Ron

Ron, Me & Tug>>>>>>>>>

Yes CJ its story time with once more.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away. Wait wrong beginning.

When I began my working career a number of years ago, I was fumbling with my identity. My buddies were still mostly at university, and I had left school to reverse being a drain on my parents, as my Dad was ill and could not work.

While floundering, I was introduced to Ron. My buddies at the time, Mike, Dan, and Tug, introduced me to both curling and golf. I have played and strayed from both over the years, and enjoyed myself while playing them. Ron was a new member at the Meadowbrook Curling Club (now defunct), our club.

Ron and I became fast friends. Ron had almost as warped a sense of humor as I, and we reveled in seeing who could make the cruelest puns. It was both horrific and delightful. Ron and I also shared our views on morals and philosophy, and discovered that where we differed there was open ground for debate. Good debate; I could sway him on some things, he did the same.

Neither Ron nor I supported organized religion. He being a non-practicing Episcopalian, and me a lapsed Catholic, we had both strayed from our respective folds. Every year, regardless of our discussions on religion, Ron would always put $5 into the Salvation Army’s kettle drive. After seeing this for a few years, and me asking why, Ron explained that although he disagreed with their beliefs and their desire to convert the unwashed, they did very good things at Christmas for those who could not do for themselves, and as such earned his respect and support.

After a few years, some of the gang started noticing that Ron was slightly effeminate, and that they had never seen him with a woman. They, of course, assumed that he must be a fag, with all the negative behavior that accompanied this. They did not stay members of the gang for long. When faced with the supposition, I reacted defensively, and postulated that if anyone really cared, they should ask Ron. No one did.

Ron had been transferred to Ottawa; he was a Captain in the Armed Forces. They paid for his medical school and he owed them 5 years service; very equitable. I was visiting Ron one weekend, and while we were in our cups, and discussing all the matters of the world, I asked; “Hey, are you gay?” After a few seconds of silence he answered, “Yes”

I then asked him where we should go for lunch the next day. Ron was dumbfounded and wanted to know why I wasn’t questioning him further. I asked him if he intended to try and put the moves on me, and when he answered no, I told him; “Well I didn’t think you would, and since that was the only possible thing that might have worried me; case closed. Now, what about lunch tomorrow?”

I also moved to Ottawa, and when I married my ex-wife, Ron was my best man; there really was no other choice. We actually shared a town-house with Ron for a few years. Ron was living with us when my eldest daughter, Amanda was born. This was also when Ron confirmed that he was suffering from AIDS. Shortly afterwards, so we wouldn’t have to care for him, Ron decided to take an apartment of his own, and we moved into smaller digs. Ron eventually could not work anymore, and moved back to London to be cared for by his parents.

While visiting Ron in London, he asked me how I felt about euthanasia. We discussed this point quite extensively, and he told me he might ask me if he could write me a prescription for a lethal dose of something, and have me give it to him if the sickness became too much for him. You see, he knew me enough to know that by telling me he might ask me, I would think it through and have the answer if it were ever asked.

He never asked, but if he had, I would have done it without question.

When my youngest daughter Erin was 2 months old, Ron died. The official cause of death was pneumocystis pneumonia. I wanted Erin, if she were born a boy, to be named Ron. We went to London for the funeral, and laid Ron to rest in the family plot in Forest, Ontario.

My daughters may or may not remember seeing this, but every Christmas, and even though I don’t agree with their beliefs or desire to convert the rest of the world to their thinking, I drop $5 into the Salvation Army kettle. They do, after all, do very good things at Christmas for those who can’t do for themselves.

I dropped in $5 just the other day, and remembered my buddy, Dr. Ron Ince, 1957-1990, the best friend I ever had.

Cheers Dr. Chop!

Noah

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

Please note that this is not bitching, moaning, or groaning. I am exercising my right as a Canadian to complain about the weather. I am quite happy being away from the frigid climes of northern Alberta. When you close your tailgate and the Nissan emblems falls off because the adhesive no longer wants to adhere at -50c, one neither reminisces nor pines.

November, according to the locals, is the rainiest and grayest month in Vancouver. This year, I agree with them. Mowgli, our puppy, is a little uncomfortable going out for walks in the dark. He is equally uncomfortable going out for walks in the rain. At night in the rain, we usually end up going out for a drag; he’s been getting to exercise his pulling-back muscles.

I listen to news/talk radio during the week. This is how Al-Qaeda changed my life after 9/11. Before that day, I used to listen to the FM flavor of the month. On that morning, I was listening to a New York city DJ as he described what he was seeing; it was eerie. As a result, Monday to Friday, I listen to talk radio. I actually survived 6 years of Uber-Ultra-Mega Conservative talk radio in Alberta.

The pinnacle of said radio is Dave Rutherford; when the Conservatives talk about pandering to the Socialists & Separatists, they are speaking directly to Rutherford’s soul. Our Prime Minister's views on the media in Canada (detestable & to be avoided at any cost) DO NOT extend to Dave Rutherford. Which is fair since he is definitely on the talk half of News/Talk. The PM had been a surprise guest on the Rutherford show a number of times while I was still living in Alberta. Unsurprisingly, his show is not picked up by CKNW in Vancouver, the local Corus affiliate. Red is a deeper hue of their anti-bullying t-shirts CKNW promotes, not the color of their necks.

A good segue to the subject at hand. I was listening to the radio November 23rd, and the CKNW weather dude, Marc Madryga, was telling us how there had been 23 straight days of rain. We live in North Vancouver, in the Lynn Valley area. North Vancouver is famous for lots of rain, specifically in Lynn Valley. I’m not sure how the rest of Vancouver fared, but we had rain in the next 4 days, bringing us to 27 straight days of rain. Mowgli was convinced I was trying to drown him.

Fortunately, we live on the side of a mountain, so all that water rolled downhill. And there was quite a bit of water. Listening to Mr. Madryga a few days later, they had tracked a low of 600mm of rain up to a high of 1100mm of rain in November. Let me put this into perspective for you. 1100mm of rain would be enough to drown either Vern Troyer or Hervé Villechaize standing up; the average door knob is just under 1100mm; picture your kitchen counters, under water. Using the rule of thumb of multiplying by 10 to find out how much snow that could have been, we get 11 meters. This is higher than my house.

When we were kids, there was a particularly nasty winter storm one March 16. All the schools were closed. This is Montréal, not Toronto. In Toronto, they close the schools at a 5cm accumulation. On this March 16, the schools were closed, not much traffic was moving, and the snow plows were having a hard time getting around. After our 2nd sortie to shovel the driveway, we were gathered around the radio (yes news/talk) and they announced that Dorval Airport was asking for covered Bombardier commercial snowmobiles to come out to the airport. There were planes that had landed, that were stranded, and they were looking for a way to move the passengers from the planes to the terminal.

We received over 60cm (600mm) of snow that day. Nothing really happened other than snow falling, snow shoveling, listening to the radio, and hot chocolate. We decided that the day never really happened, so we took out a pair of scissors, and cut March 16 out of the calendar.

I have scratched out “vember” on my calendar and written in “ah”.







And that is the ark of this story.

(Nita, my loving wife, even after that one, tries to tell there are some I should walk away from.)

Cheers folks!

Granny

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

My Granny was French; Marguerite Cinq-Mars. As a result of most us going through French School (in my very best Tommy Smothers), Granny always liked us best. Actually we lived closest, just around the corner, so we got to see her most. Granny was also, to me at least, testament to some of the origins of Frenglais. Even the root of the word is playful; mixing the English spelling of French (Fren) with French spelling of English (glais).

My brother Frank and I are masters of the art. In mid-discussion, if you get stuck on a word, switch languages. If you’re rambling in English and the French word is more descriptive, switch to French. Mid-sentence, vas-y!

Granny loved it when we spoke French to her. We always liked Granny best because of Saturday nights. On Saturdays, Granny babysat us so my folks could go out to dinner and a movie. I am about to unveil one of the greatest conspiracies of all times; Granny, being a red-white-and-bleu Habs fan, would always let us stay up to watch Hockey Night in Canada, even though we were supposed to be in bed by 8:00. Shh, don’t tell my Mom.

Granny lived with her brother, whom we called Uncle Charlie. He was actually my Dad’s Uncle Charlie, and his namesake, I’m certain. (I strongly recommend the movie "The Namesake" staring Kal Penn) Uncle Charlie was, as we call it today, special. He was small guy; smaller than Granny even, and his head was on odd shape. He was slow, but capable of holding down a job and functioning in society. Granny looked after him, and when we came to visit we paid our respects, said hello, and left him be. Occasionally he would engage us in small talk.

Just before my sister was to marry, I came home to word from Mom that Granny had been rushed to the Montréal General Hospital in an ambulance, and Big Al, my Dad, had gone down to see what was going on. I raced down to the General on my motorcycle, to find Big Al and his brother , my uncle Jack, with bad news. Granny had had a heart attack, and probably a stroke as well, and had passed away. My sister loved Granny dearly and considered delaying her wedding, but in the end didn’t

At Granny’s funeral service, we had another sad family gathering. In the previous 5 years, both of my Mom’s parents had passed away. We morosely noticed our cousins and us that funerals had turned into sad family reunions. Auntie Eva, Granny’s sister, took great pride in introducing us, in French, to the Cinq-Mars’. Auntie Eva and her extended clan were amazed that the grandchildren were all keenly interested in making certain Uncle Charlie would be looked after. He may have treated us coldly at times, but this was our Uncle Charlie. As my wife Nita is fond of quoting, it does take a village.

My Granny was very working-class. I remember Granny telling me, when she had retired, that she was working part-time as a telephone operator at Morgan’s. Dating myself once again, there were no electronic switches in a phone system. Granny used to answer the incoming calls and then plug the wire from the incoming line into the slot of your extension. To further date things, her granny would have never seen a phone. As far as Morgan’s is concerned, it was renamed Hudson’s Bay when I was a kid. History 101.

Another similarity I have with Granny is how my heritage is confusing to others. I have no French accent when I speak English. Even though I left Québec 25 years ago, you really have to listen hard to discern the English accent in my patois. My joual is so bad that when Nita’s employer put her through French language training a few years ago, I did NOT speak French with her for the first few months, so that I would not pollute her speech. On a few occasions, my nephew or nieces have whispered to my brother in French, after a particularly joual-ish tirade on my part, “Hey Dad, what did he say?”

Unfortunately, in my life, I have encountered a number of asses in all parts of this country; I have been labeled a “Maudit anglais” and also called “A dumb frenchie”. I choose to ignore these.

Instead, I choose to recall my Granny. I recall thinking in either language. I recall being able to crack jokes in either language. I recall discussing our joint Frenglais-ness with my buddy Alexandre Brosseau. I recall my nieces and nephew speaking proper French. But mostly, I proudly remember being asked on a number of occasions, in both languages “Are you French or English? You don’t have an accent”

Salut mes amis!

Guy St-Laurent

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again; Saturday mornings are a therapeutic time for writing.

When we were kids we went to St. Catharine-de-Sienne School. It was about 1.5 kilometers away. Mom would buy us bus tickets, but we would sometimes walk. This was before there was such a beast as French Immersion. So off we went to French school.

My oldest sister, Pat, missed out on the French school, but the rest of us started our education in French. I think both of my brothers switched over after grade 4 and my youngest sister after grade 5. I finished grade school in French. In my first year of high school, our English teacher was so upset about the lack of basic grammar skills that she threw a snap grammar quiz at us. In all 5 of her classes. The 25 of us from French schools all finished in the top 30.

But back to my subject matter. On nicer days, we would enjoy walking to school. We started to become familiar with the neighborhood that we would shortly be moving into. On our way to school, we would pass an apartment building at the juncture of Elmhurst, Patricia, & Sherbrooke. Usually, the superintendent of the building would be outside. We always said hello.

We soon discovered that Mr St-Laurent had a son that went to our school as well, Guy.We used to occasionally walk with him, and we became chums. When I was in grade 3, Frank and I were the only 2 still going to St. Catharine. One day during recess, we were all rushed back into class early. Apparently some of the older kids had decided to pick up one the poles to hold the lights over the skating rink and carry it around.

Grade school kids are neither judicious nor strong. In their attempt, they could not, as a group raise it all the way, so many just let go. Guy St-Laurent was at the end and didn’t know it was being dropped. While trying to hold it up, he slipped, and the pole hit his head. He died.

9 years is too young an age to learn about death. You are too old to be able to brush it off. Unfortunately, you are far too young to be able to rationalize what happened. You are also way too young to be questioning why God would let this happen. Grade 3 is wrong place to be trying to figure out life.

For the next 10 years or so, while the St-Laurents still lived there, Frank and I would always greet him: “Bonjour Mr. St-Laurent, comment aller vous aujourdhui?” You see , Guy had been an only child, and sub-consciously, I think Frank and I knew that the right thing to do was always show the poor man deep respect. He was always gracious and as we became teenagers, he would even engage us in small talk. We would, however , never discuss Guy.

November 27 is a day when I think about Guy; Guy was a cheerful and fun-loving guy. We liked him because he was older but would still talk to us. November 27, I always remember that day in grade 3. It usually also leads to me think about life, death, and other darker thoughts. Guy was a great kid. Grade school was a great time. This event was a life defining moment for me; I regret that the defining was going on when I was so young.

In the past friends and family have both commented to me that I take death really well. I lost 3 of my grand-parents when I was old enough to remember. I lost my best friend to AIDS in 1990. My Dad, Big Al, my hero, left us too soon in 2003. I don’t take it well. I move on with the grief that comes from someone dying because of what I did on November 27, 1969. You see it worked then, and it still works.

Everyone grieves differently. Guy was a good kid, a good son, and unfortunately, a good teacher. I learned to grieve that day, and even though it was terribly upsetting for a 9-year-old, Guy taught me well.

So Guy, no empty RIP, but please do rest in peace. You were far too young to die, your passing has helped me become who I am.

Guy St-Laurent, a good kid, will always be a part of me.

Cheers!

(I don’t go out of my way to be morose, really)

Mowgli

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.

Nita, my wife and I adopted a puppy. His name is Mowgli, he is goofy and fun-loving, and is the cutest one of the litter at the rescue centre. He appears to be a Sheppard/Lab mix. I am unabashedly a dog person. I don’t have a problem with cat people; my brother Rob is one. Having put up with me for over 10 years, Nita can also claim to be a dog person.

My granny, whose spaniel was named Brownie, is my first dog memory. I think Brownie died when I was about 4, and I think all the grandchildren (mea culpa, or maybe mea mega culpa) were just too much for the 14-year-old. Granny loved Brownie. Unfortunately, I think we scarred the bejeebers out of her.

My brother, Frank, and his family, are the penultimate dog persons of my side of the village; they have had 4 dogs, and have some very fond memories of them. Tux was their first, and he was a rescue Lab mix. As dogs go, Tux was a patient gentleman.

When Amanda, my older daughter, was learning to stand up, she discovered, that she could grab hold of the fur on Tux’s sides and pull herself up to a standing position. The first time she did this, Tux had a very strained look on his face, and looked somewhat sheepish when he walked away and Amanda landed on her butt. When next she tried it again, he licked her face. She put her hands up to stop him, and wasn’t able to grab his fur. Like I said, a gentleman.

A few years later, Frank was visiting us in Guelph, and he and I took my dog, Taffy for a walk. There was a dog across the street, and when Taffy started to head in that direction, I snapped my fingers. Taffy immediately heeled, and sat at my foot.

Later at home, Taffy was getting frisky, and wanted to play. I turned to her and said “Git” She found a toy to play with and left us alone. At this point Frank says to me “You bastard! I spent almost $1000 dollars sending 2 different dogs to obedience classes, and nobody ever taught me “Git” or finger snapping!” (These things Mowgli will learn.)

On Nita’s side of the village, THE doggie person is her sister Arti. Art and I have some deep philosophical differences when it comes to people training dogs, and dogs training people, but nobody cares more for their boys nor would sacrifice more for her babies than our Art. Straight up, if everyone treated each other the way Art treats her boys, terms like détente and IED would not exist.

When I first went to the shelter to see Mowgli’s litter, he was there with 2 brothers and a sister. They were playing. He looked at me, came over to say hi, and it was love at first bite. I handed over the adoption paperwork immediately. That same evening, I brought Nita out to meet him. When we arrived, Mowgli, né Calvin, had left for his overnight foster home, and we only had his litter mates to look at. Another puppy browser commented how they all looked like they had Rottweiller in them.

Red light! Nita does not like rotties, and thinks they are too aggressive and scary looking. We were able to make arrangements to stop by and see him where he was spending the night. Nita was voicing her opinions about rotties. I was worried that she would not like him, but when we got there, he had her at hello.

After Mowgli’s first night, I remembered just how distasteful house breaking is. After a nights sleep (good left out intentionally as Mowgli still thinks it’s OK to tell us he’s rolled over and there’s no one there to keep him company while he’s sleeping), and performing my morning ablutions to the strains of puppy yodeling, I get to start my day by receiving, with great humility, the gifts and offerings left by our operatic slipper chewer. I know some of these offerings need to be revered as they stink to high heaven.

So now I trudge out 2 or 3 times a day around our rainy neighborhood, dragging a reluctant soaked Mowgli behind me. He’s trying to figure out why I’m trying to drown him, and why I keep collecting his offerings; “Does he like my crap that much?”

Sorry folks, no life lesson here, just some unabashed puppy loving.

Cheers Mowgli!

(To honor all the dogs in our families; Brownie, Saxon, Poppy, Taffy, Tux, Cactus, Max, Phoebe, another Max, Georgie, Ulysses, Sam, Luther, Jack, Horton, Lola, and finally Mowgli. There will, no doubt, be more.)

Lest We Forget

(Please read the next post "Remembrance Day" first)

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.

In 1939, my Dad, Big Al, doctored his birth certificate from 1924 to 1922, thus convincing the recruiting officer that he was turning 18. He almost got away with it; he was about to board a train to Halifax for overseas shipment when his grandmother ratted him out to the Black Watch Colonel; he was 15. Not wanting to lose a trained warm body, they reassigned him to a variety of time-killing assignments, the funniest of which was teaching 4th year McGill cartography students how to read maps. Really.

Big Al signed up with the Black Watch, but was reassigned out of the hospital in England to the Highland Light Infantry, the HLI. After the surrender of Germany, Big Al informed his mother, in his last letter to her, that they were sending the boys home. In the same letter, he dropped the bomb on her that he had volunteered to go to war in the Orient.

Fortunately, the troop carrier with all the volunteers for the Orient was approaching Halifax harbor the day the Japanese surrendered. The Harbormaster, rather intelligently, did not allow them to tie up that night. I’m not sure there would have been sufficient alcohol in Halifax, and it would have been embarrassing to have to berth all the returning warriors in the pokey.

At one of our HLI reunions, Big Al met one his mates, who I think was named Maybee. Apparently during the taking of Buron, on a charge to take the town, they were ordered to ignore the fallen, and keep advancing. Big Al found his friend Maybee shot in the leg. Big Al was the communications man and remembered that his radio had been damaged with either bullets or shrapnel, thus rendered useless.

My Dad, my hero, stopped, cut off a piece of wire, and made a tourniquet for his friend, all the while being berated by his Lieutenant, who was threatening to shoot him. Big Al had no idea if his friend survived and as he explained to me, had assumed that Maybee was just one more of the dead, so had not thought of him until that day.

Maybee recounted how he had been evacuated to Juno beach, patched up, and sent back across the channel. When he woke up a few days later in England, the doctors told him that whoever had attended to his leg in France, not only saved his leg from amputation, but had also saved his life. Maybee also had no idea what had happened to Big Al and had also assumed his friend had been one more of the dead.

That was Maybee’s first reunion. Unfortunately, it was also his last; he died later that year. It may seem sad, and for me at the time, it was. I was wrong. You see, 2 old friends were reunited; one of them was able to see his friend healthy and happy, and the other was able to finally thank his friend for his leg and his life.

This came to be a trend year after year. More and more of these guys were passing away. They ware all special to my daughters and me, and we too would notice familiar faces were missing each year. That was sad. My last reunion was 2002, after which we moved to Calgary. My Dad made it to 1 more before he died on December 5th, 2003. 2004 would have had his mates looking around and being reminded that Charlie (Big AL was known as Charlie to his contemporaries) was now one of those who would not be back.

I wonder if the reunions still happen. I wonder if old Jock, the chaplain still looks around and blesses his boys the way he did in Europe, and the way he did the first Saturday of every June for over 50 years in Galt. I wonder if Maybee ever shared his story with anyone else.

But mostly, I wonder if everyone involved with sending our forces into harms way really knows stories like these, and relationships like these. I mean really know them. I’m not implying that they should be making emotional decisions; I just wish they would consider the emotions and experiences “Our Boys” go through. Every June for a decade, I saw their emotions. It affected me immensely, and I think those making decisions about our Forces should experience the same.

I will always remember old Jock, Maybee, and all the others whose names I have forgotten, but mostly, I will remember Private Robert Emmett Charles Bradley, self-proclaimed Acting Lance Corporal without-pay, as being at home among these honorable, ordinary men who did extraordinary things when called upon.

Please think about “Our Boys” during the moment of silence on every November 11, at the very least.

Je me souviens.

Remembrance Day

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.

When we were kids, we marked Remembrance Day and honored those who served, like everyone else. This was a day to honor the Veterans. Our Dad, Big Al had also served, but we would not really learn about it until much later in life.

They taught us in school that you should respect the veterans, which we did, but Big Al did not discuss his experiences much, so we didn’t either. When we became teenagers, we found that sometimes at Christmas, the Drambuie would loosen his lips, and he would tell us tales from the war. These were few and far between, and usually humorous stories about waiting for D-Day.

My personal favorite was about the pub they used to go to while training in England. When there was an air raid warning, everyone would have to evacuate, and leave their beers behind, until they returned. Big Al told us how he would leave a note tucked under the edge of his beer saying “I spit in here!” This was apparently greatly successful until once when he returned, someone had appended “So did I”.

Until Big Al had his strokes in the early 80’s, he only really discussed battle with his younger brother, and it was usually Big Al telling him that he had no idea what it was like. After his strokes, he would start to tell Mom stories after seeing or hearing things that triggered his memories. After a while, Mom started to record these.

At the time, Mom started copying letters Big Al had written my Granny while serving in Europe. I will keep my copies of these letters forever. Mom was somehow contacted by an old friend of my sister who was doing research for a book on Canadians in WWII and was more than happy to pass on her materials to him. My daughters took turns taking the book to school on Remembrance Day for the teachers to use.

Quebec and Ontario do not recognize November 11 as a statutory holiday, so school kids get to be taught in class, and people at work get to observe a minute of silence, when hey remember to. I have, when working in Ontario, since Big Al's strokes, to at least take the morning off in order to go to the Cenotaph to honor my father’s memory. Alberta and BC observe this as a holiday, and every year, Nita shows her love for me by accompanying me and holds me tight when my emotions get the better of me.

But back to today’s story. While dredging up his memories, Big Al wanted to try and reconnect with his war-mates. Mom somehow found out that Big Al’s Sergeant, Big Mike, was in a nursing home in Guelph. I was living there, so I was asked to deliver a letter to him. According to the ladies at the nursing home, Big Mike was somewhat reclusive, but they would bring him the letter. A week later he had died, but I am certain he saw the letter. This was 1992.

Mom diligently kept digging and discovered that Big Al’s regiment, the Highland Light Infantry, held a reunion every year on or about June 6, as they were a D-Day regiment. The reunions were held at the regimental barracks, at Main & Ainslie, in Cambridge. The barracks were in Galt, which is south Cambridge, and about 25 Km from where I was living.

Big Al reconnected at the right time. Our first reunion was 1992, and the following year the HLI were planning their 50th anniversary of D-Day, by going to Normandy. Fortunately, my folks were all for this. They went with the regiment and had a wonderful time. Mom was the only partially French person, and acted as translator for the group.

From the letters published in the book, my favorite was one that chronicled the entry of Big Al’s platoon into the town of Bernier-sur-mer .Their mission was to ensure that the town was clear of Nazis. Their officer thought Big Al was French, and sent him in for a recce ,the reasoning being that they would know if the town was Nazi occupied if they got shot at. No shots were fired, so on the return ride through the town, Big Al started singing the only French he knew-the opening to hockey night when the Habs skated out on ice. The sounds of “Les Canadiens sont la” must have worked, at this point the entire village poured out, and the mayor insisted Big Al and his jeep-mates be inscribed in the city ledger as being the first of the liberators.

They returned to the village in 1994, and Big Al had to walk into the village. He was so slow with his cane that a few of the ladies from the village met him and escorted him into the village. Although this may seem like a minor thing, I found it incredibly moving, and am continually amazed at how well the French honor our Canadian soldiers.

We should too.

Cheers

Ps. I have many more Big Al WWII stories, for the next blog

My Mom

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

My Mom is a spry 84, who still gardens and rides her bicycle in the mean streets of Montréal. Trust me, to a cyclist, Montreal streets are mean. In 1999 some dough-head threw open the door of his minivan while my Mom was going by. She ended up with a broken arm and a black eye. The city is full of jack-asses. But I digress.

Actually, when I last visited my Mom, one of our conversations was about her bicycle. She keeps her bike locked up in the basement garage of her building in Benny Farm. Apparently, she recently took a spill trying to get it out of the garage, so is considering giving up her cycling. I find this rather sad. You see, Mom has been an inspiration for many, riding her bike into her 80’s. But safe is safe.

Also on my last visit, Mom has noticed that she is forgetting things. She has been voicing her memory concerns for a few years. She mentioned to me that it’s like a book; all the stuff is in there, it’s just that as more pages get added to the book, it is sometimes hard to find the page you’re looking for. She gets frustrated with this, and discusses it often. I try to reassure her not to worry too much about it, as the worrying does not diminish the forgetting. She gets the point, but then forgets because she mentions how she keeps forgetting things.

But back to Story Time. My grandparents bought their house on West Broadway in the 1930’s. There was only farmland north of their attached home stretching all the way to the train tracks at Cote-St-Luc road. As well, the Benny’s owned a farm at Cavendish & Sherbrooke. Over the years, Mom saw all the local farms receding into memory.

Benny Farm was bought by the federal government shortly after WWII to build low-cost housing for the returning soldiers. These were all 3-story walk-ups that ended up housing many of our chums from high school. The present Benny Farm has morphed into a mix of old and new buildings; some of the original buildings are in the process of being reworked, some have been refurbished and are housing single-mom families, and some have been torn down and replaced.

25 years ago, the nest had emptied, save my youngest sister. My father was unable to work anymore, so my parents (Mom really) decided to move from my grandparents house into Benny Farm. I took a week off of work and gave them a freshly painted apartment to move into. Interestingly enough, their first building is still standing, and Mom tells me it will become a CLSC (Centre Local des Services Communautaires = super community centre).

This was a scary time for my Mom. My Dad, Big Al,was sick and could not work. It appeared that Big Al's condition had finally been properly diagnosed and was being treated effectively. The hatchlings had gone from a high of 6 kids (How you doing Wayne) down to only 1. So Mom decided it was time to change.

Benny Farm at the time had a short waiting list; I think they only waited about 4 months after the decision was made. In the intervening years, specifically after the new buildings were built, they began to really enforce the Veterans first, and then Veterans only rule. As Big Al’s contemporaries and the Korean Vets have been dying off, the Vets only rule has been downgraded.

Through all this, my Mom would work to keep herself busy. When my sister was still in school, she became involved in the school board. As they began planning for the new buildings in Benny Farm for the Veterans, she worked on this next. I learned from Mom that you need to stay busy, and you might as well help those around you. My Mom had some really great talents and skills to bring to these organizations, which greatly benefited.

Mom’s experience from these community endeavors are displayed on the walls of her apartment. They are mixed in with her pictures of family. The walls are quite amazing; she has pictures that predate her childhood all the way up to pictures of her grown grandchildren. No picture is wasted on Mom. These are her triggers to remember her experiences.

For me they are a great tapestry and spark great memories. For Mom, they do the same, but have a much more wonderful affect; they are bookmarks in the pages in her book.

There is a plan afoot to have all her grandchildren in Montréal for a visit in November. Mom, just consider it more bookmarks.

I love you Mom.

More driving

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

And now, the end of the trilogy. Driving in BC is sometimes an exercise in patience, and sometimes it’s a trip down memory lane. Usually the former.

Strangely enough, driving Granville road from downtown, to the Airport reminds me of Montréal traffic. You see, there is no highway from downtown Vancouver to the airport. In Canada, it’s one of the closest city’s airports to its downtown cores. On a good day, the taxi fare is under $30.

But herein lies the problem. Since there is no highway, Granville, being a 6-lane road, is used as a stand-in expressway to the airport by the taxis. I love this stuff; it reminds of driving in downtown Montréal traffic. I thought I had returned to the roadways of my youth. I was happy. My wife was not. She values her life, or so she keeps reminding me from behind clenched teeth, firmly grasping the Jesus bar.

Some of the frustration of BC driving comes from the drivers, and some comes from the planners. 2 of the more famous Vancouver bridges have an odd number of lanes. The Lions Gate Bridge has 3 lanes, as does the road through Stanley Park. Yes 3. My cousin Mike has serious concerns about the intelligence of those who thought this was planning. My cousin Mike is a very intelligent and astute fellow.

The Port Mann Bridge is a 5-lane um, well, oddity. There are 3 eastbound lanes, and 2 westbound. Analyzing this in logical terms, they want more people out of Vancouver more than they want going in. I know that BC’ers are aware of the inequity, yet it remains. In order to compensate for it, Highway 1 east of the bridge is only 2 lanes westbound. With this planning gem in hand, Sunday afternoon traffic backs up at least half-way through Langley & Surrey. On a bad day, you can tell someone from Surrey by how surly they are. Bad joke? Sorry.

Highway 1 through Burnaby is the most traveled highway in the lower mainland. Highway 1 only goes through Vancouver for about 3 Km. Yes that is correct. The largest city in western Canada is serviced by all of 3 Km of highway, and only through its eastern tip. Wisconsin Tourism Federation!

Now let me dicuss the drivers. I think they have all OD’ed on granola. Either that, or while hugging trees, they have had their free will was sucked out of them by their friendly neighborhood cedar. Highway 1 through Burnaby is a six lane road. There are 3 eastbound and 3 westbound lanes. The left-most lane in either direction is a diamond lane, reserved for buses, motorcycles, and vehicles with more than 2 people.

No that wasn’t a typo. Most of BC’s HOV lanes require 2 occupants. And for those who were wondering, the HOV lanes are less than a tenth as busy as the regular lanes, anytime of day. Logic tells us from this that a vast majority of cars on the highway have only 1 passenger. Good old green BC.

Now in the right & middle lanes, one would assume that we would see slower and faster traffic respectively. Not so. This is where the free will or granola poisoning comes in. Much to the disdain of anyone from other parts of the country, dude in the center lane is quite content to match dude in the right lane’s 85 klicks. C’mon folks, tune in to our world, please?!?

Montréalers don’t do well in Vancouver. They expect to be able to go fast. Not gonna happen. Get behind the two-some doing 85 side-by-each and start flashing your high beams; nothing. If anything, it usually forces both cars to slow slightly, trying to figure out why you’re flashing them. The one time in 100 you get them to separate and manage to pass them, both are blissfully unaware of the world around them, happily staring blankly ahead. Do you remember the movie “The Stepford Wives”?

I sometimes wonder if all these drivers think that it is their duty to make sure no one goes over the speed limit. But then again I notice how disconnected they are from the frustrations they cause. So now it’s lesson time. Every time you think that someone is doing something on purpose or to just to tick you off, remember that most people are so engrossed in their own little world that they just don’t have enough bandwidth to waste on you. After all, you’re just another car on the road.

And folks, it’s not juts driving; it’s everything. If your boss isn’t paying you the attention you think is your due, it’s probably because he/she is focused on something that is important to them. To put a different spin in this, when a 3-year-old is engrossed with their Barbie, or Pogs, or Tamagotchi, we don’t rail on them, do we?

Treat others the way you would treat a 3-year-old, even those who aren’t acting like one.

Cheers folks!

Still Driving

Yes CJ, its storey time with Gerry again.

And now, back to the regularly scheduled victims, Torontonians. Toronto drivers are, for the most part, extremely frustrating in their lack of attention. I remember stories on the news of commuters on the DVP getting into fender-benders as they were reading the newspaper. I have personally seen drivers reading a book in crawling traffic. I can just imagine today (I left Ontario in 2002), with the profusion of texting and e-mailing, how much more dangerous it would be.

Driver memory in Toronto is very sketchy & scary. When the first winter storm hits, people have usually forgotten how to drive in snow. You end up with lots of headlights pointing at you from the ditch. Once they remember, you get odd disconnects. I have been stuck in crawling traffic in a gentle drizzle, and 2 days later, the 401 is bombing along at 120 through a snow storm. And then 6 months later, the complete reverse; crawling through a gentle snowfall, and barreling along above 100 in driving rain.

And finally, the use of horns. Torontonians love their horns. I think this is an indication of a short fuse, and leads to the some of displays of rage I have seen. I have seen wronged drivers (in their worlds) race down residential streets after someone who had the temerity to pass them on the highway, just so they can wave at them. It can be a scary city to drive in.

Next on my Cross Canada sojourn was Calgary, followed by Edmonton. On pain of being disallowed to re-enter either city, I will lump Albertans together. Albertans like big; they think they’re Texans on a number of levels. Pick-me-up trucks are rampant; mostly oversized, with supercharged engines, and king-cabs. For the gentry, there is the SUV. The bigger the truck, the smaller the…. Wait a second, my mom reads this.

Albertans love to drive fast. Unlike Québecers, the fast is alone; it does not get appended with well. Fortunately, the highways of Alberta do not have the volume of Québec, Ontario, or BC. QE II highway (formerly Highway 2), between Edmonton & Calgary, is usually wide open for traffic, and people routinely do 130 K/H on a road whose limit is 110. I have seen people doing 125 and getting waved at from others wanting to go faster.

Once again, with my personal safety as a concern, I will state that of all the provinces, Albertans are too often the lamb being led to slaughter. Too often I have heard Calagarians whine about the Deadfoot (Dearfoot), or Edmontonians bitch about the Whitemud, without them being the least bit interested in finding another route. Perhaps their concern is that without taking either crawling freeway, they couldn’t complain about it. I know dozens of ways to traverse Toronto without using the dreaded 401. And I have learned many alternate routes through Calgary & Edmonton.

I will take one last shot at Edmonton, and their road planning (or lack thereof). The Whitemud freeway has level intersections with traffic lights. Yes that is correct; a freeway with traffic lights. They liked this idea so much, they have recreated it for the Anthony Henday. This is the new ring road. It also has level/light controlled intersections. The real head-shaker comes when you look to the side at these intersections and see they have built up the earth in preparation for overpasses. The reason they did not build the overpasses initially? It would have been too expensive, so they will build them later. Trying to reason this out makes my head sore.

I really do have to complement Albertans on their winter driving skills. I have seen none better. Mind you, I have never driven in Saskatchewan. The winters in Edmonton are, as I have stated in a previous blog, colder than anywhere else I have lived. When they start talking about wind chills in the -50’s, you would think it would keep people off the road, but not so. Obviously, the abattoir is open daily.

This has turned into a 3-part submission on driving, so I will close with BC on my next post. I hope I can get BC into 1 post.

Cheers folks!

Driving

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once again.

There 2 things that most Canadians do almost instinctively. Tim Horton’s and translating distance into driving time. You can change Timmie’s into your own favorite; Second Cup, Starbucks, Timothy’s World Café. The list goes on, and grows exponentially in Vancouver. A wider range of drive through caffeine pushers is available here on the left coast.

One really has to wonder whether pumping ourselves full of double-shot fat-free caramel mocha-lattés is the best thing to be doing before getting into high-pressure situations at the controls of a 1000 Kg metal conveyance barreling along at 115 klicks.

Translating distance into time is all about driving. Having lived in many cities, I consider myself an expert on our cities and their different driving personalities. (“After all, I’m an excellent driver” Can you place the quote, without the internets?)

Driving on the mean streets of Montréal is a trial of machismo, or road-ismo. I’ve tried explaining to friends over the years that to survive mentally and philosophically in Québec, you must believe that everyone will cut you off. With this thought placed in mind, only 25% of the people will disappoint you.

In Montréal, you must never back down. If you need to squeeze your 5.5 M car into a 6 M space between 2 dilapidated 1978 New Yorkers doing 120, wait until the trailing driver looks down to light a smoke, and merge in. He wasn’t looking; you took it, good for you. He’ll respect you. That’s why he’s waving to you.

And yes, you may well find the 1978 New Yorkers, but their condition may surprise you. Apart from not wanting claims to go through on their insurance, home car repairs can be very amusing. The use of all kinds of tape on cars predates even myself. I personally believe that Red Green was inspired to use duct tape after visiting Québec.

Now Ottawa is a city of rubber-neckers. It sometimes is quite infuriating. I remember driving in to work one morning with my buddy Doug, and the Queensway was crawling. I joked to him that it was probably some dude out of gas and everyone was slowing to get a look. I was wrong it was a flat tire. I felt like waving at him.

I was at a breakfast meeting one morning with the guys I worked with in Ottawa, and one of my work mates joked about dumb Frenchmen. I had just been delayed on the way in by another brilliant rubber-necking incident. Being on the far side of grumpy that morning, I shot back with; “We’ll we might not be as brilliant as you, but we are at least smart enough to be able to take in some idiot who can’t read his gas gauge, while we're doing 120 klicks!” Have I mentioned that my wife refers to me as a snark-asaurus.

In Ottawa, if you have Ontario plates, you must bitch about crazy-fast Québec drivers. If you have Québec plates, you have to complain about careless and inattentive Ontario drivers. All drivers learn to watch out for red Ontario plates. These are diplomatic plates. Some of the embassies in Ottawa represent countries that have questionable drivers’ license requirements, as well as right-hand-drive automobiles. Not all of these skills translate well to the Queensway. I have noticed a lot of people waving at red-plates.

I spent most of the 90’s living in Guelph and Whitby. In both of these cities, the further you get from the 401, the calmer people become. Unfortunately most of those in Guelph and Whitby spend either their work time or leisure time in Toronto, and for some people the simple act of driving in Hogtown is like downing 5 double-shot cappuccinos, with a Red Bull chaser.

When I was transferred to Guelph, I took a week off to go house-hunting. I had this all wrapped up by Wednesday evening, so I decided I would check out the Guelph rush hour Thursday afternoon. I looked and looked, and then looked some more, but to no avail.

One day, while driving in Guelph, I was trying to merge left; I slowed and dude beside me slowed. OK. I sped up, so did he. I think he was a Torontonian. I braked, and he did, but then I tromped on it and scooted in, in front of him, and moved over to the left turn lane. Dude was fuming beside me and as the light was about to turn green, I rolled down the window and yelled; “Yo! If you own the road, fix the bloody potholes!!!” He was apoplectic, and waving at me.

Outside of this run-in, I can not recall any other serious problem in either Guelph or Whitby. The waving between cars in these cities usually included all fingers.

I will cover Toronto and points west in a subsequent blog.

Cheers folks

Safety

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

Over the years I have hurt myself in some very creative ways. If you stretch your fingers apart, you will see the small web of skin between the base of your fingers. I cut myself there once with a pair of scissors. Because it was in such an odd spot the doctor could not put in stitches. I was such a klutz that I took CPR just in case I did something really serious to myself.

When I was a teenager, I was working at a restaurant, and was attempting to tighten a pipe fitting. The wrench slipped, and I ended up mashing my hand, at the base of the thumb, into a piece of metal. The doctor at the hospital informed me that I had done quite a job; he told me I had damaged muscle, nerves, and a vein. It would require 7 stitches to close a wound that was less than an inch long. He was examining the wound with a probe, and then asked me if he’d given me freezing yet. He hadn’t.

Shortly after this, I had to move my motorcycle, which was in pieces on the garage floor, out of the way so my Dad, Big Al, could park the car in the garage. On the way out of the garage, with the door partially closed, I walked into a screw-point sticking through the door, and grazed the top of my head. I ended up with 5 stitches.

I think I come by my klutzy-ness honestly. My Dad, sometime after WWII, was working at a printing plant in Montréal. He was waiting for the freight elevator, and after a bit, became impatient. He stuck his head through the gate to look for where the elevator was. Unfortunately, it was there.

He was in the hospital for almost a year. Big Al’s skull and jaw were fractured, among other things, and required some re-building. When they rebuilt his nose and sinuses, things were a little amiss. After he was discharged, every time he lay down with even the lightest of sniffles, his nose and sinuses would plug up in seconds.

When he was in his mid-fifties he suffered some sort of episodes that were later decided to have been a cross between seizures and strokes caused by scar tissue on the surface of his brain. His neurologist believed the scars came from the elevator. It is a very scary day when your old man is squeezing your hand, out of fear, lying in a hospital bed, wondering if he’s going to die. He was the strong one; he was my Dad, and there I was holding his hand to make him feel safe. This was a life defining moment for me.

Big Al did regain his mobility, but never was able to return to work. Interestingly enough, the birthing hospital where my siblings and I all came into this world had been turned into a rehab hospital. After a few months at the Catherine Booth Hospital, he was able to walk around with a cane. In later years, he became a fixture around Benny Farm, walking slowly around the development with his cane, every day.

There were other long term issues; he lost his motivation, lost his organizational skills, and his memory was spotty. He also would later have problems with his gag reflex.

In 1999, while visiting my parents, my daughters and I took Gramps out to dinner. My mom was not feeling well so she passed on dinner. In the middle of the meal, he became distressed and was unable to tell me what was wrong. I was escorting him to the washroom when he collapsed. The restaurant staff immediately called an ambulance, and were being very helpful. One of the ladies pointed out that he was turning blue. My CPR training came back to me immediately and I sat him up and performed the Heimlich maneuver. After 3 deep pulls into his solar plexus, he resumed breathing.

The hospital discharged him that night. My Mom had to do the Heimlich on Big Al at least once herself, in later years. Thanks to my Mom and me, we were to enjoy my Dad’s company for another 5 years.

I can not recall how much the Guelph Fire Department charged me for the CPR course, but it was the greatest bargain ever. It was also the best spent Saturday morning of my life.

Cheers Folks.

Mobiles

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.

I recently changed my cell carrier. This is something that I have probably done less often than most people. I have been fortunate enough to have had company supplied cell phones for the majority of the last 15 years. I have only had a personal cell phone 3 times; in Toronto around 9/11, in Calgary 6 years ago, and most recently when we moved to Vancouver.

I had a Motorola Razer that I had picked up in Edmonton almost 2 years ago. That was a painful experience. I paid cash for the phone so that I could avoid signing a contract. Unfortunately, if I wanted anything other than pay-as-you-go, I needed to sign a contract for 12 months. For those inexperienced in dealing with retail mobile, don’t try to debate contractual policy with a teenage $10-hour kid who would much rather be doing anything other than listen to you moan.

The mobile industry in Canada already prices its handsets and airtime fairly for some of its clientele. If you are a corporate customer, you generally pay full pop for your phone up front, and pay much lower usage and monthly charges. Personal mobiles though require the ignorant masses to think that they are getting a great deal on a free phone. Unfortunately your 3-year contract is massively overpriced; you are paying off the cost of your handset over 36 months, with interest.

This is actually similar to how Bell Canada used to charge inflated prices on their long distance in order to subsidize the cost of their infrastructure costs on local service. The CRTC slapped them down.

I wanted mobile e-mail and web surfing in the palm of my hand. Nobody will let you have that without a 36-month contract, except for Virgin Mobile & Koodo. With these guys, you have a wide variety to choose from, so long as its initials are BlackBerry.

I have become quite attached to my iPod, so I was leaning towards an iPhone. I waited, and researched, and I waited some more. I saw Fido advertising a used iPhone for $99. A used iPhone I thought? What kind of beast was this? It turns out that iPhones returned within the first 15 days are considered used, and go through a factory refurbishment.

So I get everything set up with Fido, and they explain that it may take an hour to port over my phone number. No problem. I received the new phone the very next day with a Toronto temporary number. No one was able to explain why. I gave them a whole day to port the number, but it wasn’t ported over. I called a few times and kept getting interesting stories.

After a few days, I received a call from my old carrier; Rogers. They had a department they called customer loyalty or customer retention to try to get you to stay with them, and they just wanted to confirm that I really wanted to leave them. I could actually hear this guy winking. This was like the wacko high school girlfriend who does not want to break-up. Ever!

I’m glad I chatted this fellow up a little because he also explained to me that if the account balance was more than $50, they would block releasing the number. Anyone whose mobile bill is less $50 a month, put your hand up! Anyone? Anyone at all. I removed all the roadblocks and was up and running on my new toy.

I think I managed to speak to everyone at the Fido call center. They liked me so much, they sent me another iPhone, and it took them over a month to credit me back after I returned it.

I thought I was ready to post this a few weeks ago, but lo and behold, I had received a bill from my previous supplier, Rogers, for $360. When I called in, a pleasant young fellow who initially could not understand why I would be so perturbed, explained to me that I had renewed my contract in July 2007 and this was an early cancellation charge for $20 a month. We agreed that the cancellation fee was for 18 months.

I explained to the 20-something/$12-hour guy that I had signed a 1-year contract in December 2007, and was actually cancelling 6 months after my obligation ended. I asked him if he could see any bills before December 2007 and he answered no, so we agreed that I only became a Rogers customer in December 2007.We then agreed that July 2007 until January 2011 (18 months from now) was 42 months.

Next came the questions he should have expected but didn’t. If I only became a Rogers customer in December 2007, how could I have signed a new contract 5 months earlier? After a few seconds of silence, I asked him how often he had seen a 42-month contract. I think they put you on hold so often because they need to consult with a 30-something/$20-hour stupidvisor. (Intentional)

I am expecting a refund check in the mail, after only 3 months. My mobile ordeal is older than my niece, and smells as bad as the last dirty diaper.

Cheers folks

Big Al

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

My dad, whom we called Big Al, had an interesting life. He left this plane of existence in December of 2003. Big Al taught us about being a responsible member of society, respect, and about oral histories. We never sat down on Saturday mornings to crack the books, and study about any of these items.

Even so, Saturday mornings were an interesting time in our home. We lived in a 5-and-a-half apartment. Apartments in Montréal are different; they are counted by rooms. A 5-and-a-half can be assumed to have a kitchen and living room, and 3 bedrooms. The half is the bathroom. Apartments outside of Montréal are counted by bedrooms.

But back to Saturdays. We lived on the 3rd floor of a 3-storey walk-up, at Elmhurst & St.-Jacques. Every Saturday, my dad would sweep and mop the stairs in our building. Some of our neighbors’ would look at him funny, but I never noticed. I wasn’t really aware that our neighbors thought this odd. After all, somebody needed to clean the stairway.

When I was old enough to, I would help my Dad; it was a job needed doing, and it was time I was able to spend with him. We did not crack a single book, but years later I would also show my daughters, by example, the right way to treat friends and neighbors. One day, they will probably do the same.

Over the years, Big Al also taught me to respect authority. We were taught, once again by example, that you respected the police. They were after all, responsible for keeping us safe, we did very much “vous” the police. In French, when you use the ‘vous” instead of the “tu”, it is a sign of respect.

On the flip side of that coin, I can remember my father being very upset about the abuses suffered by Jean Drapeau’s opponents during the October crisis. After the imposition of the War Measures Act in 1970, authorities were allowed to arrest and detain people indefinitely without charging them with a crime. A great number of the mayor’s opponents were arrested & detained, but surprisingly never charged.

Drapeau is the same yahoo who outlawed chip wagons in Montréal, because they did not belong in his vision of what Montréal should be. Bastard!!! Maybe I should rename this blog “Tangents”.

This lesson of respecting authority, and the police served me well over the years. As a teenager, there were about a half-dozen times when we would be stumbling home after a party in the wee hours of the morning, and encounter the police. Invariably, my buddies would panic and want to run, but I would calm the situation, answer the police with respect, and be completely honest. I would tell them exactly whose place we had come from, and that we had been drinking beer. Never once were we detained, because the respect we gave was reciprocated.

While we were kids, our Dad would regale us with stories of the Bradleys in Ireland. Big Al loved his Irish-ness. It is rumored that his dad, ol’ Joe Bradley as Big Al would refer to him, thought himself to be a member of the Irish mafia. I think the Irish thugs tolerated him because he would sneak them into old Forum to watch Les Canadiens, or Les Habitants, which is the origin of the label "Habs".

Big Al would also tell us that County Armagh was our ancestral home. We heard about how the Bradleys were the greatest sheep-stealers in the north of Ireland. We found this outrageously funny at each retelling.

Years later, one of my siblings came across a book of name origins at Steinberg’s, and found that the Bradleys from county Armagh were notorious for pilfering sheep. We found this even funnier. Years later, while living in Edmonton, I discovered my doctor was from county Armagh. He remembered the Bradleys, and was able to place them in the sheep rearing area of the county.

When I was in college, I used to pooh-pooh the idea of oral histories, after all History is the written record of what happened, right? With age comes wisdom, I guess. I tell my daughters stories all the time; some are from my Dad some are from me, but all of them are because my story telling talents are learned from my parents.

There is no punch line to this blog, nor is there a life-lesson; just some memories of a good man who will be remembered fondly by his some of his biggest fans. I'm one of them.

If I made you cry, I’m sorry. I did. I miss Big Al.

Call your Dad, or if you’re in my shoes, remember him fondly.

Sláinte Mhath!

Broccoli

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

When I was working at my business machine supplier in the 80’s &90’s, I was asked to help reorganize our local showroom, working with a tenured sales guys I’ll call Juan (The names have been changed to protect the ignorant, I mean innocent). He had grand plans to show off the most expensive computer system we sold, and was telling me how we were going to move around all the furniture and create the greatest showcase every seen anywhere, anytime!

After he graced me with this insight into his vision of how we would create the greatest display of technology on this planet, or any other (my wife refers to me as a snark-asaurus), I calmly explained to him that getting his fancy-schmancy computer required the sign off from the head of our IT department, as did all of our computer purchases. This is what followed;

(Juan) “Well the VP of our region asked me to set up this showroom properly, so it will be OK.”
(Me) “Very good, but we still can’t buy the computer without the approval of the director for IT.”
(Juan) ”Well the VP of our region asked me to…”

This went back and forth about 4 or 5 times until, in frustration, I asked Juan if I could tell him a joke. Somewhat confused, he reluctantly told me to go ahead (Although he probably will not remember, this used to be my brother Frank’s favorite joke; he would tell it with such relish. Anyone who knows Frank will flash to him “performing” a joke; it’s a Bradley thing, performing a joke.);

A young lad working at the grocery store noticed a woman searching through the stores produce department, and decided he would offer his assistance. To his query if he could help her find something, she replied “Yes I’m looking for some broccoli.”

“I’m sorry m’am, but we don’t have any broccoli.”

“I don’t think you understand; I’d like to buy some broccoli.”

“Yes m’am, but unfortunately we don’t have any in the store.”

“Now young man, I’m not sure you get my point; I have a wonderful recipe for broccoli soufflé and for that I would need to buy some broccoli.”

“I heard you, but we still don’t have any broccoli.”

“My husband’s favorite dish is broccoli soufflé, and I need the basic ingredient; broccoli.”

“OK lady, but I’m trying to tell you that we don’t have any!”

“I’m not sure you get my point young man. Usually when presented with broccoli soufflé my husband becomes quite amorous, and it has been an awfully long time since last….well…you know.”
Exasperated, the young clerk switches gears and asks the lady; “Hey lady, can you spell the cat in catatonic?”

“I don’t see what this has to do with broccoli, but certainly; C A T.”

“Great, now can you spell the dog in dogmatic?”

“Yes, D O G.”

“OK, how about the flip in broccoli?” (In the original version, it is a much rudder 4-letter word beginning with F)

Dumbfounded, she responds “There’s no flip in broccoli!”

To which he shouts; “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you lady, there’s no flippin broccoli!!!”

Juan chuckled appreciatively, yet still gave me a funny look. He immediately jumped back in with; “Now as I was saying, our regional VP has asked me to set the showroom up to show off all of our equipment, and we need to get the computer system in here to do that right.”

“Hey Juan” I answered, “There’s no flippin broccoli!!!”

“Yes that was a very funny. No about this computer system; you see our regional VP….” I can’t remember what else he may have said, because I was busy searching for Alan Funt. Yes it is yet one more age-defining statement.

When I am faced with someone who does not appear to hear what I am saying, I bring up this story and the joke.

I have unfortunately had the opportunity to tell this story too many times in the workplace. There are far too many people out there who get fixated on something and ignore all else. Sometimes when I am forced to tell this story to someone, they get the point.

All too often though, it’s another Juan.

Sofa King!

It’s OK Mom, you wouldn’t get it.

Cheers folks.

Moms

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

Everybody loves their Mom. Everybody thinks their Mom is the best Mom in the world. I know my Mom was the best.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying my Mom is any better than other Moms in the world. She was the best Mom for me when I was growing up, as well as being the best Mom for me ever since.

Most families have Moms. When the right Mom brings the right child into the world, the world is made a better place. My wife Nita’s Mom is an amazing Mom, and Nita was and still is the right child. The world is most definitely a better place.

My Mom is the right Mom, but there have been times when my being the right child was doubtful. I’ve done some things in my life that did not make my Mom too proud of me. I joke with friends that in High School I was voted most likely to succeed…..In Jail!

My Mom has an interesting story about having to go to the Cote-St-Luc Police department to pick up one of her offspring, 13 at the time. It seems that a gang of kids went to Rita’s house one Tuesday afternoon, and her Dad came home to find all these teenagers drinking beer in his house. He called the cops, and the rest you can guess. Not that this had anything to do with me.

When I first moved to Ottawa, I called my Mom one Sunday, and we were chatting about a number of things. I mentioned to her that I had just finished stripping all the paint off my dresser. The dresser was something my parents had picked up, and had been used by me, or me and my brother, for all my life, so when I left home, I was allowed to bring it to Ottawa.

I was chatting with her about all the work I had put into the dresser and explained that I had found 5 layers of paint. My last comment was greeted with silence. After about 10 seconds my Mom explained, quite patiently, that with 5 kids, it was usually necessary to repaint our furniture after someone would ruin the finish. Apparently, I had been responsible for necessitating 4 of the 5 layers of paint on that dresser. Do the math; I’ll wait. Have I told you I have the best Mom in the world?

Another time, I mentioned to my Mom that I had seen a mother in downtown Ottawa with her toddler in a 5-point harness, on a tether. I joked about kids needing to be on a leash. Once again, the 10-second silence break, after which my Mom explains; “I tried everything, but you would never listen and would always wander around no matter what I did.”

Obviously while in Ottawa I was channeling politicians, opening my mouth just to change feet. This is the period in my life when I should have laced my shoes with dental floss.

A few years later, while living in Guelph, I had driven to Toronto to pick up my parents. My Mom would always let my Dad (we called him Big Al, which I will detail in a later blog) sit in the front, so Mom was in the back seat with my daughters. As we were driving by Pearson Airport, Big Al looks over at the digital dash and says; “Ooh, 130, is that you’re oil pressure?”

“No” I answered, “that’s the speedometer,” From the back seat my Mom perks up with “Oh, I’ve never done 130 before!” Being the eternal smartass, I shot back with “Welcome to Toronto Mom!” Did you know that I have the best Mom in the world?

Every single one of these foibles, adventures, and events was forgotten (if not forgiven) when my Mom was able to hold in her arms her very first grandchild. As young women, Amanda & Erin have made a habit of visiting with their Granny for a week a year, at the end of the summer. This is something that all 3 of them look forward to. Amanda will actually be proof-reading this while visiting her Granny. Did I mention that she is the best Mom in the world?

No matter what others thought of me, my Mom always knew that the world was a better place. She may have thought that it was a better place because of me, BUT I will always know that the world is a better place because of her.

My sister and her wife are now mothers themselves, and the world will be a better place.

Welcome to our world Ruby. You have the best Moms in the world!

Cheers Ruby!

Pedestrians

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I am a born & bred Montréaler. We instinctively have excellent self-preservation skills. The reason; Montréal drivers. My sister-in-law, returning from a Montréal business trip a few years ago, told my wife on deplaning in Edmonton; “I now know why Gerry drives the way he does!”

A Montréal driver may think he is to be feared, but at a very early age, the Montréal pedestrian discovers the one thing a Montréal driver fears above all else; his insurance payments going up.

While attending college, I was involved with an exchange with a college in Moose Jaw. In Moose Jaw, we were of course off to the pub. My host, Gary, parked the car, and told me the bar was just across the street, so off I went, in the middle of the block, crossing the street. While I was crossing, I noticed the police car, whose flashing red lights had fired up. I hurried across to get out of his way; he had some serious crime to take care of.

The cop got out of his car and asked if I realized that I had jaywalked. I told him no, I had no idea what jaywalking was. After he discovered that I was from out-of-province and wasn’t yanking his chain, he explained jaywalking to me. He was again dumbfounded when we had the same conversation 2 hours later when Gary and I left the pub. The next day, we had 2 more chats on the same subject. The last chat he started with; “So when are you going home, Montréal?”

Around the same time, author Josh Freed’s book “The Anglo guide to survival in Québec” was published. My brother went out to get the book so we could have a good chuckle. Halfway through the book, he burst out laughing saying “Oh my god! He’s writing about you!” My brother was referring to the section on pedestrians, specifically the part about Kamikaze Pedestrian. According to Mr. Freed, we dress in black, are happiest crossing in front of trucks & buses on unlighted streets, and do not look before crossing.

I admit to my brother’s characterization of me. He is absolutely correct. Josh Freed however is wrong. We do look; we just don’t allow drivers to catch us checking. Like Mexican drivers, if we don’t make eye contact, we don’t have to back down. Most Québec drivers subconsciously know this and respect it.

Us old-school Montréal Kamikaze pedestrians do have a secret weapon; we use The Force. After quick sidelong glances, we can “feel” what’s going on around us, and we know what we can get away with.

My daughters would freak out when we would be walking around Toronto, and all of a sudden Dad scoots across the street. After a very short while, I realized they were not blessed with my gift, so I would give them a heads-up “Let’s go!” They would still be a little off balance, but usually managed to cross the street with me. Relax folks, nobody died!

Most pedestrians today do not use The Force, and are completely unaware of any impending danger to themselves or others. I mean real danger; ambulances, lacerations, fractures, operating rooms; but worst of all, insurance companies!

I think we have too many distractions in our lives today; cell phones, MP3, iPods. I think people are losing themselves in these little worlds, and not paying attention to the real world around them. I don’t think there is malice involved, just short attention spans.

Perhaps we need walking schools. After all, most of today’s drivers have gone to driving school. How many pedestrian vs. car accidents could have been prevented if we forced people to learn how to walk in a busy downtown?

We are supposed to be sharing the roads. Drivers, wielding a 700 Kg to 1500 Kg moving vehicle, can expect to be fined when they try to bend the rules for their own convenience. Unfortunately, Police have far more important things to do than to try and enforce common sense in pedestrians, so we get to see lots of rules bend.

Here’s an experiment to try on your own. Stand on a busy street corner. Count moving violations by drivers, cyclists, and pedestrians. After an hour, the drivers will have a baseball score, the cyclists will have a football score, and the pedestrians will have a basketball score. When was the last time you heard of a pedestrian getting a ticket for running a red light?

My wife was dying to see how this post turned out. You see, in her eyes, I am both an insane pedestrian, and a crazy driver. Guilty on both counts sweetie. Dangerous? Not really. After all, nobody died.

Cheers folks.

Pan-Canadian

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

I recently was chatting with the owner of the company I work for, and allowed him the opportunity to opine; “Is there anywhere you haven’t lived?” I have lived in, in order; Montréal, Ottawa, Gloucester (really part of Ottawa), Guelph, Whitby, Scarborough, Toronto, Calgary, Edmonton, Vancouver, and finally North Vancouver. The first 7 cities are no more than 6 hours apart.

This may seem like a lot of moving to some of you, but not us. For those of you who don’t know me, my wife Nita works for a national organization, and has been transferred around the country a bit. Don’t misunderstand me, I am not complaining at all. Nita is the center of my being. She is my soul-mate and my one true love. My dedication to her has no bounds.

Moving has not been a sacrifice; it has been an adventure. It has always been a memorable adventure, because it is something we have experienced together. These are adventures that have made our lives exciting. These are experiences that I would not trade for anything, because of the wonderful woman Nita is.

Some of my friends in the past have felt pity for me, having to look for a new job in a new city, but this is part of the adventure. I was once convinced that I was going to retire with Pitney Bowes, as a 40-year career man. Unfortunately, the company and my superior (in job title ONLY) felt the need to eliminate my position. I have discovered since then that my skills & abilities are what companies are looking for.

But coming back to the discussion at hand, Nita’s employer has moved us from Toronto to Calgary, then to Edmonton, and now Vancouver. Calgary is a lovely city, and while we were there I was able to reunite with 2 old friends; one a high school chum, John, and Jim, an old kindergarten mate.

We were in Calgary for about a year-and-a-half. Chinooks were interesting, and I saw snow in every calendar month except July. Even so, we still enjoyed Calgary.

Edmonton is an interesting city, and one I probably enjoyed more than most other people would have. Nita’s family is there, and it was home because of that. I wasn’t welcomed into the family, nor was I treated like one of the family, I was family.

My daughters, from a previous marriage, are definitely family. Amanda, my eldest daughter, on a visit to Edmonton, informed someone who asked her about a piece of jewelry, explained that she had received it from her aunt, Nita’s sister. When I recounted the story to my wife, and then her sister later, there were a few tears. You might say it got a little dusty (I must credit Adam & Matty from one of my favorite podcasts, Filmspotting). But I stray once more.

Edmonton is one of the better cities in Canada to be a hockey fan. I, however, stopped following hockey when Ken Dryden retired, and moved to Edmonton long after Gretzky left.

A city, whose good winters contain about 15 or 20 nights were the nighttime low bottoms out below -40C is a really cold city. I had 2 winters where the count was over 30 nights below -40C; that was about 3 winters too many! So, off to Vancouver then!

When comparing the 2 winters, Edmonton and Vancouver (which my sister-in-law called “Mordor” last winter), I think I favor wet over white.

It was pointed out to me, on more than one occasion, that Vancouver winters are grey and it rains frequently. As well, when there is snow, people are incapable of driving on slippery streets. This is true. I have seen buses sliding sideways with 2 cm of snow, on hills that my 84-year-old mother could tackle on her bicycle!

Our first winter here was not as advertised. We had 3 December storms that each dumped about a foot of snow. How very Canadian to use both metric & British measurements in neighboring paragraphs.

We have been reliably informed by many of the long-time British Columbians that our back-to-back too-hot summers, as well as last winters snow-fest are an aberration. The previous winter in Edmonton, the snow banks on my driveway were taller than me before Christmas. So, if this is the worst you can throw at us, I can’t wait for normal.

I’ve been told to be truly Canadian you must define distances in how long it takes to drive. DONE.
You must use both the British & Metric system in a single discussion. DONE.
You must bitch about the weather. DONE!

I have been told to be truly pan-Canadian, you have to pan Canada. Sorry folks, not going to happen here. To quote Jakov Smirnoff’s old stand-up act “I love this country!!!”

Cheers folks.

HST

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again. Actually, probably more of a rant.

In BC, the provincial government has recently announced that it will be changing our sales tax to a blended HST (Harmonized Sales Tax). We currently pay a 7% sales tax, on selected items, at the cash register.

PST has allowed provincial governments across the country to decide which purchases should be exempt from paying extra tax, and which purchases help pay for government services. Someone in a wheelchair has been exempted from paying tax on their ride. Very fair. Funerals and haircuts have been exempt. Funerals are expensive, so good exemption. I don’t understand haircuts, but I can live with it; I still have hair.

Taxes are one of those things in life that are certain, like death & telemarketers. Taxes, once enacted, are hard to get rid of, like death & telemarketers. New taxes are usually good for the economy, at their inception. I’ll explain that point later.

Often forgotten, income tax was a temporary measure during the First World War to pay for our war machine. Most politicians start out sincere and dedicated to doing the right thing. Some retain these principles, some don’t. Case in point, we still pay income tax.

I was working for a business machine supplier in Ottawa when Brian Mulroney’s Tories brought in the GST, in 1991. Our company’s sales force was salivating over the prospect of selling between $2 million and $5 million of stuff to the new GST department. The GST was great for the Ottawa economy.

In 1997, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, & Newfoundland were the first to adopt a HST. I have no recollection of any problems at the time with exemption issues. Part of their reasoning at the time was to turn over the administration of tax collection to the federal government; a non-duplication or un-duplication of services. It actually did save them some money. The HST was also partially in response to the perceived double-dipping of taxes.

Double dipping on taxes was explained to us by various groups, including The Canadian Taxpayers Federation & the National Citizens Coalition. They told us how merchants were totaling a purchase, calculating the PST, totaling these 2 amounts, then calculating the GST.

GST being calculated on PST. This was horse hockey (Identify the quote!).This type of ploy is a political tool I call Fiction for Friction. Make up something that sounds possible, just to get some folks all worked up. The outraged usually end up shouting down everyone, while the reasonable are trying to say; “Wait a second, that’s not true!”

But back to BC. Gordon Campbell’s liberals are getting $1.6 billion from the federal government to enact the HST.

Pause. Think. React.

Why are the feds bribing the BC provincial government with my money? At least Ontario’s Dalton McGuinty is not being duplicitous about his $1.6 billion bribe; McGuinty will be sending Ontarians checks for $1000.

Colin Hansen, BC Finance Minister, has embarked on a campaign to tell us that the HST is good for us and that it is revenue neutral. He does not tell us who the “Us” is that this is good for. Is the “Us” actually the US? Or is it code for something else. The Usual Suspects?

As far as it being revenue neutral, I have heard estimates that the average British Columbian will pay out an extra $500 to $1000 in sales tax. I am reminded of the Frasier Crane line to Cliff Clavin in Cheers; “Cliff, what color is the sky in your world?” Colin,….

Stephen Harper, once president of the National Citizens Coalition, which opposes higher taxes, is bribing Ontario & BC into raising taxes on their constituents, with federal taxpayers’ money. My 84-year-old Mom in Québec is contributing to Gordon Campbell’s fund to hide his deficit. Not even Cliff Clavin could explain this one!

I miss Alberta.

Cheers folks.

Family

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again.

I haven’t mentioned my wonderful wife Nita before. Nor have I mentioned my daughters, Amanda and Erin. One day soon, I will write at least 1 blog about each of my parents.

Our views on family are views we have developed over our lives. We also, as we grow up, learn the meaning of community. In our society, we usually have many opportunities and groups to our disposal which also help shape us. As my wife is fond of quoting; “It takes a village…”

When I was young, I became a Cub Scout. I joined the cubs at the ripe old age of 7, and stuck with it a few years. I learned how to fit into a group and how to socialize. My brother himself became a cub leader for his son’s troop, and then his daughters’ troops. He met many wonderful people with this organization, and introduced me to a few. The ones I remember most are Peter and Kathleen.

Many thinkers and philosophers have pointed out that we cannot choose our families. With the exception of marriage, this is true. I have been sufficiently blessed with my born-family, that I don’t really have an issue with this. Mostly.

I have 4 siblings. When we were kids, our older brother and sister would refer to my younger brother, Frank & I as the little guys. We didn’t have an issue with this. However, when our younger sister took to calling us this when she was 4 and we were 11 & 12, we asserted our birthright (being older) of telling her “We ARE the boss of you!!!”.

I have 2 wonderful daughters from a previous marriage, Amanda is 22, and Erin is 19. I have been complimented many times on how well mannered they are. When I have attempted to point out that it is they who deserve the compliments, it is usually pointed out to me that they have grown up to be who they by being brought up by their family, and as their father, I am at least partially responsible for how they turned out. Sorry girls, I’m not trying to make you sound like something I baked; an Amanda soufflé & an Erin torte!

All the while letting my girls know that I too am proud of the women they have become, I have extrapolated this logic, and let my mom know that she too has had a hand in how they have matured. After all, I learned my parenting skills from my parents. I neither formed my ideas nor beliefs from television, nor will I blame television for my shortcoming. (I know I must have at least one, I just haven’t discovered it yet.) I know my parents, as well as my siblings, have something to do with who my daughters have become.

There is absolutely nothing I would not do for my mom, my wife, and my kids. (Siblings? Maybe not so much.) I would give anything to any of these women. I know I would.

On September 13, 2006 Kimveer Gill went on a shooting spree at Dawson College, Montréal, strangely enough, my alma mater. Anastasia Rebecca De Sousa died at the scene, but we don’t remember her name. Television spent more time telling us about Kimveer, and less about Anastasia. Quebecers have remembered Anastasia with foundations, scholarships, but most importantly, a gun control law dubbed “Anastasia’s Law”. Television told us even less about Kathleen Dixon.

Television tells us that the ultimate sacrifice is to take a bullet for someone else. I mentioned Kathleen in reference to the cub scouts. I did not hear about Kathleen that day until I spoke with my brother. I still have yet to hear anything about Kathleen in the media. Being anal, and wanting to be sure I am not mis-speaking, I have even trolled Google & Bing looking up Kathleen & her daughter Meaghan. Results? Meaghan 48 hits, Kathleen 705 hits, Kimveer 31,331. Most of the hits for Kathleen and Meaghan are not about this Kathleen & this Meaghan. Most of his hits were about him.

Please indulge me & click on the links below, and then come back and finish this blog;

http://www.cbc.ca/canada/story/2006/09/15/shooting-wounded.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rxJ95PB11EQ

The first link is a CBC on-line story about what family is. The second link is a Youtube my brother posted. I would like to think that I would do the same for my kids, although I pray that I am never given the chance.

I have never had the opportunity to tell Kathleen just how much I respect her for what she did on that horrible day, until now. I am hoping that she gets to read this. She is one of the bravest people I have ever met. At the end of the Youtube, you can hear Meaghan cheering on her mom, and the last image is of a beaming and loving Meaghan.

Given that television did not tell us about Kathleen, but all about Kimveer, I’m glad I did not leave my kids to be raised by television.

Cheers folks!

Story Time with Gerry

It was a dark and stormy night, and the brigands were in the mountains, and the captain said to Antonio “Antonio, tell us a story-o”, and he started like this; It was a dark and stormy night, and the brigands…

This is a great roll-over story that my mom would tell us when we were kids. Don’t look for plot devices or character development; it’s just a warm childhood memory.
A lady I worked with a few years ago coined a phrase when I would start telling one of my long-winded stories. CJ would always perk up and ask “Is it story time with Gerry again?” Yes CJ, it is.

I recently reconnected with a college chum from the 1970’s in Montreal. Wow it took 3 whole paragraphs to date myself. Peter Anthony Holder (http://www.peteranthonyholder.com/ ) is a successful late night radio personality featured in Montréal on CJAD and Toronto on CFRB. Peter and I had some wonderful chats; we reminisced quite a bit, and shared our feelings on life, the state of the world, and our stations in life. Peter was very happy with where he was, what he had achieved, and was very pleased with how he was keeping himself busy.

I was, as well, initially. As we discussed things more, I mentioned to him that I was envious of his creative ventures. Peter mentioned that one of his easiest forms of expression was writing. We discussed how the written word also had a kind of permanence to it, and he cited his blog as an example (http://peteranthonyholder.blogspot.com/ ) Peter suggested I get back to writing myself; I’m glad I listened to him.

The idea of permanence is actually a version of something I keep repeating to my staff, ad nauseum; “If it’s not written down, it never happened!” I use this line to help my staff understand that the written word has permanence, and the spoken word is too easily forgotten.
I adopted this theory while I was working for a large company in the 80’s & 90”s. We were trying to figure out the best courier with whom to ship a widget. After my department completed a test, I was in a meeting to discuss a solution. It was quite a heated discussion, with some managers seeing a failure of our test as a way to justify greater headcount. I repeatedly attempted to review the results, but no one was listening.

After a few more tries to make my point, and my frustration mounting, I got up from the table and started walking out. The chair of the meeting asked me where I was going, and I responded; “Sorry, since no one was paying attention to me, I assumed I was invisible.” This broke the mounting tension, and we agreed to adjourn the meeting until the next day.

Upon returning to my office, I spent a few minutes creating a simple spreadsheet containing our test results. ( I am reminded of the line from the song [and later a 1969 movie, by the same name] by Arlo Guthrie “Alice’s restaurant” with the line “…twenty seven eight-by-ten color glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one was to be used as evidence against us…”).

When the meeting reconvened the next day, I handed out my wonderful spreadsheet, with circles and arrows, … To my utter astonishment, everyone in the room thought this was wonderful, and were all happy that we had a working program. I was admonished by the chair for not bringing this information up sooner. I let it pass. With this audience, I figured my invisibility joke was enough.

My boss was at both meetings, and afterwards, told me I should have brought the information forward the day before. When I told him I had, he simply could not recall. I know I was not being shy and retiring because that simply is not in my nature. I have a deep booming voice that I had learned to project quite well while studying Theatre (WARNING! WARNING! age-defining statement imminent) in the 1970’s. If you say something and people do not comprehend, sometimes you can blame the messenger. In this case, I don’t think it was the messenger. Nor was it the message, because it was simplicity in itself.

In this case, my solution was to give them something they could neither ignore (as they seemed to be doing with me), nor could they argue with. After all, who wants to argue with a ream of paper?

So, “If it ain’t written down, it never happened” is something my staff often hears from me. (I find using the improper grammar helps the statement get attention.) And now that I have finally written this down, it has happened.

So as I near the end of my first (of many) long-winded stories, I need to revisit with old my friend, CJ, and ask her; CJ, did you like this one? Did I do OK?

In closing, Peter, thanks for once again pushing an old friend into doing something I should have done long ago.

Cheers folks!