A Windy Day in Cottage Country Watching Canada’s Juniors
Hodgson Leads All Scorers After Two Games … I Think?
By Terrance Gavan
So what prompts Canadians to tune into an absolute blowout on a Sunday – the Canadian Juniors beat Kazakhstan 15-0 in case you missed it - while bits and pieces fall off their roofs, trees litter their driveways and brownouts force endless reboots of their satellite system?
Junior hockey my friends. The World Championships. Well, that’s my excuse. What’s yours?
Yes, I kept watching as a foundation-rattling 130 kilometer-per-hour gust engendered a fingernail on chalkboard creaking crescendo that told me my roof capping was attempting to dislodge from the peak of the humble abode here on Halbiem Crescent.
I did what any normal Canadian hockey fan might. I looked out the front window to gauge wind direction and then sauntered calmly to the appropriate side window to see if any parts of my roof had dislodged to the neighboring yards. I pulled out binoculars, figuring that shingles would be well on their way to Head Lake by now, trailed inevitably and inexorably by the slightly heavier and less aerodynamic capping.
All clear. For now at least. No, I did not go out to the backyard to assess damage. That would have ruined the karma and disrupted the overall chi. My serenity must remain intact. I had a game to watch.
And besides, the cap was still up there. I could hear it flapping, fluttering and floundering with what I can only assume was an insouciant nonchalance in the galloping gale.
Oh whoopee! Lookee’ here! Canada scores again. It is now 7-0 and I am excited, but the classy Canadian players stopped showing any emotion shortly after scoring the fourth goal. It’s borderline embarrassing. This shellacking of Kazakhstan a lamentably undermanned and plodding opponent.
In fact, look closely enough, through the flickering circuitry of the sepia-tinged browned-out picture, and I can almost see cringes on the faces of the young Canadian players. These are kids accustomed to playing close-quartered, competitive hockey, and it’s becoming obvious that they are not fond of this knife’s twist.
The announcers on TSN feel the same. Bob McKenzie, Pierre McGuire and that other talking head from THE network will put the boots to this dead chestnut mare ad nauseum, ad infinitum and ad libbily throughout the course of the telecast.
McKenzie says cut the field from 10 teams to 8. McGuire says the tiebreak mechanism, which dictates that goals for and against decide who stays and who goes in the event of an equal distribution of wins and losses, must be reassessed. The peanut boy in the catbird seat calling the game says, “Wheee, lookee’ here, Canada scored again! Whattaya’ think about that Pierre and Bobby?”
They said this many, many, many, many, many times. Notice how many times I wrote many? Notice how annoying it is? Well that’s how annoying Bob and Pierre were, rumbling on about this and that and the IIHF and how if they were running things it would be so much better.
Go to eight teams. Go to six teams. Go to two teams. Have a fifty-fifty draw. Go the Playstation 3 route. Armwrestle for it. Find a new tiebreak system. Summon a tarot card reader. Call on the ghost of McKenzie King.
They said this many, many, many … well you get the idea. But they didn’t offer a solution.
I have one. Draw to the button. Three shooters, three pucks from each team. Start behind the net. Closest puck to center ice wins. The Canadians could hold a spot on the squad for a junior curling phenom from Porcupine Falls, Manitoba. Lovely, problem solved. Now, can we get back to hockey?
Another huge gust heaves rudely past my window. A Hereford cow with a slightly befuddled look on its already moony face is being pushed across the open field outside my house, at times airborne and sliding on those cloven blades over iced tundra at about 35 clicks. It’s very impressive, because I didn’t know cows could skate, until now. I watch as he disappears over a hillock on his way to Head Lake and beyond. I find myself singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and clicking my heels. Then, I am suddenly aware of another flickering in the room.
Pzzzt! Power out yet again. Just 20 seconds later, the lights are back, and my answering machine is talking to me. “Please reset your phone to the default mode,” it says. I have no idea what the default mode is so I ignore the feminine voice. I look around as clocks start blinking 12:00 … 12:00 … 12:00 … well, you get the idea.
Back to the game. Canada has scored again while my satellite was stuttering to recovery mode. It is now 10-0 and the cackling commentators tell us that we are now in double figures.
I’m not Einstein fellas, but I don’t need you to tell me that 9 is one digit and 10 is two digits. I find myself wishing that Howie Meeker might suddenly appear. Alas, poor Howie, a hockey commentator from the old school, who could always be relied on for a rousing round of “Golly-Gee’s.” I loved that man. Where is he anyway. Can a fella’ get a Howie in the house? Bob and Pierre, they try, but geeez’, they’re no Howie Meeker.
I googled Howie and found that he was a Progressive Conservative MP for three years in Waterloo back in 1951 and he did this while also playing hockey for the Leafs. Here’s an idea. Let’s get Howie back on TSN and while we’re at it why don’t we run him up the flagpole at the next Conservative leadership convention. Howie Meeker for Prime Minister. Golly Gee, that’s a helluva’ good idea.
My musings are interrupted by yet another window rattling gust followed by a horrendous snap, crackle, and pop.
A large tree has been pulled up from its roots and is laying across my driveway. Limbs are scattering in the breeze.
At about the same time the power fizzles again. It comes right back. “Please reset your phone to the default mode,” the lady in the phone says. Clocks are blinking and my satellite is telling me that I have to wait while it searches for the satellite. Could the wind have blown my Bell satellite off course? I hope not. I have a game to watch.
The power back, I am told by the twittering TSN magpie that the score is now 12-0.
A TSN fact checker is perched over a laptop googling “Canada’s biggest point spreads.” There are two categories here. Biggest shutout wins and biggest overall point spreads.
The numbers come and go.
Outside my window I watch as Minden’s Home Hardware sign glides serenely past my front window. It’s moving much faster than the Hereford Cow. It’s cartwheeling at about 46 kilometers per hour. I do the math. I’m exactly 23 clicks from Minden, so it took this sign exactly 30 minutes to get here. Wheeew. That’s some pretty high-speed advertising.
I watch it somersault its way to Head Lake. I pull out a calculator and figure that it should arrive in Bancroft by midnight. I suddenly remember the cow. Should I phone the OPP?
“Hello 911, can I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to report a flying cow.”
“Sir you know there are rules against making crank calls on 911? The penalty is a $10,000 fine and a year in jail.”
“Well, then, Officer. Just calling to wish you all a happy New Year and to say you’re doing a great job.”
Suddenly I am aware that the hockey game is over. The IIHF mandates that a player of the game award must be handed out to members of both teams.
I have no idea who the Kazakhstan player is, but I can see that he is more than a little sheepish about receiving a trophy shortly after a 15-0 crunch with destiny.
They must also play the Canadian National anthem. It’s tradition. I am hoping that there’s a 10 second version. But no, on and on it drones. The score is left on the ScotiaBank Place clock for the duration of the anthem.
I suddenly remember that I was tuned in with the idea of following the fortunes of Haliburton native son and cottager Cody Hodgson. I listen to the post game patter and realize that while Hodgson scored two goals and 2 assists in the game, I didn’t manage to actually see any of his points.
Between power fizzits, meandering cows, cartwheeling signs, rooftop ratchets and that crazy lady in the phone I have managed to miss all of Cody’s points.
So I twittered the game and finally filled in some holes. Hodgson played superbly, matching John Tavares’s 2 goal and 2 assists. Jamie Benn was the player of the game on the strength of his hat trick and one assist.
Pat Quinn did his best to enunciate, better than Bob or Pierre, why a team must go out and just keep playing.
“We started to do the nice pretty wheels and turns and drop passes and things when you're playing strong opposition, it can kick you and bite you,” Quinn said, in a radio interview. “We all know skill is very important, but when you come up against a team that also has skill, then you'll win the game with what's between your ears and how you discipline yourself.
“When it gets tough, you have to be tough.” Howie Meeker couldn’t have said it better.
Canada's score against Kazakhstan wasn't the most lopsided in the country's history at the world junior tournament, but it was close. Canada beat Germany 18-2 in 1985, Poland 18-3 the following year and France 15-0 in 2001.
And of course, while John Tavares is getting most of the ink and the requisite praise, the guy currently leading the charge for Team Canada remains Hodgson. Hodgson is the leading score in the tournament to date with 2 goals and 6 assists in his two games. Tavares and US player Jordan Schroeder both have seven points in their two games.
I will be back watching tonight as Canada plays Germany.
For now, I am heading out to my driveway with a chain saw and a pail of grain. That tree isn’t going to move itself and I see that the dear old Hereford has made her way back to my yard, where she is grazing on some recently rescued patch of grass near the foundation and looking sheepishly (cowishly?) roofward lest a piece of plastic capping fall and bonk her on the noggin.
I couldn’t find the instruction booklet for my phone. If anyone knows how to reset a Panasonic 1680 series digital phone please get in touch with me pronto at sports@countyvoice.ca.
The lady in the phone is driving me bonkers. And I need to call Howie Meeker.n
Monday, December 29, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Mats Sundin - All Airport
Matts Sundin and Cody Hodgson Together on Canada’s Blustery Coast?
Matt’s Poker Face and Cody’s Fluid Grace – Who Will Out and Make the Case?
By Terrance Gavan
Look, I have nothing against the manic poker playing diva from Sweden.
For all I know Mats Sundin is a very charming guy with a flair for the debonair.
Do I think he manufactured a contract from the persnickety and cap-challenged suitors who knocked on his door lo’ these past 6 months?
Probably.
Is he worth the green from the Vancouver machine?
Don’t bet on it. It’s not even close.
Ask Leaf Nation, a savvy, mildly rabid group of puck cognoscente, who will get their chance for commentary, consolidated, cranky, and castigating on February 21st of 2009 when the Swaggering Staggering Swede will make his way back to the Hot Stove seat of Roger’s great sanctuary of mild sanguinity.
If I had to pin my Stanley Cupped aspirations to a star, I would look further down the food chain dear Canuckadoodle-do’s. Hearken Trevor Linden, a solid commodity with less flair and more stare. The type of hombre that needs no introduction. Trevor was solid, self-effacing, evocative and imbued of that much coveted blue collar work ethic.
You don’t need a Swedish massage on your injured pride. You need someone of substance. Someone like Linden. Someone who isn’t a stranger to hard work.
Take a good look at what you just landed. And tell me. Did you get another Linden? Or did you just pop a cool six million with a signing entreaty of two million for half a year’s flirt with a player who looks for all the world like a Nordic bit piece straight outta’ central casting.
No my Canuckadoodle-do’s Sweet Sundin is not the answer. Not even if you phrase that delicately in the form of a jeopardized question to a Trebekian query: “No Salvation Soon Vancouver!”
“What is a Mats Sundin Alex?”
“Absolutely correct for a thousand my good Canuckadoodle-do’s. No Salvation, and no reprieve from the good-lookin’ hipster Swede.”
Yes my dear Canuckadoodle-do’s, you may canoodle with Mats Sundin for the nonce and you may even bang your chortled car horns all the way down Burrard Street to the Inlet and beyond to storied Gastown. You may even start saving for Stanley Cup tickets.
The glass is either half-full or half-empty. I’m leaning latterly.
Quoted in a Toronto Star piece by Rosie Dimanno, Sunny Sundin is less push and more shove in assessing his soon to be new career start in Vancouver.
“Time was running out,” said Mats. “I realized if I was going to play again, I had to start now or I'd lose the whole season. And I did want to play. For a long time, I just wasn't sure of that. But I finally realized how much I missed the game, missed being on the ice, in the dressing room.”
And then he let rubber hit road.
“When the opportunity is over, it could be over for good.”
Aw shucks my dear Canuckadoodle-do’s. You’ve got a feel good story here. It’s Christmas, Canadians are in the deep frozen depths of a full-blown recession. There’s talk about hiring work gangs for good old-fashioned 1930’s-era infrastructure building. Highways, subways, bridges, sewers. Wheeee! Let that Ceement fly!
“People, can a body getta’ a shovel and some fresh asphalt here? There’s roads to patch, bridges to prop. Up and down that Sea to Sky highway, we gotta’ move some mud, pop some rock! Whattaya’ mean nine bills an hour?”
Meanwhile, the homeless are being wheedled out of accustomed tent space in Stanley Park to make room for the expected influx of haute couture turistas on their way to Van City for a little fiesta we like to call the 2010 Winter Olympics.
And Mats? Between rounds of poker in Vegas, Monte Carlo and the Mirage, Mats has agreed to a one year contract and a mere $6,000,000 for a wonky work ethic that lamentably could use some fine tuning.
“It's not a perfect situation, coming in this late,” says Sundin. Really? Ya’ think?
“All the other players in the league are in mid-season form. It's going to be a while before I can compete at that level. But I just felt that Vancouver seemed like a good fit for me.”
It’s $6,000,000. For tops, six months of work. Sounds like a good fit to me
“Hey wait just a cotton pickin’ minute here. Did I hear right? $6,000,000 for a half a season? Hey! Yo! Can a fella’ get another shovel here? I am being buried under the toppling weight of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed bushel of crap down here. That’s what it feels like anyway. I could be wrong.”
Well, like I said. I got nothing at all against Mats Sundin. I just don’t think it’s going to pay dividends. Right here, right now, Mats Sundin is a waste of space.
The better fit?
No brainer my Canuckadoodle-do’s. Your real salvation was on display last Friday night on TSN. Remember the T stands for “The”.
Cody Hodgson, your first round and 10th overall pick in the 2008 spring draft, is the guy you should be looking at long run and for the huge cross country big rig haul that comprises the NHL season. Hodgson, cerebral, savvy, Lindenesque. With a work ethic right outta’ some Puritan workbook.
Forget Sundin and hearken all that bonhomie that you reserved for native son Trevor Linden not too long ago. The guy you really need is already there. Or was for the bulk of training camp and a number of exhibition contests earlier this fall in Whistler and beyond.
On Friday night, Cody Hodgson scored a goal and added two assists in a 4-2 win over Sweden in a warm-up game for the 2009 International Junior Hockey Championships which gets underway in Ottawa on Boxing Day.
Pierre McGuire TSN’s ever obliging and swanky analyst reserved a holler to all the fans in Van City when he stopped to single out Hodgson’s huge potential midway through the third frame of that exhibition tilt. He stopped mid-sentence and mid-thought and christened Hodgson as the next leader of the Canucks.
Yes Canuckadoodle-do’s McGuire was talking effervescently and eye-poppingly at you.
And I think he’s right.
Wait a year or two.
By then, Sundin may well be pushing his walker creakily out the GM Place Arena Door, heading for Vegas, with a deck of cards and a Maverick’s blank stare.
I’ve got nothing against the Swedish bombshell.
But at 37 he’s reminding me more and more of Leo Rautins.
Rautins is coach of Canada’s national basketball team and a color analyst for the THE network.
Back when he was drafted by the Philadelphia Seventy Sixers out of Syracuse, he was selected to the NBAs All Airport Team.
All Airport?
Never saw the floor but looked great while boarding the team’s chartered plane. Tall, tanned good looking. Couldn’t play a lick but man he looked sweet in a suit with that beautiful Gucci luggage.
Mats Sundin at 37 and dipping divinely to Diva is ranking one or two on my 2008 NHL All Airport Squad.
Looks great in a suit. Signs a mean autograph.
Hey, I like the guy.
But I’m just sayin’.
Reserve the welcome wagon for the dude that can carry the freight.
You know the guy.
Strong worker. Savvy puck handler. Two-way demon. Sure hands. Smart as a whip.
Oh, and I almost forgot.
Got his start right here in Haliburton.
Cody Hodgson.
Hates Nevada, Texas Hold Em and Black Jack.n
Matt’s Poker Face and Cody’s Fluid Grace – Who Will Out and Make the Case?
By Terrance Gavan
Look, I have nothing against the manic poker playing diva from Sweden.
For all I know Mats Sundin is a very charming guy with a flair for the debonair.
Do I think he manufactured a contract from the persnickety and cap-challenged suitors who knocked on his door lo’ these past 6 months?
Probably.
Is he worth the green from the Vancouver machine?
Don’t bet on it. It’s not even close.
Ask Leaf Nation, a savvy, mildly rabid group of puck cognoscente, who will get their chance for commentary, consolidated, cranky, and castigating on February 21st of 2009 when the Swaggering Staggering Swede will make his way back to the Hot Stove seat of Roger’s great sanctuary of mild sanguinity.
If I had to pin my Stanley Cupped aspirations to a star, I would look further down the food chain dear Canuckadoodle-do’s. Hearken Trevor Linden, a solid commodity with less flair and more stare. The type of hombre that needs no introduction. Trevor was solid, self-effacing, evocative and imbued of that much coveted blue collar work ethic.
You don’t need a Swedish massage on your injured pride. You need someone of substance. Someone like Linden. Someone who isn’t a stranger to hard work.
Take a good look at what you just landed. And tell me. Did you get another Linden? Or did you just pop a cool six million with a signing entreaty of two million for half a year’s flirt with a player who looks for all the world like a Nordic bit piece straight outta’ central casting.
No my Canuckadoodle-do’s Sweet Sundin is not the answer. Not even if you phrase that delicately in the form of a jeopardized question to a Trebekian query: “No Salvation Soon Vancouver!”
“What is a Mats Sundin Alex?”
“Absolutely correct for a thousand my good Canuckadoodle-do’s. No Salvation, and no reprieve from the good-lookin’ hipster Swede.”
Yes my dear Canuckadoodle-do’s, you may canoodle with Mats Sundin for the nonce and you may even bang your chortled car horns all the way down Burrard Street to the Inlet and beyond to storied Gastown. You may even start saving for Stanley Cup tickets.
The glass is either half-full or half-empty. I’m leaning latterly.
Quoted in a Toronto Star piece by Rosie Dimanno, Sunny Sundin is less push and more shove in assessing his soon to be new career start in Vancouver.
“Time was running out,” said Mats. “I realized if I was going to play again, I had to start now or I'd lose the whole season. And I did want to play. For a long time, I just wasn't sure of that. But I finally realized how much I missed the game, missed being on the ice, in the dressing room.”
And then he let rubber hit road.
“When the opportunity is over, it could be over for good.”
Aw shucks my dear Canuckadoodle-do’s. You’ve got a feel good story here. It’s Christmas, Canadians are in the deep frozen depths of a full-blown recession. There’s talk about hiring work gangs for good old-fashioned 1930’s-era infrastructure building. Highways, subways, bridges, sewers. Wheeee! Let that Ceement fly!
“People, can a body getta’ a shovel and some fresh asphalt here? There’s roads to patch, bridges to prop. Up and down that Sea to Sky highway, we gotta’ move some mud, pop some rock! Whattaya’ mean nine bills an hour?”
Meanwhile, the homeless are being wheedled out of accustomed tent space in Stanley Park to make room for the expected influx of haute couture turistas on their way to Van City for a little fiesta we like to call the 2010 Winter Olympics.
And Mats? Between rounds of poker in Vegas, Monte Carlo and the Mirage, Mats has agreed to a one year contract and a mere $6,000,000 for a wonky work ethic that lamentably could use some fine tuning.
“It's not a perfect situation, coming in this late,” says Sundin. Really? Ya’ think?
“All the other players in the league are in mid-season form. It's going to be a while before I can compete at that level. But I just felt that Vancouver seemed like a good fit for me.”
It’s $6,000,000. For tops, six months of work. Sounds like a good fit to me
“Hey wait just a cotton pickin’ minute here. Did I hear right? $6,000,000 for a half a season? Hey! Yo! Can a fella’ get another shovel here? I am being buried under the toppling weight of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed bushel of crap down here. That’s what it feels like anyway. I could be wrong.”
Well, like I said. I got nothing at all against Mats Sundin. I just don’t think it’s going to pay dividends. Right here, right now, Mats Sundin is a waste of space.
The better fit?
No brainer my Canuckadoodle-do’s. Your real salvation was on display last Friday night on TSN. Remember the T stands for “The”.
Cody Hodgson, your first round and 10th overall pick in the 2008 spring draft, is the guy you should be looking at long run and for the huge cross country big rig haul that comprises the NHL season. Hodgson, cerebral, savvy, Lindenesque. With a work ethic right outta’ some Puritan workbook.
Forget Sundin and hearken all that bonhomie that you reserved for native son Trevor Linden not too long ago. The guy you really need is already there. Or was for the bulk of training camp and a number of exhibition contests earlier this fall in Whistler and beyond.
On Friday night, Cody Hodgson scored a goal and added two assists in a 4-2 win over Sweden in a warm-up game for the 2009 International Junior Hockey Championships which gets underway in Ottawa on Boxing Day.
Pierre McGuire TSN’s ever obliging and swanky analyst reserved a holler to all the fans in Van City when he stopped to single out Hodgson’s huge potential midway through the third frame of that exhibition tilt. He stopped mid-sentence and mid-thought and christened Hodgson as the next leader of the Canucks.
Yes Canuckadoodle-do’s McGuire was talking effervescently and eye-poppingly at you.
And I think he’s right.
Wait a year or two.
By then, Sundin may well be pushing his walker creakily out the GM Place Arena Door, heading for Vegas, with a deck of cards and a Maverick’s blank stare.
I’ve got nothing against the Swedish bombshell.
But at 37 he’s reminding me more and more of Leo Rautins.
Rautins is coach of Canada’s national basketball team and a color analyst for the THE network.
Back when he was drafted by the Philadelphia Seventy Sixers out of Syracuse, he was selected to the NBAs All Airport Team.
All Airport?
Never saw the floor but looked great while boarding the team’s chartered plane. Tall, tanned good looking. Couldn’t play a lick but man he looked sweet in a suit with that beautiful Gucci luggage.
Mats Sundin at 37 and dipping divinely to Diva is ranking one or two on my 2008 NHL All Airport Squad.
Looks great in a suit. Signs a mean autograph.
Hey, I like the guy.
But I’m just sayin’.
Reserve the welcome wagon for the dude that can carry the freight.
You know the guy.
Strong worker. Savvy puck handler. Two-way demon. Sure hands. Smart as a whip.
Oh, and I almost forgot.
Got his start right here in Haliburton.
Cody Hodgson.
Hates Nevada, Texas Hold Em and Black Jack.n
Dogpound Karma Bits and Bites
Hot Times in Halcyon
Animal Control in Halcyon Township
Cats and Dogs, Descending Fogs, and How Karma Caught Up With the Dogcatcher
By Terrance Gavan
We are teetering on the fulcrum of a full-blown feral cat controversy here in cottage country.
Animal control is a perennial and ongoing synapse-basting and soul-searing barbershop topic in any small town or rural enclave.
This latest set piece of alley cat sturm and drang reminds me of a time back in Halcyon, Manitoba when the animal control officer for the Rural Municipality (RM) of Reykjavik Adolph Dummkopher took a holiday. He decided to go to Kenya on Safari. I was the reporter of record for the Halcyon Packet and Times. I was in attendance at the RM council meeting one Monday afternoon when Dummkopher reported to council that he would taking a three month leave of absence to go on safari in the hope of killing a big cat. He explained that Reykjavik Council might want to consider hiring a replacement animal control officer to fill in during his absence.
I never liked Adolph. No one in my expansive circle of friends much cared for him either. And not just because he was the local dogcatcher. There was something about him, a swarthiness, a rough edge and a general demeanor that oozed sinister intent. My dog Spunky loved everyone in Halcyon. But he genuinely despised Dummkopher. In fact most dogs and cats around town shied away from Adolph. It was a local joke. Everyone simply surmised that the indigenous pet population knew what he did for a living and had united in solidarity against him. I always thought it went deeper than that. Animals are blessed with a marvelous and incongruous sixth sense and I was convinced that Adolph Dummkopher possessed a dark side. There were the other things too. Like the fact that his wife Mary Dummkopher was often seen sporting large dark glasses on cloudy days or at the Bingo Hall on Thursday nights.
In his one-and-a-half years as animal control officer for the RM of Reykjavik, the local dog and cat shelter had seen very little in the way of trade from the new animal control officer. Every once in a while a stray dog or cat would be found by a resident and taken to the shelter, run by a benign soul named Maggie Thorsson. Maggie was in her 70s and her husband Thorgundur was a retired local vet. In 23 years of running the local shelter the couple had never put a healthy animal down. Maggie was a persuasive and gentle old soul who was as adept as “Fiddler’s” Yente when it came to matchmaking strays with prospective owners. Many isolated widows and umpteen Reykjavik area youngsters had benefited from Maggie’s uncanny knack for matching lonely soul with abandoned pet. I had done several stories on the couple since arriving in Halcyon and Spunky always enjoyed heading out to their rambling old farmhouse and kennels for a Saturday afternoon romp with their 7 dogs and five cats. Maggie once confided to me that Dummkopher had never brought a stray dog or cat to their shelter. “I don’t like that man,” said Maggie, in a quiet moment. Thorgundur, an unusually silent man of Viking descent, with a very dry sense of humor overheard. And he said something that, in hindsight, still sends a chill up my spine today. “Oh, Maggie dear, not to worry, you’ll find that the gods find a way, when it comes to dealing with nasty spirited wee men like our friend Dummkopher.”
Fact remains that there was a perceptible drop in the stray dog and cat population since Dummkopher had assumed his role as animal control and bylaw officer for the RM of Reykjavik and since a lot of small councils dwell on the hard knife’s edge of the bottom line, any monies saved and redirected from the care and adoption of stray pets was seen as a boon. I had heard some rumors about Adolph, but nothing that could be corroborated.
But I was very interested, as a reporter, to see what would shake out in the animal control office after Adolph Dummkopher went to Kenya in search of the King of Beasts. I was naturally pleased when council named affable 30-year-old Gunnar Ericson as the interim by-law and animal control officer. Gunnar was a local sports hero. He lettered in 6 sports at Halcyon Collegiate Institute and pitched for the Reykjavik Wranglers, perennial finalists in the Manitoba Baseball League. He had two beautiful kids and a wife who just happened to be our local town doctor. They met at the University of Manitoba when he was playing for the U of M Bisons hockey team. He was an All Canadian with the Bisons and still spent his winters playing hockey for the Halcyon Cyclones in the Manitoba Senior Men’s Hockey League. His family ran the biggest Elk Farm in Canada. He was in charge of web sales of elk products to China, something he did from his computer at home. He was jovial, bright and well-liked. Best of all, he loved animals.
Asked why he volunteered for the job, Gunnar just winked, smiled and said, “Well, Terry, I just thought I might be able to make a difference … and it gets boring in front of that computer screen.”
Within three weeks of Dummkopher’s departure for Kenya things began to percolate on the stray pet front. All of a sudden, the Thorsson’s animal shelter began to receive an assortment of dogs and cats courtesy of the RM’s interim animal control officer. Maggie was utterly thrilled to be back in the matchmaking business. Thorgundur was donating his spay and neuter services for the new adoptive pets.
Mary Dummkopher filed for divorce, citing three episodes of spousal abuse, and she took the three kids with her to her brother’s home on Saltspring Island.
Gunnar said he had an opportunity to unearth some very unpleasant emails from the hard drive of Adolph Dummkopher’s workplace computer. He handed it over to the RCMP’s special investigations unit. Gunnar let me in on most of the unsavory details.
Turns out that for the better part of a year, Dummkopher had been selling Reykjavik’s stray dogs and cats to an organized dogfighting ring based in Thunder Bay. Dog trainers historically use stray dogs and cats for pre-fight practice, to keep the Pit Bulls “savage.”
I broke the story on the front page of the Packet and Times. At editor Lorne Bjornsson’s request we left out the gorier details. I remember that as soon as I finished writing the piece I felt an overpowering urge to head out to Maggie’s with Spunky.
I drove into the yard. I spotted Gunnar’s Ford pickup. A couple were in the driveway with their two young boys. I watched as Maggie handed a leash attached to the collar of a beautiful golden lab puppy to one of the boys. She handed the other young boy a book on the care and training of puppies, a book especially written for and geared to kids. Thorgundur rushed up with a blanket and a brand new tennis ball.
Maggie whispered conspiratorially to the smiling, wide-eyed boys. “You see Gunnar Ericsson over there? Well, when he found your puppy on the side of the road, he was only a month old, shivering, cold and he was very sick. We took him in and gave him a new start and now it’s up to you two. Make sure he’s loved and he’ll never let you down … promise.”
The family left and then Gunnar called us over.
“Thought you might be interested in this piece of news from the on-line version of the Times in London,” said Ericsson. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. On it was a news story. The headline fairly jumped from the page. “Canadian Big Game Hunter Mauled By Lions”
It went on to say that a “Canadian dogcatcher, 42-year-old Adolph Dummkopher was killed by two lions, while on safari.” It went on to say that a tracker sent in to reconstruct the scene said that the Dummkopher had apparently been followed by the rogue lions for the better part of two days.
I remembered the chat with Thorgundur and immediately looked over. He smiled, gave a low whistle and then excused himself. “Well, that’s too bad, but not entirely unexpected,” said Thorgundur. “Excuse me, I have some work to do on one of the new kennels before this storm breaks.”
The skies were looming black, the precursor to that beautiful freak of nature, the prairie thunderstorm. I said my goodbyes to Gunnar and Maggie and called Spunky to the truck.
Just before leaving I looked over at old Thorgundur who was preparing to drive a nail into a two-by-four. Over his shoulder a bolt of lightening cackled, snapped and cracked into the ebon prairie sky. The Stanley hammer of Thorgundur came down just as a peel of thunder shook the surrounding fields of alfalfa.
And the Faroe Islander in me felt the shrill thrill of the words spoken just three weeks ago by my friend Thorgundur.
“Oh, Maggie dear, not to worry, you’ll find that the gods find a way, when it comes to dealing with nasty spirited wee men like our friend Dummkopher.”
And I saw at that moment, beautiful Karma, delivered with jarring effect, courtesy of Thor’s large, 28 ounce, steely Stanley hammer.
Animal Control in Halcyon Township
Cats and Dogs, Descending Fogs, and How Karma Caught Up With the Dogcatcher
By Terrance Gavan
We are teetering on the fulcrum of a full-blown feral cat controversy here in cottage country.
Animal control is a perennial and ongoing synapse-basting and soul-searing barbershop topic in any small town or rural enclave.
This latest set piece of alley cat sturm and drang reminds me of a time back in Halcyon, Manitoba when the animal control officer for the Rural Municipality (RM) of Reykjavik Adolph Dummkopher took a holiday. He decided to go to Kenya on Safari. I was the reporter of record for the Halcyon Packet and Times. I was in attendance at the RM council meeting one Monday afternoon when Dummkopher reported to council that he would taking a three month leave of absence to go on safari in the hope of killing a big cat. He explained that Reykjavik Council might want to consider hiring a replacement animal control officer to fill in during his absence.
I never liked Adolph. No one in my expansive circle of friends much cared for him either. And not just because he was the local dogcatcher. There was something about him, a swarthiness, a rough edge and a general demeanor that oozed sinister intent. My dog Spunky loved everyone in Halcyon. But he genuinely despised Dummkopher. In fact most dogs and cats around town shied away from Adolph. It was a local joke. Everyone simply surmised that the indigenous pet population knew what he did for a living and had united in solidarity against him. I always thought it went deeper than that. Animals are blessed with a marvelous and incongruous sixth sense and I was convinced that Adolph Dummkopher possessed a dark side. There were the other things too. Like the fact that his wife Mary Dummkopher was often seen sporting large dark glasses on cloudy days or at the Bingo Hall on Thursday nights.
In his one-and-a-half years as animal control officer for the RM of Reykjavik, the local dog and cat shelter had seen very little in the way of trade from the new animal control officer. Every once in a while a stray dog or cat would be found by a resident and taken to the shelter, run by a benign soul named Maggie Thorsson. Maggie was in her 70s and her husband Thorgundur was a retired local vet. In 23 years of running the local shelter the couple had never put a healthy animal down. Maggie was a persuasive and gentle old soul who was as adept as “Fiddler’s” Yente when it came to matchmaking strays with prospective owners. Many isolated widows and umpteen Reykjavik area youngsters had benefited from Maggie’s uncanny knack for matching lonely soul with abandoned pet. I had done several stories on the couple since arriving in Halcyon and Spunky always enjoyed heading out to their rambling old farmhouse and kennels for a Saturday afternoon romp with their 7 dogs and five cats. Maggie once confided to me that Dummkopher had never brought a stray dog or cat to their shelter. “I don’t like that man,” said Maggie, in a quiet moment. Thorgundur, an unusually silent man of Viking descent, with a very dry sense of humor overheard. And he said something that, in hindsight, still sends a chill up my spine today. “Oh, Maggie dear, not to worry, you’ll find that the gods find a way, when it comes to dealing with nasty spirited wee men like our friend Dummkopher.”
Fact remains that there was a perceptible drop in the stray dog and cat population since Dummkopher had assumed his role as animal control and bylaw officer for the RM of Reykjavik and since a lot of small councils dwell on the hard knife’s edge of the bottom line, any monies saved and redirected from the care and adoption of stray pets was seen as a boon. I had heard some rumors about Adolph, but nothing that could be corroborated.
But I was very interested, as a reporter, to see what would shake out in the animal control office after Adolph Dummkopher went to Kenya in search of the King of Beasts. I was naturally pleased when council named affable 30-year-old Gunnar Ericson as the interim by-law and animal control officer. Gunnar was a local sports hero. He lettered in 6 sports at Halcyon Collegiate Institute and pitched for the Reykjavik Wranglers, perennial finalists in the Manitoba Baseball League. He had two beautiful kids and a wife who just happened to be our local town doctor. They met at the University of Manitoba when he was playing for the U of M Bisons hockey team. He was an All Canadian with the Bisons and still spent his winters playing hockey for the Halcyon Cyclones in the Manitoba Senior Men’s Hockey League. His family ran the biggest Elk Farm in Canada. He was in charge of web sales of elk products to China, something he did from his computer at home. He was jovial, bright and well-liked. Best of all, he loved animals.
Asked why he volunteered for the job, Gunnar just winked, smiled and said, “Well, Terry, I just thought I might be able to make a difference … and it gets boring in front of that computer screen.”
Within three weeks of Dummkopher’s departure for Kenya things began to percolate on the stray pet front. All of a sudden, the Thorsson’s animal shelter began to receive an assortment of dogs and cats courtesy of the RM’s interim animal control officer. Maggie was utterly thrilled to be back in the matchmaking business. Thorgundur was donating his spay and neuter services for the new adoptive pets.
Mary Dummkopher filed for divorce, citing three episodes of spousal abuse, and she took the three kids with her to her brother’s home on Saltspring Island.
Gunnar said he had an opportunity to unearth some very unpleasant emails from the hard drive of Adolph Dummkopher’s workplace computer. He handed it over to the RCMP’s special investigations unit. Gunnar let me in on most of the unsavory details.
Turns out that for the better part of a year, Dummkopher had been selling Reykjavik’s stray dogs and cats to an organized dogfighting ring based in Thunder Bay. Dog trainers historically use stray dogs and cats for pre-fight practice, to keep the Pit Bulls “savage.”
I broke the story on the front page of the Packet and Times. At editor Lorne Bjornsson’s request we left out the gorier details. I remember that as soon as I finished writing the piece I felt an overpowering urge to head out to Maggie’s with Spunky.
I drove into the yard. I spotted Gunnar’s Ford pickup. A couple were in the driveway with their two young boys. I watched as Maggie handed a leash attached to the collar of a beautiful golden lab puppy to one of the boys. She handed the other young boy a book on the care and training of puppies, a book especially written for and geared to kids. Thorgundur rushed up with a blanket and a brand new tennis ball.
Maggie whispered conspiratorially to the smiling, wide-eyed boys. “You see Gunnar Ericsson over there? Well, when he found your puppy on the side of the road, he was only a month old, shivering, cold and he was very sick. We took him in and gave him a new start and now it’s up to you two. Make sure he’s loved and he’ll never let you down … promise.”
The family left and then Gunnar called us over.
“Thought you might be interested in this piece of news from the on-line version of the Times in London,” said Ericsson. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. On it was a news story. The headline fairly jumped from the page. “Canadian Big Game Hunter Mauled By Lions”
It went on to say that a “Canadian dogcatcher, 42-year-old Adolph Dummkopher was killed by two lions, while on safari.” It went on to say that a tracker sent in to reconstruct the scene said that the Dummkopher had apparently been followed by the rogue lions for the better part of two days.
I remembered the chat with Thorgundur and immediately looked over. He smiled, gave a low whistle and then excused himself. “Well, that’s too bad, but not entirely unexpected,” said Thorgundur. “Excuse me, I have some work to do on one of the new kennels before this storm breaks.”
The skies were looming black, the precursor to that beautiful freak of nature, the prairie thunderstorm. I said my goodbyes to Gunnar and Maggie and called Spunky to the truck.
Just before leaving I looked over at old Thorgundur who was preparing to drive a nail into a two-by-four. Over his shoulder a bolt of lightening cackled, snapped and cracked into the ebon prairie sky. The Stanley hammer of Thorgundur came down just as a peel of thunder shook the surrounding fields of alfalfa.
And the Faroe Islander in me felt the shrill thrill of the words spoken just three weeks ago by my friend Thorgundur.
“Oh, Maggie dear, not to worry, you’ll find that the gods find a way, when it comes to dealing with nasty spirited wee men like our friend Dummkopher.”
And I saw at that moment, beautiful Karma, delivered with jarring effect, courtesy of Thor’s large, 28 ounce, steely Stanley hammer.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Basketball with Obama
Basketball this time round
My playground skip with Barack
By Terrance Gavan
My very early years I spent playing hoops on the hardscrabble cement courts in Ottawa’s Sandy Hill, a hoops paradise surrounded by a phalanx of four-storey, red brick walk-ups. Living on Goulbourn Crescent, that’s what you did all summer. Watch the older ‘legends’ hearken Oscar Robertson, Jerry West and Bill Russell, whiling away the springs and summers, spinning, juking and jiving on the haggard courts. And when they left, the young kids, young starry-eyed plunkers like me, got to play, shoot around and otherwise drill tirelessly on 15-foot hanging jumper till dusk drooped drearily into another July day.
On those Sandy Hill courts in the Goulbourn Project, I learned to dribble, to hawk, and I learned the only three plays in basketball. Oh, you will look to those NBA playbooks and call me stupid. You will allude to those well-stretched Xs and insipid Os drawn so lovingly on those newfangled dry erase court replicas and you will tell me there are 10,000 plays in the naked hardwood city.
You would be wrong. There are two commandments, not ten, and there are three plays in Dr. Naismith’s beautifully constructed game. From two absolutes dribble the rest of those 10 amendments to the Golden Rules: Love thy neighbor as thyself; and do unto others as you would have them. And in basketball, the pretty picket fence, Mississippi Quicksand trap, The Kansas Shuffle, the rolling triangle, the 3-2, the 2-3, the 1-3-1 and the transcendentally and multi-layered philosophies pattered in Pat Riley or Phil Jackson playbooks, with the squiggles, droops and gee-gaws, all flow flawlessly, flimsily from the triune Holy Grail of Hoops Law. Three plays. Only three.
Give and go, pick and roll, back door. That’s it folks. Basketball redux. Three and only three. From these three the house of cards is built.
I learned that in Sandy Hill. When I first picked up a ball. When I played my first playground game of three on three. Three on three is the game. I learned that when I was six.
On the Goulbourn Project courts. The macadam was cracked and worn and the lines were wobbled and bleached by a decade of summer sun, burnished to a beige from intended white.
I learned to play there with some guys who later went on to play at Lisgar Collegiate, Ottawa’s perennial basketball power way back in the 60s and 70s. I learned from Paul Armstrong, the Stoqua brothers and from the Love brothers that there are but those three plays, and the rest trickles from there.
I moved away from Sandy Hill in the mid-sixties I moved to Nepean, just a few blocks down from the high school I would attend. St Pius X Preparatory Seminary was its mildly intimidating moniker back when I first attended in 1968. We were an all-boys school back then and in my first year in grade nine I think we had 422 students. A lot of priests lived at the school. We also had boarders, students who lived there five or seven days a week.
My uncle Joe Gavan was the treasurer of the school and another uncle, the irrepressible Rev Donald Francis Gavan was the principal. (I won’t even get into my aunts’ contribution to the mix. Suffice to say that the Gavan family imprimatur on Pius X was indelible and lasting.) I spent most of my waking hours in the old gym. Uncle Joe had a white house on the edge of campus, and halfway through my freshman year, the old gym became my second home. Uncle Joe would come roaring in, seeing the lights on at 10:30 pm, and he had one of those unpredictable Irish tempers. He would peruse the gym and if he saw me, he would frown and then smile. “Make sure you turn the lights out when you leave … before midnight.” Uncle Joe was unpredictable, but I was a favorite. If I didn’t happen to be there, the game would be shut down and uncle Joe would oversee the closure. We played basketball every night from 7 to 10 pm and there were some nights I remember going to midnight. It’s why Pius remained a basketball power back in the 60s and 70s. Unfettered access to the Grail. Two cross-court games going all night long. Pick and roll, back door, give and go. And the credo … no blood no foul.
On the dais of the pickup game, I learned early, that the measure of a man – or a boy – could be ascertained by how he handles the pressure of the game. The knocks, the jarring pick, the knee, the elbow and the quick slap on dribble drive. I learned to mediate mettle on the floor, to get a sense of the measure of a man, in the way he would handle the tempo of the game.
Last summer, I discovered a news piece written by Jodi Kantor of the New York Times. “Sports has been used, correctly or incorrectly, as a personality decoder for presidents and presidential aspirants. So, armchair psychologists and fans of athletic metaphors, take note: Barack Obama is a wily player of pickup basketball, the version of the game with unspoken rules, no referee and lots of elbows. He has been playing since adolescence, on cracked-asphalt playgrounds and at exclusive health clubs, developing a quick offensive style, a left-handed jump shot and relationships that have extended into the political arena.”
That churned some wheels. I wanted to do a piece on Barack, but I knew the interview would be a tough nut to crack.
So instead of the interview request I went with the gyp and flip, dipsy doodle dive.
I wrote an email to the candidate last May and asked him for a game. I told the good Senator that I grew up playing mostly pickup ball, and I challenged him to some one-on-one. I told him I was a sportswriter and I said that if I won, he would promise me an interview in January of 2009, just after the inauguration. (I’m an optimist, what can I say – and I also saw the tide risin’) And, I added, that if I came up on the plus side, I would also get to participate in the first full-fledged game of three-on-three at the newly installed White House basketball court. I told him in the email that building the courts in the White House should be his first redecorating move.
I sent the email under the sportswriter’s motto of last resort. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
I got a phone call the next day. “Hold for Senator Obama,” said the young male voice on the other end.
“Sure,” I said. I hadn’t told anyone of my hasty decision to write an ill-advised email to Obama, so I figured it was legit.
“Okay, Gav, can I call you Gav,” said the unmistakable voice of the Illinois Senator.
“Of course Senator, if I can call you O?” I replied. I remembered that I had signed the email with my simple “cheers, gav” endline.
We set up a game of one-on-one for the following week, at a high school gym in South Bend, Indiana.
He had a busy day planned. We decided on a quick game to five. Two rather large men in suits hovered close by. We played playground. He gave me first ball. He’s a lefty and I hate playin’ southpaws. My first move was a juke left, roll right, hammer through to the basket, quick flip and reverse finger roll and I’m up.
Scorer keeps ball and I looked in his eyes as he checked ball and fired it back to me. And I saw all I needed to see in those eyes. “Game on, gav … game on.”
On my next drive the good Senator popped a shoulder, placed me on my butt and picked me up. “My bad … your ball.”
I shook my head and flipped him the ball. “Playground rules Senator, no blood no foul.”
He scored the next five. I never saw the ball again. He trash-talked me at 4-1 and then went left to the twine with a short pull-up.
We shook hands. The eyes were smiling once again, the steel was gone.
“You really think I should build a court in the White House?”
“Senator, we’ve had eight years of that baseball bumpkin’s administration, I really think the nation could use a change,” I laughed.
I got a call yesterday.
“Gav?” said the voice on the other end.
“Yes Senator?” I replied.
“The White House court’s on the way, we’ll see you for that game of three-on-three sometime early February.”
“But I lost,” I said. “The deal hinged on me winning.”
“Call it a compromise,” laughed the President elect.
“Okay,” I said. “But, I get Larry Bird and Magic Johnson … think you can pull those strings Mr. President?”
“Look Gav, we just popped Hillary as Secretary of State … after that … Bird and Magic? Piece of cake.”
And for anyone who’s worried about the state of the nation. Or the fact that he may be tested. This good young man. Tested by those forces who may question his resolve.
Rest assured. This man comes from compassion, nurture and compromise, but he’s imbued with that inherent steely reserve. Stuff we saw in Kennedy during the Cuban Missile Crisis.
How do I know? I saw it in the eyes … on the hardwood.
Intrinsic goodness backed by hard edge. Three plays. Basketball redux. And the measure of the man
My playground skip with Barack
By Terrance Gavan
My very early years I spent playing hoops on the hardscrabble cement courts in Ottawa’s Sandy Hill, a hoops paradise surrounded by a phalanx of four-storey, red brick walk-ups. Living on Goulbourn Crescent, that’s what you did all summer. Watch the older ‘legends’ hearken Oscar Robertson, Jerry West and Bill Russell, whiling away the springs and summers, spinning, juking and jiving on the haggard courts. And when they left, the young kids, young starry-eyed plunkers like me, got to play, shoot around and otherwise drill tirelessly on 15-foot hanging jumper till dusk drooped drearily into another July day.
On those Sandy Hill courts in the Goulbourn Project, I learned to dribble, to hawk, and I learned the only three plays in basketball. Oh, you will look to those NBA playbooks and call me stupid. You will allude to those well-stretched Xs and insipid Os drawn so lovingly on those newfangled dry erase court replicas and you will tell me there are 10,000 plays in the naked hardwood city.
You would be wrong. There are two commandments, not ten, and there are three plays in Dr. Naismith’s beautifully constructed game. From two absolutes dribble the rest of those 10 amendments to the Golden Rules: Love thy neighbor as thyself; and do unto others as you would have them. And in basketball, the pretty picket fence, Mississippi Quicksand trap, The Kansas Shuffle, the rolling triangle, the 3-2, the 2-3, the 1-3-1 and the transcendentally and multi-layered philosophies pattered in Pat Riley or Phil Jackson playbooks, with the squiggles, droops and gee-gaws, all flow flawlessly, flimsily from the triune Holy Grail of Hoops Law. Three plays. Only three.
Give and go, pick and roll, back door. That’s it folks. Basketball redux. Three and only three. From these three the house of cards is built.
I learned that in Sandy Hill. When I first picked up a ball. When I played my first playground game of three on three. Three on three is the game. I learned that when I was six.
On the Goulbourn Project courts. The macadam was cracked and worn and the lines were wobbled and bleached by a decade of summer sun, burnished to a beige from intended white.
I learned to play there with some guys who later went on to play at Lisgar Collegiate, Ottawa’s perennial basketball power way back in the 60s and 70s. I learned from Paul Armstrong, the Stoqua brothers and from the Love brothers that there are but those three plays, and the rest trickles from there.
I moved away from Sandy Hill in the mid-sixties I moved to Nepean, just a few blocks down from the high school I would attend. St Pius X Preparatory Seminary was its mildly intimidating moniker back when I first attended in 1968. We were an all-boys school back then and in my first year in grade nine I think we had 422 students. A lot of priests lived at the school. We also had boarders, students who lived there five or seven days a week.
My uncle Joe Gavan was the treasurer of the school and another uncle, the irrepressible Rev Donald Francis Gavan was the principal. (I won’t even get into my aunts’ contribution to the mix. Suffice to say that the Gavan family imprimatur on Pius X was indelible and lasting.) I spent most of my waking hours in the old gym. Uncle Joe had a white house on the edge of campus, and halfway through my freshman year, the old gym became my second home. Uncle Joe would come roaring in, seeing the lights on at 10:30 pm, and he had one of those unpredictable Irish tempers. He would peruse the gym and if he saw me, he would frown and then smile. “Make sure you turn the lights out when you leave … before midnight.” Uncle Joe was unpredictable, but I was a favorite. If I didn’t happen to be there, the game would be shut down and uncle Joe would oversee the closure. We played basketball every night from 7 to 10 pm and there were some nights I remember going to midnight. It’s why Pius remained a basketball power back in the 60s and 70s. Unfettered access to the Grail. Two cross-court games going all night long. Pick and roll, back door, give and go. And the credo … no blood no foul.
On the dais of the pickup game, I learned early, that the measure of a man – or a boy – could be ascertained by how he handles the pressure of the game. The knocks, the jarring pick, the knee, the elbow and the quick slap on dribble drive. I learned to mediate mettle on the floor, to get a sense of the measure of a man, in the way he would handle the tempo of the game.
Last summer, I discovered a news piece written by Jodi Kantor of the New York Times. “Sports has been used, correctly or incorrectly, as a personality decoder for presidents and presidential aspirants. So, armchair psychologists and fans of athletic metaphors, take note: Barack Obama is a wily player of pickup basketball, the version of the game with unspoken rules, no referee and lots of elbows. He has been playing since adolescence, on cracked-asphalt playgrounds and at exclusive health clubs, developing a quick offensive style, a left-handed jump shot and relationships that have extended into the political arena.”
That churned some wheels. I wanted to do a piece on Barack, but I knew the interview would be a tough nut to crack.
So instead of the interview request I went with the gyp and flip, dipsy doodle dive.
I wrote an email to the candidate last May and asked him for a game. I told the good Senator that I grew up playing mostly pickup ball, and I challenged him to some one-on-one. I told him I was a sportswriter and I said that if I won, he would promise me an interview in January of 2009, just after the inauguration. (I’m an optimist, what can I say – and I also saw the tide risin’) And, I added, that if I came up on the plus side, I would also get to participate in the first full-fledged game of three-on-three at the newly installed White House basketball court. I told him in the email that building the courts in the White House should be his first redecorating move.
I sent the email under the sportswriter’s motto of last resort. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
I got a phone call the next day. “Hold for Senator Obama,” said the young male voice on the other end.
“Sure,” I said. I hadn’t told anyone of my hasty decision to write an ill-advised email to Obama, so I figured it was legit.
“Okay, Gav, can I call you Gav,” said the unmistakable voice of the Illinois Senator.
“Of course Senator, if I can call you O?” I replied. I remembered that I had signed the email with my simple “cheers, gav” endline.
We set up a game of one-on-one for the following week, at a high school gym in South Bend, Indiana.
He had a busy day planned. We decided on a quick game to five. Two rather large men in suits hovered close by. We played playground. He gave me first ball. He’s a lefty and I hate playin’ southpaws. My first move was a juke left, roll right, hammer through to the basket, quick flip and reverse finger roll and I’m up.
Scorer keeps ball and I looked in his eyes as he checked ball and fired it back to me. And I saw all I needed to see in those eyes. “Game on, gav … game on.”
On my next drive the good Senator popped a shoulder, placed me on my butt and picked me up. “My bad … your ball.”
I shook my head and flipped him the ball. “Playground rules Senator, no blood no foul.”
He scored the next five. I never saw the ball again. He trash-talked me at 4-1 and then went left to the twine with a short pull-up.
We shook hands. The eyes were smiling once again, the steel was gone.
“You really think I should build a court in the White House?”
“Senator, we’ve had eight years of that baseball bumpkin’s administration, I really think the nation could use a change,” I laughed.
I got a call yesterday.
“Gav?” said the voice on the other end.
“Yes Senator?” I replied.
“The White House court’s on the way, we’ll see you for that game of three-on-three sometime early February.”
“But I lost,” I said. “The deal hinged on me winning.”
“Call it a compromise,” laughed the President elect.
“Okay,” I said. “But, I get Larry Bird and Magic Johnson … think you can pull those strings Mr. President?”
“Look Gav, we just popped Hillary as Secretary of State … after that … Bird and Magic? Piece of cake.”
And for anyone who’s worried about the state of the nation. Or the fact that he may be tested. This good young man. Tested by those forces who may question his resolve.
Rest assured. This man comes from compassion, nurture and compromise, but he’s imbued with that inherent steely reserve. Stuff we saw in Kennedy during the Cuban Missile Crisis.
How do I know? I saw it in the eyes … on the hardwood.
Intrinsic goodness backed by hard edge. Three plays. Basketball redux. And the measure of the man
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Crop Circles In Halcyon
Crop Circles and Close Encounters
Life at the Halcyon Packet and Times
By Terrance Gavan
Halcyon is a village in rural Manitoba.
Nothing much happens in small town Manitoba, unless of course you happen to be working the editorial desk of the Halcyon Packet and Times, known locally as the “P and T”.
I landed on the doorstep of the P and T on a hot July day in 1987 and spent 5 years toiling under the avuncular tutelage of Managing Editor Lorne Bjornson, a “gruff and ready” Icelander who grew up farming and ice fishing just outside of Gimli on Lake Winnipeg.
Lorne left Gimli at 17 back in the 60’s and earned his stripes as a hard-hitting court reporter for the old Winnipeg Tribune before deciding to forego to the bright lights of Winnipeg for the more neutral pace of Manitoba’s Interlake.
He taught me that “fact” in the newspaper business stood for “Fast, Accurate, Concise and True.”
He hated bullshit, but he put up with a lot of mine.
And he used me like a lapdog, calling me on hot story lines at all hours of the day and night. Lorne was a night owl and assumed that all of his reporters were on the same dodgy schedule.
So I wasn’t surprised when the phone jangled me from semi-coma at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning in August, back in 1987.
“Listen, get out to Thor Peturson’s place, right now… there’s something goin’ on,” said Lorne. The deep rumble and Icelandic angst literally jumped from the receiver as my feet hit the floor.
“What is it Lorne… fire?” I asked, reaching for my camera bag.
“Nope,” said Lorne perfunctorily. “Aliens.”
Lorne was not an aficionado of the practical joke, so I knew that there was a back-story here somewhere.
“Lorne… aliens?” I queried.
“Crop circles… get out to his place pronto, because I want pictures before the Free Press and the Sun get wind of this,” said Lorne. “And give me a call when you get ‘em.”
And then he hung up.
I had time to ruminate while driving out to Thor’s place, about 5 miles out of town.
Thor was a levelheaded, no-nonsense seed farmer who was very involved in local politics and had just retired from a 10-year stint as Reeve of the Municipality of Reykjavik.
I arrived at his place with my dog Spunky trailing behind me. Spunky loved trips out to Thor’s because his dog Maggie was a bright-eyed Golden lab who possessed a Zen mindset that seemed to mesh vividly with Spunky’s precocious take on life.
Thor ushered me quickly to the barn and we hurried up the stairs to the loft. As we moved to the large loft doors I saw it.
Three huge circles in the ripening wheat, joined by three distinct lines. They were, in a word, perfect. Round and straight, like they were cut from a master’s lathe.
Thor was chewing on a twig of straw. “So what do you make of that young feller?”
“Well Thor,” I said, mustering a grin. “I’d say the Sigurdson boys might be capable of this, but I know for a fact that they were still partying at Teddy Sigmundson’s place till 2 this morning. And they were too drunk to make anything this good.”
“It wasn’t a prank, I saw the lights and I heard a whirr… and Maggie has been strange since it happened.”
Maggie was not her regular self. Her ears were on full alert and she was staring intently at the vista laid out on Thor’s home quarter.
Thor and I stood there in the loft for what seemed like 15 minutes, not talking, just taking it all in.
Icelanders are taciturn by nature, but I had never seen Thor this quiet.
I opened the camera bag just as the sun was making its full turn over Gustavson’s silver granaries.
I started snapping shots and didn’t stop until I had shot 3 rolls of black and white and another 24 color shots.
I retired my camera and then pulled out my spiral notebook.
Thor still hadn’t said a word. Maggie was lying down at Thor’s feet, ears still fully alert. Spunky sat beside Maggie and shared what I thought was a peculiar knowing glance. We were all, men and dogs, glued to the wheated canvas before us.
“Look, Terry, I know you need something from me… but I’m not goin’ on record.”
He nodded perfunctorily and I knew, from my years of covering Reykajvik council that I wasn’t going to get anything about the “lights or the whirr” from Thor Peturson on this day. Thor stood 6’4 and weighed about 250 and he carried the edgy persona of displaced Viking on that massive frame. I knew Thor to be gentle, kind and compassionate. But I also knew that he couldn’t be budged on principle.
“I’ll tell you what young Mr. Gavan, let’s just say the lights might have been a pickup and the whirr could have been a large weedeater and we’ll call it done.”
We retired to his kitchen, had some coffee and I phoned Lorne.
We ended up running a huge color photo front page in the next Packet and Times.
The story ran on page two under the headline: Crop Circles – Prank or Close Encounter? There was a minor stir when Ufologist Stanton Friedman paid a visit and there was some talk of some Men in Black from the US snooping around, but that fell to the raw edges of hearsay and small-town paranoia.
Two days later, Thor and Maggie showed up on my doorstep.
I had phoned Thor the night before, because Spunky had been acting a little strange.
He said we’d talk a bit, but not on the phone.
And here he was, with Maggie in tow.
“Now, what do you mean, by strange young Terrance? How has Spunky been acting strange?” whispered Thor, as he followed me to the kitchen.
“Well,” I said, “like he’s been watching television… a lot… and not just when animals are on. He’s particularly fond of the late news on CBC. He’s never sat in front of the TV and just watched before.”
“Hmmm,” said Thor, “and what does he say?”
“Umm.. excuse me Thor… but what does my dog say?” I asked, seeking clarification.
“Yes,” said Thor. “What does he say?”
“Well Thor, let me see… does Maggie talk to you?”
“She does indeed,” said Thor. “Usually she’ll watch the news just like Spunky, then she’ll make a comment… about politics or economics… and no I’m not crazy. She started talking just after the circles appeared.”
And right then I heard it: A deep-throated guffaw, emanating from Spunky who was sitting with a bemused look on his face. And I swear both Spunky and Maggie were laughing.
“Well, we have to be getting back, so we’ll leave you with your delightful pets. Please remember they are without a doubt the best friends both of you will ever share,” said Spunky. The voice was melodic, pleasant and soothing.
“Oh and Thor, remember what I told you,” said Maggie.
And then we heard a huge whirring and a grand light enveloped my backyard.
And then the lights and the whirr were gone.
The dogs went to the window and stared until the strange lights disappeared high in the ether.
And then, Spunky found his old blanket and soon enough they were both playing tug and running roughshod over the furniture as if nothing had happened.
Thor looked at me and said: “I guess I don’t have to tell you that this one… we keep to ourselves.”
Neither Spunky nor Maggie ever again expressed an interest in the nightly news and neither ever uttered another word.
“So what did Maggie want you to remember Thor,” I ventured.
“She told me to… buy Google… whatever the hell that means,” said Thor, chuckling a bit.
About five years ago I managed to track down my old friend Thor… I googled him.
He spends most of his time now on his 500-acre estate in Hawaii.
He runs a rescue mission for pets without homes and harbors injured animals until they can find a safe haven or home.
He has liquid assets of 500 million dollars and spends a lot of his time walking on the beach with a selection of Maggie’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Oh, and he keeps 25 acres of wheat on a patch of land right next to the house.
Just in case.
Life at the Halcyon Packet and Times
By Terrance Gavan
Halcyon is a village in rural Manitoba.
Nothing much happens in small town Manitoba, unless of course you happen to be working the editorial desk of the Halcyon Packet and Times, known locally as the “P and T”.
I landed on the doorstep of the P and T on a hot July day in 1987 and spent 5 years toiling under the avuncular tutelage of Managing Editor Lorne Bjornson, a “gruff and ready” Icelander who grew up farming and ice fishing just outside of Gimli on Lake Winnipeg.
Lorne left Gimli at 17 back in the 60’s and earned his stripes as a hard-hitting court reporter for the old Winnipeg Tribune before deciding to forego to the bright lights of Winnipeg for the more neutral pace of Manitoba’s Interlake.
He taught me that “fact” in the newspaper business stood for “Fast, Accurate, Concise and True.”
He hated bullshit, but he put up with a lot of mine.
And he used me like a lapdog, calling me on hot story lines at all hours of the day and night. Lorne was a night owl and assumed that all of his reporters were on the same dodgy schedule.
So I wasn’t surprised when the phone jangled me from semi-coma at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning in August, back in 1987.
“Listen, get out to Thor Peturson’s place, right now… there’s something goin’ on,” said Lorne. The deep rumble and Icelandic angst literally jumped from the receiver as my feet hit the floor.
“What is it Lorne… fire?” I asked, reaching for my camera bag.
“Nope,” said Lorne perfunctorily. “Aliens.”
Lorne was not an aficionado of the practical joke, so I knew that there was a back-story here somewhere.
“Lorne… aliens?” I queried.
“Crop circles… get out to his place pronto, because I want pictures before the Free Press and the Sun get wind of this,” said Lorne. “And give me a call when you get ‘em.”
And then he hung up.
I had time to ruminate while driving out to Thor’s place, about 5 miles out of town.
Thor was a levelheaded, no-nonsense seed farmer who was very involved in local politics and had just retired from a 10-year stint as Reeve of the Municipality of Reykjavik.
I arrived at his place with my dog Spunky trailing behind me. Spunky loved trips out to Thor’s because his dog Maggie was a bright-eyed Golden lab who possessed a Zen mindset that seemed to mesh vividly with Spunky’s precocious take on life.
Thor ushered me quickly to the barn and we hurried up the stairs to the loft. As we moved to the large loft doors I saw it.
Three huge circles in the ripening wheat, joined by three distinct lines. They were, in a word, perfect. Round and straight, like they were cut from a master’s lathe.
Thor was chewing on a twig of straw. “So what do you make of that young feller?”
“Well Thor,” I said, mustering a grin. “I’d say the Sigurdson boys might be capable of this, but I know for a fact that they were still partying at Teddy Sigmundson’s place till 2 this morning. And they were too drunk to make anything this good.”
“It wasn’t a prank, I saw the lights and I heard a whirr… and Maggie has been strange since it happened.”
Maggie was not her regular self. Her ears were on full alert and she was staring intently at the vista laid out on Thor’s home quarter.
Thor and I stood there in the loft for what seemed like 15 minutes, not talking, just taking it all in.
Icelanders are taciturn by nature, but I had never seen Thor this quiet.
I opened the camera bag just as the sun was making its full turn over Gustavson’s silver granaries.
I started snapping shots and didn’t stop until I had shot 3 rolls of black and white and another 24 color shots.
I retired my camera and then pulled out my spiral notebook.
Thor still hadn’t said a word. Maggie was lying down at Thor’s feet, ears still fully alert. Spunky sat beside Maggie and shared what I thought was a peculiar knowing glance. We were all, men and dogs, glued to the wheated canvas before us.
“Look, Terry, I know you need something from me… but I’m not goin’ on record.”
He nodded perfunctorily and I knew, from my years of covering Reykajvik council that I wasn’t going to get anything about the “lights or the whirr” from Thor Peturson on this day. Thor stood 6’4 and weighed about 250 and he carried the edgy persona of displaced Viking on that massive frame. I knew Thor to be gentle, kind and compassionate. But I also knew that he couldn’t be budged on principle.
“I’ll tell you what young Mr. Gavan, let’s just say the lights might have been a pickup and the whirr could have been a large weedeater and we’ll call it done.”
We retired to his kitchen, had some coffee and I phoned Lorne.
We ended up running a huge color photo front page in the next Packet and Times.
The story ran on page two under the headline: Crop Circles – Prank or Close Encounter? There was a minor stir when Ufologist Stanton Friedman paid a visit and there was some talk of some Men in Black from the US snooping around, but that fell to the raw edges of hearsay and small-town paranoia.
Two days later, Thor and Maggie showed up on my doorstep.
I had phoned Thor the night before, because Spunky had been acting a little strange.
He said we’d talk a bit, but not on the phone.
And here he was, with Maggie in tow.
“Now, what do you mean, by strange young Terrance? How has Spunky been acting strange?” whispered Thor, as he followed me to the kitchen.
“Well,” I said, “like he’s been watching television… a lot… and not just when animals are on. He’s particularly fond of the late news on CBC. He’s never sat in front of the TV and just watched before.”
“Hmmm,” said Thor, “and what does he say?”
“Umm.. excuse me Thor… but what does my dog say?” I asked, seeking clarification.
“Yes,” said Thor. “What does he say?”
“Well Thor, let me see… does Maggie talk to you?”
“She does indeed,” said Thor. “Usually she’ll watch the news just like Spunky, then she’ll make a comment… about politics or economics… and no I’m not crazy. She started talking just after the circles appeared.”
And right then I heard it: A deep-throated guffaw, emanating from Spunky who was sitting with a bemused look on his face. And I swear both Spunky and Maggie were laughing.
“Well, we have to be getting back, so we’ll leave you with your delightful pets. Please remember they are without a doubt the best friends both of you will ever share,” said Spunky. The voice was melodic, pleasant and soothing.
“Oh and Thor, remember what I told you,” said Maggie.
And then we heard a huge whirring and a grand light enveloped my backyard.
And then the lights and the whirr were gone.
The dogs went to the window and stared until the strange lights disappeared high in the ether.
And then, Spunky found his old blanket and soon enough they were both playing tug and running roughshod over the furniture as if nothing had happened.
Thor looked at me and said: “I guess I don’t have to tell you that this one… we keep to ourselves.”
Neither Spunky nor Maggie ever again expressed an interest in the nightly news and neither ever uttered another word.
“So what did Maggie want you to remember Thor,” I ventured.
“She told me to… buy Google… whatever the hell that means,” said Thor, chuckling a bit.
About five years ago I managed to track down my old friend Thor… I googled him.
He spends most of his time now on his 500-acre estate in Hawaii.
He runs a rescue mission for pets without homes and harbors injured animals until they can find a safe haven or home.
He has liquid assets of 500 million dollars and spends a lot of his time walking on the beach with a selection of Maggie’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Oh, and he keeps 25 acres of wheat on a patch of land right next to the house.
Just in case.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Tis a week left to Christmas There's a louse in our House
Tis A Week Left to Christmas – And a Blight on our House
Partisan Voices, Much Spittle, Much Grouse
By Terrance Gavan
Tis the week before Christmas, and down at the House,
In the Commons no stirring, a prologue to Faust
The members snuck silent, sickly smiles, laissez faire,
The PM Sussexed snugly, alone with that hair.
The workers are waiting, no jobs and no bread,
And facing this Christmas, less hopeful, with dread.
They’ve been dumped, duped and drained with boat loads of crap,
From a goldbrick’s regime, much trap and much clap.
No rhyme and no reason to Fridge Hair’s black patter
It’s evident now, he’s just mad as a hatter.
And nowhere is found redress from this hash
Most hoping the Tories just thud, boom and crash.
When faced with a verdict, our Harper said no!
The Commons be damned it’s my ball let’s go!
And off to the GG, the Crown’s rightful peer
Harpie ran from the people, that smile hiding sneer.
His obsequious toadies, picayune hicks
Worked bunkered magic from odd satchels of tricks.
And as Sweater emerged to their lickspit refrains
They all fled fairly quick from that Great Hall of Shame.
On Limo, on Bootlick, on Jackal you vixens!
On Cringer, on Mealy, on Minion and Lickens.
Back to the Bunker, and backs to the wall
He showed us how backsliders weather a squall.
And now as we wait, our new Captain Bligh
Sits solid at Sussex, awaiting ally.
Enter Red Michael, that bold ingénue
The Hair dances lithely, a quaint pas de deux.
“Come hither young Mike,” said la Bleu’s feckless Goof
“Don’t waggle that finger,” said Iggy, aloof.
“I’m not the same patsy … I’m not the same clown,
I’m here to say, there’s a new sheriff in town.”
And staring at Sweater, Iggy said, “You’re a schnook,
And from all I can garner, maybe even a crook.”
He laughed and he turned, and then retraced his tracks
“I’d advise you dear sir … to take on a new tack.”
And his eyes, oh they flashed, his visage quite scary
That look caused ol’ Hard Hair to beseech a Hail Mary
Iggy’s stare was alarming, cold as ice floe,
It turned Sweater’s pallor as white as new snow.
The Harvard professor then gritted those teeth,
And with steely stare, drew prose from its sheath
“You sir are nothing but a quaint Machiavelli
But bullies like you often fold like grape jelly.”
“For two year’s you’ve picked on a nice Liberal elf,
I’m warning you now … place those tactics on shelf”
Iggy then winked an eye and it served to embed
Herald Hair with gut feeling of imminent dread.
Iggy spoke not a word but turned with a jerk
Leaving Sweater alone with his feckless young turks
“On Fawner, On Flunky on Sop, and on Brown-nose
Now off to the Bunker, we’ve new dirt to expose.”
And sprang to the limo, Pavlov’s dogs to shrill whistle,
And away they all flew, like muck-seeking missiles.
And I heard jackal refrains as they sped off to incite,
“Bah humbug dear voters, oh … and have a nice night.”
Author’s note: Any aspersions cast in the above were completely intentional. And remember what the Blight Honorable Mr. Harper said following the bleak economic forecast from the World Banks. Implying that there are a lot of deals out there during recessions, Icy Hair reminded all Canadians that: “It’s a good time to buy.”
It may be incumbent upon us all to reassess this squalid, seedy and sordid incumbency.
Oh… and Merry Christmas.
Partisan Voices, Much Spittle, Much Grouse
By Terrance Gavan
Tis the week before Christmas, and down at the House,
In the Commons no stirring, a prologue to Faust
The members snuck silent, sickly smiles, laissez faire,
The PM Sussexed snugly, alone with that hair.
The workers are waiting, no jobs and no bread,
And facing this Christmas, less hopeful, with dread.
They’ve been dumped, duped and drained with boat loads of crap,
From a goldbrick’s regime, much trap and much clap.
No rhyme and no reason to Fridge Hair’s black patter
It’s evident now, he’s just mad as a hatter.
And nowhere is found redress from this hash
Most hoping the Tories just thud, boom and crash.
When faced with a verdict, our Harper said no!
The Commons be damned it’s my ball let’s go!
And off to the GG, the Crown’s rightful peer
Harpie ran from the people, that smile hiding sneer.
His obsequious toadies, picayune hicks
Worked bunkered magic from odd satchels of tricks.
And as Sweater emerged to their lickspit refrains
They all fled fairly quick from that Great Hall of Shame.
On Limo, on Bootlick, on Jackal you vixens!
On Cringer, on Mealy, on Minion and Lickens.
Back to the Bunker, and backs to the wall
He showed us how backsliders weather a squall.
And now as we wait, our new Captain Bligh
Sits solid at Sussex, awaiting ally.
Enter Red Michael, that bold ingénue
The Hair dances lithely, a quaint pas de deux.
“Come hither young Mike,” said la Bleu’s feckless Goof
“Don’t waggle that finger,” said Iggy, aloof.
“I’m not the same patsy … I’m not the same clown,
I’m here to say, there’s a new sheriff in town.”
And staring at Sweater, Iggy said, “You’re a schnook,
And from all I can garner, maybe even a crook.”
He laughed and he turned, and then retraced his tracks
“I’d advise you dear sir … to take on a new tack.”
And his eyes, oh they flashed, his visage quite scary
That look caused ol’ Hard Hair to beseech a Hail Mary
Iggy’s stare was alarming, cold as ice floe,
It turned Sweater’s pallor as white as new snow.
The Harvard professor then gritted those teeth,
And with steely stare, drew prose from its sheath
“You sir are nothing but a quaint Machiavelli
But bullies like you often fold like grape jelly.”
“For two year’s you’ve picked on a nice Liberal elf,
I’m warning you now … place those tactics on shelf”
Iggy then winked an eye and it served to embed
Herald Hair with gut feeling of imminent dread.
Iggy spoke not a word but turned with a jerk
Leaving Sweater alone with his feckless young turks
“On Fawner, On Flunky on Sop, and on Brown-nose
Now off to the Bunker, we’ve new dirt to expose.”
And sprang to the limo, Pavlov’s dogs to shrill whistle,
And away they all flew, like muck-seeking missiles.
And I heard jackal refrains as they sped off to incite,
“Bah humbug dear voters, oh … and have a nice night.”
Author’s note: Any aspersions cast in the above were completely intentional. And remember what the Blight Honorable Mr. Harper said following the bleak economic forecast from the World Banks. Implying that there are a lot of deals out there during recessions, Icy Hair reminded all Canadians that: “It’s a good time to buy.”
It may be incumbent upon us all to reassess this squalid, seedy and sordid incumbency.
Oh… and Merry Christmas.
Sump Pump For Christmas
JC Penney is currently running a five minute spot called “Beware of the Doghouse” on You Tube and it’s gone viral.
With close to 2 million hits, the pandemic anti-ad from the fertile, flogging and flagging noggins of Penney’s ad driven scribbling anti-christs reminds men that there are boundaries of taste extant on a wife’s wish, dish and go fish Christmas list.
The ad begins with a man being led to a large doghouse after his spouse opens - to much fanfare, shudder, shock and awe – a gaily-wrapped vacuum cleaner as an anniversary gift. He is led to a paint-peeled and forlorn doghouse in the middle of a barren field.
Here we find that the spooky canine abode, like Dr Who’s multi-dimensioned call box, is actually a portal to parallel planet. Wifey pushes hubby inside. He drops blithe and blank from doghouse door into tunnel and lands unceremoniously on a large bundle of laundry. The baying of hounds is heard rebounding off cement-bunkered walls. He falls from grimy grace into an Abu Graib-like dungeon where other men of mute-gender are fluffing, folding and filing a seeming endless array of clothes.
We are then treated to a corresponding – and ironically redundant - laundry list of flashbacks from his similarly banished junkyard mates. Men of poor taste and presumably low morals. Men guilty of major crimes and misdemeanors. In one poignant flashback, a man reminisces about his crank with doghouse destiny. In the video reenactment he is depicted pulling a cookie from his wife’s mouth and with a jaunty Merry Christmas hands her “The Gift.” She opens the jauntily wrapped package only to discover – shriek, shudder and shiver - a thigh master. Another man admits to giving his wife 100 gigs of Ram for her laptop, attached to a card that said simply “Happy Birthday. Thanks for the memory.”
There’s more, but you get the idea. JC Penney is really flogging a “diamonds as a girl’s best friend” thematic guide to gifting. There is a premise here that these men are caricatures. Surely men, galvanized by years of Gloria Steinham and Germaine Greer know better. As with all satire, the JC Penney ad is funny because it harbors, close to the rocky reef of its textured nuance that spark of truth, that soupcon of reality.
It brought me back to my days at the Halcyon Packet and Times and a colleague and news reporter Shallay Murphy-Ericsson, who was married to a local seed farmer Sondur Ericsson. Shallay and Sondur had two kids, and I always thought the two were pretty happy.
Shallay had come late to writing. She approached our editor Lorne Bjornson two years into my tenure as sports editor and feature writer for the Manitoba publication and applied for a vacant reporters position. She was 36, had a background in agriculture, a BA in fine arts, was well-read and – added bonus for Lorne who was always looking for an edge on local council affairs – her father-in-law Bergthor Ericsson was a 20-year veteran councilor for the Rural Municipality of Reykjavik. Bergthor and Sondur were staunch pragmatists with a Puritan work ethic.
Shallay was brought up Irish Catholic and she danced through life with a gypsy’s soul.
It was three weeks before Christmas back in 1991.
Shallay sashayed into the Packet and Times.
“It’s arrived,” she said, matter of factly.
“What’s arrived?” I asked.
“My Christmas gift, wrapped and under the tree, and it’s huge,” said Shallay, the hint of a sardonic smile slowly shading that lively and pixied visage.
“Wow, it’s early,” I said. “Is Sondur always this efficient?”
“Efficient, hmmm that’s a good word … and yes, it will probably, considering historical data, and my seven year legacy of thoughtful and well-planned gift-getting, be quite efficient,” said Shallay, eyes suddenly lit by what I can only assume was a quick synaptic burst of reticent recollections.
“What do you think it is?” I asked, intrigued by that little twinkle in her always bright eyes.
“Well, I picked it up and it weighs about 50 pounds and when you shake it, it rattles,” laughed Shallay. “And to answer your question, I have no idea what it is. I know it’s not a bracelet, or a watch, or a comforter. Efficient! Hah, Terrance, good word, you should be a writer.”
And then she danced away. “I’ve got School Board meeting to cover.”
I thought no more about it until she popped into my house with her two kids, Paddy and Seamus on Christmas Day. She brought some Christmas Pudding and I gave the boys their gifts, matching hockey helmets, CSA approved.
I remembered the meeting three weeks hence. “So what was it?” I asked excitedly.
“What was what?” asked Shallay, who seemed just a little disconnected.
“The fifty pound package that rattled,” I said.
“Oh that, yes I almost forgot that I told you,” said Shallay suddenly enveloped by laughter.
“I got a sump pump, a Wellpoint 8.5 horsepower model with a 5 year parts and labor warranty,” she said, the eyes darting suddenly heavenward.
“No really, what did you get? Really,” I asked.
“Really. A sump pump,” said Shallay, and the eyes were now somehow not so bright. “It’s blue, my favorite color, and it is, hmm, quite efficient.”
I’ve never been tagged as an overly sensitive guy and I have been known to leave gift-hunting to the final 83 minute Christmas Eve dash, dive, and dodgy dukes’ up dangle, but I was pretty mortified. Geezuz, a sump pump. I almost blurted “I’m so sorry” but thought better of it. I just smiled wanly.
And then she laughed. “Look what are you doing on January 15th? Because, Paddy Seamus and I are moving into a little farmhouse on the Sunderson Line just outside of town and we’re going to need some help moving.”
I nodded, color draining from my face. “Hey Mr Efficient, don’t look so crestfallen, have you checked the Canadian marriage survival stats lately? It’ll be fun … Lorne is going to be there and he’s promised to bring the Pizza.”
The 15th was a Saturday and we had 5 staff from the paper and I had recruited my cousin’s three ton truck.
It had snowed a prairie pile the night before and there was a huge drift blocking the entrance to the 35 yard driveway to the small bungalow. “We’d better call Leif Redson and tell him to get his plow out here.”
Shallay was on it. “Nope, no problem,” she said, pointing to her pickup truck.
“Lorne, under the tarp, my Second Anniversary present from Sondur, a 15 horsepower, 18-inch sweep John Deere snowblower … Terrance you do the honors, I think you’ find it ‘quite efficient,’ ” laughed Shallay, blue eyes sparking.
The drift cleared in record time, we made it halfway up the wooded drive only to find our path blocked by a wind-toppled oak.
“Aha,” laughed Shallay. She hopped into the back of the three-ton and came out brandishing a shiny 1.9 horse, 16 inch bar Stihl chainsaw. “Christmas 1989, but it didn’t come in blue,” laughed Shallay, warming to the accumulating tasks. “Terrance, will you do the honors?”
Inside Shallay moved with precision. “We’ll need to hang these pictures and assemble these shelves,” said Shallay. And from out of a box appeared as if by magic a brand new 18-Volt, dual battery Makita drill and reciprocating saw set.
“Luckily, Makita already comes in blue” chuckled Shallay. “Oh yeah … birthday gift, 1990,” chuckled Shallay.
“Wait, before you hang that shelf, use this stud-finder … stocking stuffer Christmas 1988,” said Shallay, flipping the gizmo to Lorne who was wielding a huge 18 ounce Stanley hammer. “Love this hammer Shallay,” said Lorne.
“Fifth anniversary gift, it’s a beaut’ ain’t it?” shouted Shallay.
“One last thing guys, anyone know anything about plumbing?” asked Shalay and all eyes swivelled to my cousin Thor Gudmundson, who ran “Gudmundson’s Sink or Swim Plumbing” in Halcyon.
“It’s just that the sump pump is on its last legs and I figured what the hell,” said Shallay.
Thor had “Christmas 1991” a bright blue Wellpoint 8.5 horsepower model sump pump - with the 5 year parts and labor warranty – installed and running in 45 minutes flat.
We sat down before a roaring fire, logs split courtesy of a beautiful Woodsmen Model 911 limbing axe. “Ah, that axe?” said Shallay. “Hmmm, oh yes, 4th Anniversary, came with a blue leather cover.”
The boys were playing ball hockey in the driveway. Lorne and I had just finished installing the Sears 2.1 horsepower garage door opener and it worked like a charm. “Christmas 1987,” said Shallay.
As things were winding down and people were getting ready to leave Shallay turned to my cousin.
“Oh Thor, you might want to stop by Sondur’s on the way home,” she said, smiling slightly.
“Only, just before we left with the final load, I noticed about 3 inches of water on the basement floor and I think that maybe that old sump pump has finally given up the ghost.”
The room suddenly erupted.
Lorne Bjornson couldn’t contain himself.
“You might consider stopping at the shop and picking up a pump … might I suggest a Wellpoint 8.5 horsepower, with the 5 year parts and labor.”
The room was suddenly filled with gales of laughter. I knew then that Shallay and the boys would be just fine.
I got a Christmas card from Shallay about 5 years ago. She remarried and is writing for a small paper just outside of Victoria BC.
In the card was a picture of a beautiful gold locket that opened to a picture of her two boys Paddy and Seamus.
The card said only. “Merry Christmas Terrance. By the way … like the locket? A gift for my first anniversary. Not very efficient, but it’ll do.”
And as I hung the card on my mantle I remembered the smile.
Oh, and I looked under tree and made a mental note to return the five Handy Happy Handless Ergonomic Snow Shovels with wheels that I had recently and efficiently purchased for various members of my family.
My bad. And thank you JC Penney for that gentle noggin nudge and burp back to bumpy earth.
With close to 2 million hits, the pandemic anti-ad from the fertile, flogging and flagging noggins of Penney’s ad driven scribbling anti-christs reminds men that there are boundaries of taste extant on a wife’s wish, dish and go fish Christmas list.
The ad begins with a man being led to a large doghouse after his spouse opens - to much fanfare, shudder, shock and awe – a gaily-wrapped vacuum cleaner as an anniversary gift. He is led to a paint-peeled and forlorn doghouse in the middle of a barren field.
Here we find that the spooky canine abode, like Dr Who’s multi-dimensioned call box, is actually a portal to parallel planet. Wifey pushes hubby inside. He drops blithe and blank from doghouse door into tunnel and lands unceremoniously on a large bundle of laundry. The baying of hounds is heard rebounding off cement-bunkered walls. He falls from grimy grace into an Abu Graib-like dungeon where other men of mute-gender are fluffing, folding and filing a seeming endless array of clothes.
We are then treated to a corresponding – and ironically redundant - laundry list of flashbacks from his similarly banished junkyard mates. Men of poor taste and presumably low morals. Men guilty of major crimes and misdemeanors. In one poignant flashback, a man reminisces about his crank with doghouse destiny. In the video reenactment he is depicted pulling a cookie from his wife’s mouth and with a jaunty Merry Christmas hands her “The Gift.” She opens the jauntily wrapped package only to discover – shriek, shudder and shiver - a thigh master. Another man admits to giving his wife 100 gigs of Ram for her laptop, attached to a card that said simply “Happy Birthday. Thanks for the memory.”
There’s more, but you get the idea. JC Penney is really flogging a “diamonds as a girl’s best friend” thematic guide to gifting. There is a premise here that these men are caricatures. Surely men, galvanized by years of Gloria Steinham and Germaine Greer know better. As with all satire, the JC Penney ad is funny because it harbors, close to the rocky reef of its textured nuance that spark of truth, that soupcon of reality.
It brought me back to my days at the Halcyon Packet and Times and a colleague and news reporter Shallay Murphy-Ericsson, who was married to a local seed farmer Sondur Ericsson. Shallay and Sondur had two kids, and I always thought the two were pretty happy.
Shallay had come late to writing. She approached our editor Lorne Bjornson two years into my tenure as sports editor and feature writer for the Manitoba publication and applied for a vacant reporters position. She was 36, had a background in agriculture, a BA in fine arts, was well-read and – added bonus for Lorne who was always looking for an edge on local council affairs – her father-in-law Bergthor Ericsson was a 20-year veteran councilor for the Rural Municipality of Reykjavik. Bergthor and Sondur were staunch pragmatists with a Puritan work ethic.
Shallay was brought up Irish Catholic and she danced through life with a gypsy’s soul.
It was three weeks before Christmas back in 1991.
Shallay sashayed into the Packet and Times.
“It’s arrived,” she said, matter of factly.
“What’s arrived?” I asked.
“My Christmas gift, wrapped and under the tree, and it’s huge,” said Shallay, the hint of a sardonic smile slowly shading that lively and pixied visage.
“Wow, it’s early,” I said. “Is Sondur always this efficient?”
“Efficient, hmmm that’s a good word … and yes, it will probably, considering historical data, and my seven year legacy of thoughtful and well-planned gift-getting, be quite efficient,” said Shallay, eyes suddenly lit by what I can only assume was a quick synaptic burst of reticent recollections.
“What do you think it is?” I asked, intrigued by that little twinkle in her always bright eyes.
“Well, I picked it up and it weighs about 50 pounds and when you shake it, it rattles,” laughed Shallay. “And to answer your question, I have no idea what it is. I know it’s not a bracelet, or a watch, or a comforter. Efficient! Hah, Terrance, good word, you should be a writer.”
And then she danced away. “I’ve got School Board meeting to cover.”
I thought no more about it until she popped into my house with her two kids, Paddy and Seamus on Christmas Day. She brought some Christmas Pudding and I gave the boys their gifts, matching hockey helmets, CSA approved.
I remembered the meeting three weeks hence. “So what was it?” I asked excitedly.
“What was what?” asked Shallay, who seemed just a little disconnected.
“The fifty pound package that rattled,” I said.
“Oh that, yes I almost forgot that I told you,” said Shallay suddenly enveloped by laughter.
“I got a sump pump, a Wellpoint 8.5 horsepower model with a 5 year parts and labor warranty,” she said, the eyes darting suddenly heavenward.
“No really, what did you get? Really,” I asked.
“Really. A sump pump,” said Shallay, and the eyes were now somehow not so bright. “It’s blue, my favorite color, and it is, hmm, quite efficient.”
I’ve never been tagged as an overly sensitive guy and I have been known to leave gift-hunting to the final 83 minute Christmas Eve dash, dive, and dodgy dukes’ up dangle, but I was pretty mortified. Geezuz, a sump pump. I almost blurted “I’m so sorry” but thought better of it. I just smiled wanly.
And then she laughed. “Look what are you doing on January 15th? Because, Paddy Seamus and I are moving into a little farmhouse on the Sunderson Line just outside of town and we’re going to need some help moving.”
I nodded, color draining from my face. “Hey Mr Efficient, don’t look so crestfallen, have you checked the Canadian marriage survival stats lately? It’ll be fun … Lorne is going to be there and he’s promised to bring the Pizza.”
The 15th was a Saturday and we had 5 staff from the paper and I had recruited my cousin’s three ton truck.
It had snowed a prairie pile the night before and there was a huge drift blocking the entrance to the 35 yard driveway to the small bungalow. “We’d better call Leif Redson and tell him to get his plow out here.”
Shallay was on it. “Nope, no problem,” she said, pointing to her pickup truck.
“Lorne, under the tarp, my Second Anniversary present from Sondur, a 15 horsepower, 18-inch sweep John Deere snowblower … Terrance you do the honors, I think you’ find it ‘quite efficient,’ ” laughed Shallay, blue eyes sparking.
The drift cleared in record time, we made it halfway up the wooded drive only to find our path blocked by a wind-toppled oak.
“Aha,” laughed Shallay. She hopped into the back of the three-ton and came out brandishing a shiny 1.9 horse, 16 inch bar Stihl chainsaw. “Christmas 1989, but it didn’t come in blue,” laughed Shallay, warming to the accumulating tasks. “Terrance, will you do the honors?”
Inside Shallay moved with precision. “We’ll need to hang these pictures and assemble these shelves,” said Shallay. And from out of a box appeared as if by magic a brand new 18-Volt, dual battery Makita drill and reciprocating saw set.
“Luckily, Makita already comes in blue” chuckled Shallay. “Oh yeah … birthday gift, 1990,” chuckled Shallay.
“Wait, before you hang that shelf, use this stud-finder … stocking stuffer Christmas 1988,” said Shallay, flipping the gizmo to Lorne who was wielding a huge 18 ounce Stanley hammer. “Love this hammer Shallay,” said Lorne.
“Fifth anniversary gift, it’s a beaut’ ain’t it?” shouted Shallay.
“One last thing guys, anyone know anything about plumbing?” asked Shalay and all eyes swivelled to my cousin Thor Gudmundson, who ran “Gudmundson’s Sink or Swim Plumbing” in Halcyon.
“It’s just that the sump pump is on its last legs and I figured what the hell,” said Shallay.
Thor had “Christmas 1991” a bright blue Wellpoint 8.5 horsepower model sump pump - with the 5 year parts and labor warranty – installed and running in 45 minutes flat.
We sat down before a roaring fire, logs split courtesy of a beautiful Woodsmen Model 911 limbing axe. “Ah, that axe?” said Shallay. “Hmmm, oh yes, 4th Anniversary, came with a blue leather cover.”
The boys were playing ball hockey in the driveway. Lorne and I had just finished installing the Sears 2.1 horsepower garage door opener and it worked like a charm. “Christmas 1987,” said Shallay.
As things were winding down and people were getting ready to leave Shallay turned to my cousin.
“Oh Thor, you might want to stop by Sondur’s on the way home,” she said, smiling slightly.
“Only, just before we left with the final load, I noticed about 3 inches of water on the basement floor and I think that maybe that old sump pump has finally given up the ghost.”
The room suddenly erupted.
Lorne Bjornson couldn’t contain himself.
“You might consider stopping at the shop and picking up a pump … might I suggest a Wellpoint 8.5 horsepower, with the 5 year parts and labor.”
The room was suddenly filled with gales of laughter. I knew then that Shallay and the boys would be just fine.
I got a Christmas card from Shallay about 5 years ago. She remarried and is writing for a small paper just outside of Victoria BC.
In the card was a picture of a beautiful gold locket that opened to a picture of her two boys Paddy and Seamus.
The card said only. “Merry Christmas Terrance. By the way … like the locket? A gift for my first anniversary. Not very efficient, but it’ll do.”
And as I hung the card on my mantle I remembered the smile.
Oh, and I looked under tree and made a mental note to return the five Handy Happy Handless Ergonomic Snow Shovels with wheels that I had recently and efficiently purchased for various members of my family.
My bad. And thank you JC Penney for that gentle noggin nudge and burp back to bumpy earth.
Friday, December 19, 2008
No Bull and Running in Pamplona
Papa gave credence to this sport. This run. This flight into danger.
In The Sun also Rises, Ernest Hemingway imparted a luminous macho cachet to the running of the bulls at
Published in 1926, The Sun also Rises remains Hemingway’s signature piece. Demons, not bulls, chased Papa; this man’s man; this writer’s writer; this implacable force of nature; this erudite, complex and dogged anti-fashionista; cigars, scotch, hard-knock. The young bull who, in 1961, finally succumbed to form; old man at sea; shotgun exit. Papa and I share a birthday. July 21. We also share a fascination with the crazies who like to dash madly around the streets of
There are numerous sites on the Internet that list survival tips for those who wish to run with the bulls. Unfortunately people still don’t take the time to read them. Or maybe they do.
Here’s what one Internet tip page says about the annual ruminant romp:
“Running with the bulls is dangerous and is not recommended. Each year dozens of people require medical attention after running with the bulls. It is important to get tips on running with the bulls from people who have run before.”
Here’s what we know about that.
There is something approaching vague non sequitur here. Don’t do it. But get advice from the idiots who do.
But, what the hay. A tip’s a tip.
I talked with veteran Spanish bull runner Lefty Gomez. Lefty has run with the bulls 22 straight years.
“Lefty … got any tips for the novice bull runner?”
“WHAT? Quips?” yelled Lefty, whose right hand was gored by a particularly flamboyant bull back in 1988. Hence the nickname.
“No, Lefty, tips, y’know for the new runner.”
“I am sorry senor … pleez and scuza’ … my right ear, she’s not worka’ to good … shesa’ torn by ze toro back in 1998 … I no heara’ too good.”
“TIPS LEFTY … TIPS FOR THE NEW RUNNER WITH EL TOROS!” I said, louder.
“No need to scream senor … I turna’ my head around to my lefta’ ear … ah yes meester Terry … Teeps for Toro muchos importante … you must, when you run … run very, very, very fasta’ … otherwise, ze bull … she catcha’ up … and zen we havea’ de troubles … ze bulls, zey runna very, very fasta … and for you guys’ from da Kanada’ remember two tings’ … RUN quicka’ … Avance Rapido!!! … and bringa’ de Blue Cross! … Oh and yessa’ remember Rapido … Rapido zeeza’ mui importante! And so sorry … Sometimesa’ I repeata’ myself … itsa’ de 19 concussa’ froma’ de bulls collida’ witha’ ma’ melona.”
Here’s what we think about getting advice from the veteran.
Lefty … 22 runs … 19 concussas … Get the picture?
Here’s another Internet tip.
“No touchie: if you are close to a bull don't touch him or try to grab his attention. It will just make him mad.”
Here’s what we think about that.
The 10 to 15 bulls set loose on the streets of
I grew up on a ranch in the
Here’s another tip from the bullish on-line swamis.
“Redirecting the bull: it is possible to redirect the bull by waving a rolled up newspaper to attract its attention. This is useful if a bull is approaching directly behind you - if so, use the rolled up paper and direct the bull to overtake on the side - it really does work.”
Here’s what we think about that.
Hah! Good luck.
I have worked over a hundred cattle sales at several auction marts in
If you have a rolled up copy of the New York Times in your hand … and are standing in front of a charging bull in the cobbled streets of
Hit yourself as hard as you can. Hit yourself till you see stars. Hit yourself till you hear the Bells of Notre Dame. Then close your eyes and shout the following at the top of your lungs:
“I am a colossal moron. I am an idiot. Oh God … that bull is freaking big! OWWWW! THAT HURTS!”
When you wake up in ER, remember this final tip, which is the only tip that actually makes any sense.
“Make a Will: It’s a good idea to make / update your Will before you set off. And also fill out a donation card for any organs that may remain unpunctured.”n
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Search out your inner child
He’s 73 and Living the Dream
Ken Mink as Target? Give me a Break
By Terrance Gavan
The story here is not about Ken Mink, a 73 year old shooting guard on the Roane State Raiders, a
It’s about the system.
It’s about a mentality that does not reward feel good stories – even at Christmas.
It’s about the bully mindset and all the fine and stuttered trappings that get in the way of the true meaning of sport, camaraderie and sportsmanship.
Let me digress here just for a moment.
Some 53 years ago, Ken Mink missed out on his second year of junior college basketball.
It’s been a niggling sore point on his psychic backburner ever since.
Niggling because of the circumstance.
As the New York Times reported recently, Ken Mink is seeking redemption.
Randy Nesbit, the coach of
In the letter, Mink told Nesbit (and several other prospective community college coaches in a mass mailing of his resume) about the “incident.”
Ken Mink told Nesbit the story ohis shortened basketball career. Mink had played at
Mink said he was accused of soaping the coach’s office with shaving cream, slathering the lights and even the coach’s shoes.
To this day, Ken Mink says he’s innocent on all counts.
“I don’t even shave,” he told the university president. All to no avail. He was expelled and was forced to join the Air Force.
Ken has kept his hand in ever since. Back in the day he was a 6’2” shooting guard.
Today, he is a 6’
Ken Mink scored two points this season, both on free throws from the charity stripe.
His wife Emilia has donned a cheerleader outfit at home games, but admits that she was not always this gung ho.
In 2007, Ken was shooting around on a friend’s driveway basket when revelation came via swish of fine twine. “I still have it,” said Ken.
“Have what?” said Emilia.
“My stroke,” said Ken. You might be forgiven for assuming that his shooting arc is not the stroke he should be worrying about.
Emilia, like most women who have been married to the same man for four decades, took it all in stride when he started sending letters of introduction to local
“You do realize you’re 72?” Emilia asked Ken. “Do you think you can convince someone you’re not?”
Ken did catch the eye of Nesbit.
Nesbit, a former point guard and coach at The Citadel, is, at 50 in pretty good shape. And he was intrigued. Still, he wanted to meet Mink before offering him a spot on the team.
“I think he wanted to make sure Ken wasn’t out on a weekend pass,” Emilia Mink quipped.
And after some discussion and a few rounds of Horse in the gym, Nesbit took a chance.
It’s paid off.
And perhaps most important, attendance is up at all
NY Times reports that “Attendance, usually about 100 per game, has on occasion swelled to 400.”
This is all pretty good, right?
Well except for that other niggling notion.
Teams that face
Before a recent basketball game, Coach Yogi Woods gathered the junior varsity at
“If Mink was good enough to play, he was good enough to play up,” said coach Yogi. That sent the memorandum to the Lambuth players. “D-Up on the senior citizen or incur my wrath” was the message. He turned to his freshman Kendrick Coleman and said: “If he goes in for a lay-up, don’t let him have it. If he scores on you, we will never let you forget it.”
If I may be so bold here. “Yogi, you make a good case for Boo-Boo.”
Okay, okay Woodsy. We get it. You are a hapless, helpless moron, but apparently you’re not alone.
And it’s here where rubber hits road.
Where’s the fun? What happened to the game?
On Nov. 3, the junior-varsity coach at
“Deep Breath! … Now Let It Go!”
Coach Nesbit never expected the backlash, especially since Mink never sees the floor unless
“I thought some teams would play along, humor him,” said Nesbit, to the Times reporter.
It’s been the opposite. Teams seem genuinely incensed and angry that another team would deign to play a 73 year old rookie.
It’s probably just plain wrong, but it’s the atmosphere of sports on today’s feathered plain. Young dudes and overblown coaches genuinely insulted by the mere fact that an aging player might tarnish a deluded date with destiny.
Newsflash here coaches. If you’re coaching at a junior college in
He’s 73 for god’s sake. He’s not pretending to be Michael Jordan and he’s not out there to embarrass you.
Don’t be like Thomas Hobbes, who once embraced his internal sense of ha-ha with that now famous line: “And the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”
Don’t give in to that fractured sense of abysmal pessimism. Life can be fun. Don’t believe me? Well fine, go ask Ken Mink.
Ken Mink is having fun. He’s enjoying every day as he pull himself out of his Absorbine Juniored nightly stupor. Lighten up players and coaches in
Be a mensch. Let yourself in on the joke and take some time to enjoy life. Give Ken Mink that 20-foot jumper. Hear the swish of the twine as a tubular call to arms. Revel with the fans. Find your inner child. Ken Mink has.
Embrace every day. Get up, search skyward and float gently to your rim.
It’s a concept we all could embrace with just a little more verve, just a little more humility, just a little more live and let live.
“He’s not a freak of nature beating Father Time,” Nesbit said. “There’s no special diet. People pull for him because he looks like a 73-year-old man. If people stay active and healthy, a lot could do what he’s doing.”
Amen Brother Nesbit. Amen. And Merry Christmas.n
Mountain Meanders - an opening
Hello fellow Travelers
Welcome to my blog!
I am a writer. I like to write.
My name is Terrance Gavan and I live in Haliburton, Ontario.
The compilation of logs is based on some loose and cogent ramblings from the mind of an inveterate and wily witness to life's delicious foibles.
It's an eclectic crank into my daily bump and grind.
My name is Terrance Gavan and I live in Haliburton, Ontario.
The compilation of logs is based on some loose and cogent ramblings from the mind of an inveterate and wily witness to life's delicious foibles.
It's an eclectic crank into my daily bump and grind.
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