioned that there were rules: “You must play every day and you mustn’t hit the ducks.”
The men, blank expressions all, queried in unison: “The ducks?”
“Yes,” St. Peter expounded, “there are thousands of ducks waddling the course, and if one gets hit, he quacks; then the one next to him quacks and soon they’re all quacking. It totally destroys the serenity we’re famous for so if you hit one of the ducks, you’ll be critically castigated. Otherwise everything is yours to enjoy.”
Heading to the first tee, the golfers noted that there were indeed ducks everywhere. And, as luck would have it, within minutes one of the trio levels a drowsy drake with an errant lob wedge. True to form, the duck quacks, then the one next to it quacks and it quickly develops into a cacophony of quacks. Suddenly, St. Peter emerges from the mists with an extremely homely woman of indeterminate years, wearing sensible shoes and sporting a missing-tooth-smile, in tow and demands, “Who hit the duck?” The buddy who loosed the duck hook at the eider, sadly confessed. St. Peter pulls out a pair of handcuffs and cuffs the man to this Broom-Hilda doppelgänger. “I told you not to hit the ducks, now you’ll be stuck together for eternity.”
Talk about
critical castigation! The other two men immediately become nervously cautious
but a couple of weeks later, accidentally, one of them mashie-d a mallard. The
quacks began again and within minutes St. Peter appeared with an even uglier
distressed damsel who gummed a smile and proudly modelled a growing zit that
she hailed as her beauty mark. Shackling the hacker to the hag, St. Peter
remonstrated, “I told you not to hit
the ducks, now you’ll be together for eternity.”
Well, as you
can imagine, the third player quickly became quiveringly qualmish. He even
switched to using his putter out of the bunkers for fear of slicing his
feathery into a feathered friend. After several stressful months, and a rising
handicap, his luck held; he’d missed every muscovy. Then, dramatically, as if
on cue, St. Peter emanated cloaked in cloud, but arm-in-arm with a drop-dead
gorgeous nubile nymph; the most beautiful, full-set-of-teeth, clear-skinned
beauty the golfer had ever seen. St. Peter knowingly smiled and, without a
word, cuffed him to this vision of loveliness then ebbed into the brume. The
duffer, knowing that he would be tethered to this Venus forever, let out a
contented belch and, posturingly picking at his cigar-stained solo incisor with
a broken tee, wondered aloud, “What
did I do to deserve this?”
The dream
ruefully replied to the rhetoric, “Well,
I don’t know about you, but I hit a duck.”
I think the first French words I came
across were, ‘Mode d’emploi’; Directions.
The backs of cleaning products were my bathroom
reading in the early years and I couldn’t help but notice that it took many
more words to tell you how to use the product in French than in English. Maybe
the French are more expressive than the English. I know, ‘How to clean the
sink,’ would work for me whereas those of the french speaking persuasion
might want to know, ‘How to love to clean the sink’, and need a
few more words to truly express the passion the product evoked. Well, we all
know that French words have genders so right of the top every word is two words
which would explain some of the added length. Must be a challenge for the label
makers, though, to come up with the right words that both do the job and fit on
the label. An interesting concept might be to continue the instructions on an attached
second bottle’s label. Should boost sales, at least.
But this early introduction to bilingualism
didn’t have a practical application; how was I to use, ‘Mode d’emploi’, in any
imaginable situation and gain the upper hand and its accompanying positive
impression? So I kept my eye out for a French phrase that I could use to impress,
say, a charming mademoiselle who is in a state of reflection and not facing a
sink to clean.
I ran across, literally, such a possible useful phrase in school; not in class, but on the floor, ‘Plancher mouillé’; Wet Floor. You know it’s ‘wet floor’ not because you learned it in school but because the folding sign kindly provided the English translation. So you couldn’t use the excuse, ‘Damn, I thought those yellow things we’re only in Spanish?’ as you skidded down the hall.1 as an aside, funny, isn’t it, how we like to test warnings, like touching the bench with the ‘wet paint’ sign and then wondering how you’ll get the paint off your finger? Or how to anonymously sue the city.
But again I thought, how could I use this,
never-have-to-study-it-for-a test free education? I suppose if I were in a
French speaking environment and a person were walking on a wet floor, it would
be appreciated.
Mind you, I probably wouldn’t have
pronounced it correctly. “Well officer, I tried to warn him. It was raining
you see and we were on the Eiffel tower, and then I remembered how to help this
guy before he tested the next slippery slope:
‘Plant-cher-mooly.
(looking down at the prone form) Is he still breathing, officer?’
While we’re on foreign instructions, how ‘bout ‘push’ and ‘pull’ for Canadians who never got closer to Quebec than Cornwall? ‘Pousser’ you could probably guess at but you could be standing motionless in front of a door for a while trying to avoid the embarrassment of deciding whether to push or pull when the only letters you have to go on were, ‘T-i-r-e-r’.
“Do you think that’s ‘push’ Clem?”
“Well, sure doesn’t sound like ‘pull’, Vern. I’m thinkin’ it’s closer to ‘Closed for the season.’”
On a similar note, after many years of high
school French and German I can now comfortably say, ‘Do not lean out the
window,’ in both languages. I’d deciphered these instructions while
travelling in Europe. They were etched in a metal plaque which was firmly affixed
to the sill of a train window. You’d think if you were illiterate, completely
illiterate in all of the dozens of official European languages, you’d still hesitate
to stick your head out the window of a moving train.
‘Boy it’s stuffy in here, let’s open the window’.’
‘What’s it like out?’
‘Let me see, I’ll just stick my head out the window …’
We were on a cruise recently and before
each port the cruise director shows some slides accompanied by some polite
banter on what we could expect to see and do there. Part of the routine is
trying to learn a few phrases in the language of the land. Expressions like ‘please’
and ‘thank you’ andthe one that always gets a laugh, ‘My wife
is missing.’
It seems this happens quite often, unfortunately,
and this simple four word cry for help in English usually translates to an
excited thousand word muttering with assumed accents of that port’s lingo.
I’m trying to picture local authorities, eager to help, straining to interpret the fractured dialect and looking for any facial expression or hand gesture that might clarify the desperate spouse’s plea.
‘What’s he saying, Karl, he seems pretty upset?’
‘I think the ship is out of toilet paper.’
Actually, English is the lingua franca in
most tourist invaded destinations. And to add insult to a-single-language
user’s injury, everyone’s English is very good.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be truly
bilingual or fluent enough to converse comfortably in any language other than English.
And even there I can be challenged. I confess to using sub-titles when I’m even
streaming English productions.
I clearly recall a scene in a J. Arthur
Rank film, edited for export, where this indecipherable cockney character is chatting
up a tart who is leaning against a street lamp post late at night in a
physically inviting way. I’m pretty sure he wants to know the price to pay to
enjoy the pleasures of her company.
But you want to be sure; you’d hate to lose
any subtlety that would make this a phrase to remember so you glance down at
the sub-title just to confirm:
“Hi there yourself, Miss, and thank you, but I’m not a sailor, just visiting from Canada. Have a nice day, eh?”
as an aside, funny, isn’t it, how we like to test warnings, like touching the bench with the ‘wet paint’ sign and then wondering how you’ll get the paint off your finger? Or how to anonymously sue the city.
