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!