Photos from our 2008 vaction in Northern Ontario
posted by Don Edmiston at 2:11 PM
0 comments
Monday, September 22, 2008
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
Friday, September 08, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Our 2006 trip to the east coast of Canada
It was a dark and stormy night- just kidding- actually it was a hot sunny Friday as we left St. Thomas and although we didn’t realize it at the time, we were escaping from a blistering heat wave that followed us most of the way, but never quite caught up. We arrived at Al and Norma’s house about mid-afternoon and we all enjoyed a nice Fish and Chip dinner at a shop that has been in Woodstock since I was a little boy. It has changed owners, and names over the years, but it has always been in the same place and it’s always been a Fish and Chip shop. We stayed with Al and Norma overnight so we could get an early start on Saturday morning. Al thought that by leaving at 7:00am we could avoid the rush hour traffic in Toronto. As a result, we went through Toronto with very little difficulty and arrived at Jean and Warren’s house in Cardinal about 11:30am. Jean makes a very good pizza and we showed her how good it was by stuffing ourselves. Especially Norma. That woman can really eat. I’d much rather pay her board than buy her groceries. Anyway, we finished the pizza, had a short visit and left there about two o’clock headed for Quebec City.
Once we passed Montreal, the drive to Quebec City was pleasant. The terrain along the north shore of the St. Lawrence River is different from that on the south shore. Joan and I followed the south shore on our east coast trip in 1996 and found it to be mostly flat farmland. It was very picturesque nevertheless with all the farms looking quite prosperous. The north shore, on the other hand, has much more forest and rolling hills. We arrived in Quebec City quite late in the afternoon planning to stay the night in a place called St. Foy. I’m not sure how it happened, but we seemed to go right past that place, ending up in Quebec City. Al noticed an Old Quebec City landmark on the skyline that he recognized from previous trips and we made our way to it. We drove around the old part of Quebec City for a half hour, or so, and the most interesting thing I noticed at that time were all the sidewalk cafes located there, and since it was the height of the tourist season, they were all full. I was amazed at how many people like to eat outside. It was worse than Vancouver.
It was when we tried to find a motel in Quebec City that we remembered why we had planned to stay in St. Foy. While trying to find St. Foy again we discovered that Quebec City has more clover leafs per capita than any city in North America. It’s a good thing too, because every time we made a wrong turn there was another clover leaf right there to let us make another wrong turn. We invented a whole new sport we called cloverleafing and Al got really good at it. Al told us about a little town called Ste-Anne-de-Beaupre that had a large miracle producing Cathedral and some other interesting things to look at and since the excitement of cloverleafing was beginning to tell on all of us, we decided to look for a motel there. Al was a little tired of limping and I needed a new nose, so we thought we might just pick up a miracle or two while we were there. We did find a motel, but Al is still limping and my nose is just as bad as it ever was.
The next morning we went back to Quebec City for some more cloverleafing and to visit the old city again. This time we hired one of those horse and carriage tours that take you around the city with a guide who describes what is seen. Our guide spoke very good English and told us a great many things about Quebec City that I have forgotten. After all, it was 2 weeks ago. While he was describing the battle at The Plains Of Abraham, he did say something that stuck with me. He said that both General Wolfe and General Montcalm were among the first soldiers killed in the battle and he made the observation that they put the generals right up front in those days. It occurred to me that if they put the guys who start the wars right up front these days, there would be a lot fewer wars. Anyway, it was a very interesting tour and I’ll have to keep telling myself that because I don’t remember much about it except the city is really old and the horse had gas.
We had planned to take the bridge across the St. Lawrence, then travel up the south shore to Riviere-du-Loup, but during the tour, our guide told us about a road along the north shore to Ste-Simeon that would take us through some very scenic countryside. That route required us to take a ferry from Ste-Simeon to Riviere-du-Loup, but being adventurous old folks, already experienced in the difficult sport of cloverleafing, ferries hardly presented any challenge at all. The guide was correct of course, it’s a guide’s job to be right about such things, and it proved to be one of the more picturesque roads of the whole trip. On the way, we had to pass through Ste-Anne-de-Beaupre again, so we stopped there to take some photos of the miracle Cathedral thinking that might stimulate our much-needed miracle, but no luck.
The next point of interest was Montmorency Falls, not nearly as large as Niagara, but higher. The surrounding park is nicely kept; in fact while we were there, a whole busload of students arrived to pick up all the garbage that the tourists leave behind. A cable car runs from the viewing area to a large restaurant at the top of the falls. It didn’t seem to be running the day we were there, but it looks as though it would be a spectacular ride. Spectacular for everyone except me, for me it would be just plain terrifying.
Al and Norma conducted bus tours before they got too old. Al drove the bus, but I’m not sure what Norma did. I think she was the one who had to say things like, “Aw geez, lady, suck it up,” or “This is your motel for the night, if you don’t like it, tough.” I think she was supposed to say, “All aboard!” sometimes too, but Al told me most of time she just said, “Hey! You guys get back on the damn bus!” One of the places they took their passengers was a place called Marie’s. Marie’s is a small restaurant located on a very scenic road that makes a loop off the main highway. The road is very narrow and there are several villages located along it. The homes in the villages are built right out to the edge of the road with no sidewalks. Many of them have porches on their fronts with roofs that extend right over the edge of the road. Al told me that buses passing through had clipped porch roofs more than once. We would have liked to get some photos of the villages, but parking is a major problem there. Parking on residential porches is not allowed anywhere in Quebec. I think the road is the big attraction, but Marie’s is the only stop on the it, so it’s pretty famous as a tour bus destination and all the bus drivers who stop there have their picture taken for Marie’s collection. And a large collection it is. I don’t know how many pictures there are, but there must be five or six hundred at least. Before we left, we had to sample some of Marie’s fresh bread, which is baked in outdoor wood fired ovens. She spreads the bread with maple butter, which is very tasty, but I would have preferred some real butter on the bread before applying the maple butter, but one mustn’t complain.
Highway 138 to Ste. Simeon is a very scenic route, passing through small picturesque towns and villages along the way and we enjoyed it very much. Quebec is a very beautiful province. I have always wondered why we don’t see more Quebec license plates in Ontario, but I don’t think Ontario has anything to offer them that they don’t have at home. Then there is the language problem. It is one of the few things that made traveling in Quebec difficult for us. Although, I have to say that the people there treated us very well and the waitresses in the restaurants were great. As soon as they heard us say hello, they brought us English menus and did their best to speak to us in English. Only once were we unable to get an English menu, or meet a waitress who couldn’t speak English. They both happened in Ste-Simeon. We thought at first that the waitress was a little unfriendly, but it soon became clear that she was having just as much trouble as we were. With my vast knowledge of the French language I was able to determine that fromage meant cheese, (this I know because it’s written on every package of cheese I buy at The Real Canadian Super Store). Grill means pretty much the same in both languages so it wasn’t too hard to figure out how to order a grilled cheese sandwich. The fact that it turned out to be a toasted cheese sandwich is neither here, nor there. Don't get me wrong, I don’t mean to criticize the French cooking. Those guys can really cook! We had some of the best meals of the whole trip in Quebec. I had French Toast twice while we were there and it was terrific. But you would expect that, wouldn’t you? Just like you would expect to get a terrific Western sandwich in the west, but I had the best Western sandwich of my entire life in Quebec on our way home. The waitress didn’t speak English very well, but she tried very hard. I told her in my broken English that it was an excellent sandwich, and she said thanks in her broken English and I just hope she let the chef know in some language how much I enjoyed it. There was one waitress in Drummondville that I wanted to bring home. Joan said I could if I wanted to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair, so I decided it wasn’t worth it. It was pretty close though. She’s probably still in Drummondville, I suppose, unless some other guy with a more understanding wife has come along and taken her home with him.
Meanwhile, back in Ste-Simeon we arrived too late to catch the ferry. We all felt that the next ferry, which wasn’t until about 10:45 pm, would make it too late to get a motel in Riviere-Du-Loup, so we decided to spend the night in Ste-Simeon. The motel we had in Ste-Simeon was probably the nicest location of any we stayed in. It was situated against a hill that rose up from the river and the buildings were tiered at different levels on the hill. Our building was located at the second level and our room overlooked the river, providing a view of Ile Aux Lievres, which is an island located in the center of the St. Lawrence River. We also had a good view of the ferry dock and we were able to watch the late ferry from Riviere-Du-Loup as it docked. It arrived after dark, so it looked very impressive with all it’s lights on.
The ferry ride the next morning was only about 75 minutes long, the weather was good and the passage was smooth. We had to be at the ferry dock quite early, so we were unable to have breakfast. Fortunately, the ferry company anticipated this and provided a very good breakfast. Al, Norma and Joan all had bacon and eggs, which they said were excellent. I myself abstained. If I’m going to upchuck on a ferry, I would like it to be as low keyed as possible.
Once we disembarked at Riviere-Du-Loup, it didn’t take very long before we were in New Brunswick. The first city of any size that we came to was Edmunston, which is the Capital City of The Legendary Republic of Madawaska. This is a fascinating story and a full explanation of it can be found at http://www.lizbekistan.com/news/madawask.htm. I can’t think of very much to tell you about New Brunswick, but you need to understand that the route we followed as we passed through it only covers a very small section of the province. Our route only took us through the most westerly portion, in fact, as we passed through The Legendary Republic of Madawaska, the State of Maine was on the west side of the river and New Brunswick was on the east. If the rest of the province is as nice as the part we saw, it is definitely a beautiful place. However, I do believe that at least fifty percent of all the trees in Canada must grow there. The highway follows the River St. John, actually crossing the river in at least two places that I remember. One of the crossings is at Hartland were the longest covered bridge in the world is located.
But before we arrived at Hartland, just a little south of St. Leonard we stopped at a community named Grand Falls. I suppose the community was named after the waterfall that is located there. The falls is not as grand as some, but it still has sufficient flow to generate electrical power. The brochures in the information building indicated that the waterfall almost doubled in width during the spring run-off.
It seems that most of the farms in the province are situated along the banks of the river. They presented quite a peaceful, pastoral scene as we passed them. Once away from the riverbank, however, the scene changes to one of heavily wooded terrain much like Northern Ontario. Judging from all the “watch for moose” signs we saw, although we didn’t actually see anything other than road kills, we had to conclude that a great variety of wildlife could be happy there, if they only stayed off the roads.
Hopewell Cape provided another interesting stop for us. The Rocks Provincial Park is located there, and clearly demonstrates how high the Bay of Fundy tides rise. The rocks are located just a short distance from the shore and when the tide is in, not much of the rocks protrude above the water. When the tide is out, the ocean recedes completely leaving the rocks free standing, rooted to the ocean floor. It’s quite a sight to see from above and even more impressive from below. There is a foot trail that leads to a set of stairs that in turn provides access to the bottom. The stairs appear to be about equal to a three-storey walk up, perhaps a little less. The park provides a shuttle bus that takes all the old folks down to the head of the stars. Actually, it will take anyone with $1.25 to buy a ticket. Once you reach the head of the stairs you are on your own. Unfortunately, that was as far as Al was able to go, but Norma, Joan and I went down the stairs to look at the rocks from below. When we left, Al was talking to the Park Warden, when we returned he was still entertaining her. The man is a chick magnet, no doubt about it. We were there about noon, which is the perfect time to go down to the bottom. Once you are there, you can walk a long way along the beach. This allows people to wander quite a distance from the stairs and if you linger out there too long and the tide starts to rise, swimming is your only option. Because of this, the park staff patrols the beach a little before the tide rising time to herd all the people who can’t read signs, or don’t have watches, back to the stairs. This whole thing is a little difficult to describe, but I hope the snapshots will help.
Our next destination was the Confederation Bridge to Prince Edward Island. The New Brunswick end is located not very far from Moncton. The weather was fine, so we had no trouble crossing the bridge. When we arrived on the PEI side, our first stop was the information center located just a short distance from the bridge. After getting what information we needed, we tried to drive through the tollgate that we could see, but proved to be impossible to get to. As we soon discovered, there is no toll to get onto the island, but you can’t get off, either by the bridge, or the ferry, without paying the toll. We hadn’t intended to spend too much time on the island this trip, so we just followed the Trans Canada Highway to the ferry landing at Woods Island. We made a few side trips down some secondary side roads that took us through some quaint seaside villages and a great many potato fields.
We arrived at the Woods Island Ferry just in time to be the second last auto loaded. This was a longer crossing than our first ferry ride, and a little rougher. Once again we were riding a ferry at mealtime and while the others had their lunch, I just concentrated on holding on to my breakfast. We disembarked at Pictou NS and followed highways 104 and 4 to Port Hastings on Cape Breton Island. On the way, we passed through New Glasgow, Antigonish and some other smaller towns. We found a nice motel in Port Hastings and the next morning we were able to get a reasonably early start on our Cabot Trail excursion.
Instead of going up to Baddeck to enter the trail, which seems to be the usual way, we took highway 19 that runs up the west side of Cape Breton along the coast. After we had driven a few miles it was obvious we had made the correct choice. The highway overlooks the ocean almost all of the time and runs through some very interesting small villages. Norma and Al’s daughter, Colleen, had asked them to bring home some real ocean rocks for her collection and at our first stop on the trail, a picnic area located on a beach about half a mile long, we found the perfect ocean stones, flattish in shape, but nicely rounded and smooth. I can only imagine how many centuries it took to grind them into that shape. We found a little gift shop on the way where I found a good selection of east coast music CD’s. Naturally, I had to buy a couple. After you enter Cape Breton Highlands National Park, there is nothing to stop for except scenery and there is sure plenty of that. It is arguably one of the more spectacular drives in the eastern part of Canada and the park provides 25 or so scenic turnouts for viewing and photography. It was quite late when we finished our Cabot Trail tour and I’m not sure where we stayed that night, but I think it was Baddeck.
The next day, we drove along the south coast of Nova Scotia for some distance then across country to connect with highway 102 near Truro. It was a straight run from there to Halifax, but we were quite late arriving there nevertheless. We took a motel there for two nights in order to give us a full day to look around Halifax. Most of our day in Halifax was spent on the waterfront. The part we visited is a long boardwalk that extends for a considerable distance along the wharf. It is rather like an open-air museum and there are many older ships moored there as well as some newer vessels and nautical memorabilia in general. There is also a ferry terminal there, and outside the terminal entrance, we found a young fellow sitting with a sign that said he was broke and trying to get back home to Newfoundland. I don’t know if there is a ferry from Halifax to Newfoundland, but I would guess there is. He looked quite forlorn sitting there with tears in his eyes, so Joan and I gave him ten bucks. He may have been a professional panhandler for all we know, but we like to think we helped a poor Newfoundland kid get home. We had lunch at a seafood restaurant recommended to us by Al and Norma’s son-in-law Mike. It was a pretty fancy place, but we just had fish and chips of all things.
Peggy’s Cove was our destination for the next day. Joan and I had been there in 1996 and Al and Norma had been there many times with their tour buses, so there was nothing there that we hadn’t seen before. It was still a very pretty place to view and to photograph. Al and I had plenty of time to view and photograph it while Norma and Joan spent 2 hours in the gift shop.
After Peggy’s Cove, it was along the coast to Lunenburg passing through more small, quaint fishing villages. If you are looking for small, quaint fishing villages, Nova Scotia is the place to go. Lunenburg is an interesting place. It’s not that small, but it sure is quaint. Many of the buildings are very old, but well maintained. It too is built on the side of a hill that leads down to the waterfront. It seemed to have about four main streets, all at different levels on the hill and all running one way in opposite directions. All the shops seem to exist exclusively for the tourist trade. That is probably because the place is crawling with tourists. It was standing room only on the sidewalks and after half-an-hour of trying to find a parking place we left, disappointed that we hadn’t seen the waterfront, but content in the knowledge that we had seen Lunenburg, sort of.
By then we had our fill of small and quaint, so we drove across to Bridgewater and took highway 10 across the province to the Bay of Fundy again. On that road, we passed through more of the mostly wooded terrain that reminded us so much of Northern Ontario. We spent the rest of that day driving along the shore of the Bay of Fundy, planning to watch the tidal bore at Truro. We arrived in Truro in time to book a motel called The Tidal Bore Inn, and go out for our evening meal. We had all seen the tidal bore before and it had been quite spectacular. Joan and I saw it at Shubenacadie with Judy in 1996 and it was quite a sight. You can actually pay to ride the bore in a rubber raft as it rushes up the river. Some folks actually rode surfboards on it. Al and Norma had a similar experience on one of their bus tours, so we were really excited about the prospect of seeing it again. It wasn’t going to happen until almost 11:00 pm, well after dark, but the motel operator assured us that the viewing area was well floodlit and we would have no trouble seeing it. It was well past our bedtime when we drove to the viewing site to join a few others who were already there. After waiting for about 20 minutes, we heard what sounded like lapping waves and a little white water began to appear on the opposite bank. Suddenly, a great wave about 3 inches high came rushing up the river and it began to flow backward. That was it. That was all of it. Disappointment hardly covers the range of emotions we felt. Norma was so disgusted she threatened to sue the Tidal Bore Inn. Sleep is important for old folks and we had just given up about an hour and a half of it to watch this spectacle. Apparently, you have to know your tidal bore locations and you can’t always believe the advertising. There are tidal bores, and then there are tidal BORES.
The trip was pretty much finished by then, except for the going home part. The next morning we left for Saint John, toured around that city for a while, then it was back through New Brunswick again. Again we traveled through Fredericton, Woodstock and Edmunston, the Capital City of The Legendary Republic Of Madawaska, and on through Quebec for some more of that great French cooking. This time we traveled through the flat farming country on the south shore of the St. Lawrence to Montreal.
We arrived back in St. Thomas about 6:30pm to find that our dog, Kaos, had been sick at the Doggie Day Care Centre and had spent 3 days at the veterinary hospital. He was better by the time we picked him up. We still haven’t got the vet bill, so I’ll probably be sick when we do. Thank goodness we have insurance on the little mutt.
That is my account of our 2006 East Coast Vacation as near as I can recall. I hope everyone remembers that Don takes snapshots not photographs. Of course, as usual, any facts I can’t remember, I make up.
Once we passed Montreal, the drive to Quebec City was pleasant. The terrain along the north shore of the St. Lawrence River is different from that on the south shore. Joan and I followed the south shore on our east coast trip in 1996 and found it to be mostly flat farmland. It was very picturesque nevertheless with all the farms looking quite prosperous. The north shore, on the other hand, has much more forest and rolling hills. We arrived in Quebec City quite late in the afternoon planning to stay the night in a place called St. Foy. I’m not sure how it happened, but we seemed to go right past that place, ending up in Quebec City. Al noticed an Old Quebec City landmark on the skyline that he recognized from previous trips and we made our way to it. We drove around the old part of Quebec City for a half hour, or so, and the most interesting thing I noticed at that time were all the sidewalk cafes located there, and since it was the height of the tourist season, they were all full. I was amazed at how many people like to eat outside. It was worse than Vancouver.
It was when we tried to find a motel in Quebec City that we remembered why we had planned to stay in St. Foy. While trying to find St. Foy again we discovered that Quebec City has more clover leafs per capita than any city in North America. It’s a good thing too, because every time we made a wrong turn there was another clover leaf right there to let us make another wrong turn. We invented a whole new sport we called cloverleafing and Al got really good at it. Al told us about a little town called Ste-Anne-de-Beaupre that had a large miracle producing Cathedral and some other interesting things to look at and since the excitement of cloverleafing was beginning to tell on all of us, we decided to look for a motel there. Al was a little tired of limping and I needed a new nose, so we thought we might just pick up a miracle or two while we were there. We did find a motel, but Al is still limping and my nose is just as bad as it ever was.
The next morning we went back to Quebec City for some more cloverleafing and to visit the old city again. This time we hired one of those horse and carriage tours that take you around the city with a guide who describes what is seen. Our guide spoke very good English and told us a great many things about Quebec City that I have forgotten. After all, it was 2 weeks ago. While he was describing the battle at The Plains Of Abraham, he did say something that stuck with me. He said that both General Wolfe and General Montcalm were among the first soldiers killed in the battle and he made the observation that they put the generals right up front in those days. It occurred to me that if they put the guys who start the wars right up front these days, there would be a lot fewer wars. Anyway, it was a very interesting tour and I’ll have to keep telling myself that because I don’t remember much about it except the city is really old and the horse had gas.
We had planned to take the bridge across the St. Lawrence, then travel up the south shore to Riviere-du-Loup, but during the tour, our guide told us about a road along the north shore to Ste-Simeon that would take us through some very scenic countryside. That route required us to take a ferry from Ste-Simeon to Riviere-du-Loup, but being adventurous old folks, already experienced in the difficult sport of cloverleafing, ferries hardly presented any challenge at all. The guide was correct of course, it’s a guide’s job to be right about such things, and it proved to be one of the more picturesque roads of the whole trip. On the way, we had to pass through Ste-Anne-de-Beaupre again, so we stopped there to take some photos of the miracle Cathedral thinking that might stimulate our much-needed miracle, but no luck.
The next point of interest was Montmorency Falls, not nearly as large as Niagara, but higher. The surrounding park is nicely kept; in fact while we were there, a whole busload of students arrived to pick up all the garbage that the tourists leave behind. A cable car runs from the viewing area to a large restaurant at the top of the falls. It didn’t seem to be running the day we were there, but it looks as though it would be a spectacular ride. Spectacular for everyone except me, for me it would be just plain terrifying.
Al and Norma conducted bus tours before they got too old. Al drove the bus, but I’m not sure what Norma did. I think she was the one who had to say things like, “Aw geez, lady, suck it up,” or “This is your motel for the night, if you don’t like it, tough.” I think she was supposed to say, “All aboard!” sometimes too, but Al told me most of time she just said, “Hey! You guys get back on the damn bus!” One of the places they took their passengers was a place called Marie’s. Marie’s is a small restaurant located on a very scenic road that makes a loop off the main highway. The road is very narrow and there are several villages located along it. The homes in the villages are built right out to the edge of the road with no sidewalks. Many of them have porches on their fronts with roofs that extend right over the edge of the road. Al told me that buses passing through had clipped porch roofs more than once. We would have liked to get some photos of the villages, but parking is a major problem there. Parking on residential porches is not allowed anywhere in Quebec. I think the road is the big attraction, but Marie’s is the only stop on the it, so it’s pretty famous as a tour bus destination and all the bus drivers who stop there have their picture taken for Marie’s collection. And a large collection it is. I don’t know how many pictures there are, but there must be five or six hundred at least. Before we left, we had to sample some of Marie’s fresh bread, which is baked in outdoor wood fired ovens. She spreads the bread with maple butter, which is very tasty, but I would have preferred some real butter on the bread before applying the maple butter, but one mustn’t complain.
Highway 138 to Ste. Simeon is a very scenic route, passing through small picturesque towns and villages along the way and we enjoyed it very much. Quebec is a very beautiful province. I have always wondered why we don’t see more Quebec license plates in Ontario, but I don’t think Ontario has anything to offer them that they don’t have at home. Then there is the language problem. It is one of the few things that made traveling in Quebec difficult for us. Although, I have to say that the people there treated us very well and the waitresses in the restaurants were great. As soon as they heard us say hello, they brought us English menus and did their best to speak to us in English. Only once were we unable to get an English menu, or meet a waitress who couldn’t speak English. They both happened in Ste-Simeon. We thought at first that the waitress was a little unfriendly, but it soon became clear that she was having just as much trouble as we were. With my vast knowledge of the French language I was able to determine that fromage meant cheese, (this I know because it’s written on every package of cheese I buy at The Real Canadian Super Store). Grill means pretty much the same in both languages so it wasn’t too hard to figure out how to order a grilled cheese sandwich. The fact that it turned out to be a toasted cheese sandwich is neither here, nor there. Don't get me wrong, I don’t mean to criticize the French cooking. Those guys can really cook! We had some of the best meals of the whole trip in Quebec. I had French Toast twice while we were there and it was terrific. But you would expect that, wouldn’t you? Just like you would expect to get a terrific Western sandwich in the west, but I had the best Western sandwich of my entire life in Quebec on our way home. The waitress didn’t speak English very well, but she tried very hard. I told her in my broken English that it was an excellent sandwich, and she said thanks in her broken English and I just hope she let the chef know in some language how much I enjoyed it. There was one waitress in Drummondville that I wanted to bring home. Joan said I could if I wanted to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair, so I decided it wasn’t worth it. It was pretty close though. She’s probably still in Drummondville, I suppose, unless some other guy with a more understanding wife has come along and taken her home with him.
Meanwhile, back in Ste-Simeon we arrived too late to catch the ferry. We all felt that the next ferry, which wasn’t until about 10:45 pm, would make it too late to get a motel in Riviere-Du-Loup, so we decided to spend the night in Ste-Simeon. The motel we had in Ste-Simeon was probably the nicest location of any we stayed in. It was situated against a hill that rose up from the river and the buildings were tiered at different levels on the hill. Our building was located at the second level and our room overlooked the river, providing a view of Ile Aux Lievres, which is an island located in the center of the St. Lawrence River. We also had a good view of the ferry dock and we were able to watch the late ferry from Riviere-Du-Loup as it docked. It arrived after dark, so it looked very impressive with all it’s lights on.
The ferry ride the next morning was only about 75 minutes long, the weather was good and the passage was smooth. We had to be at the ferry dock quite early, so we were unable to have breakfast. Fortunately, the ferry company anticipated this and provided a very good breakfast. Al, Norma and Joan all had bacon and eggs, which they said were excellent. I myself abstained. If I’m going to upchuck on a ferry, I would like it to be as low keyed as possible.
Once we disembarked at Riviere-Du-Loup, it didn’t take very long before we were in New Brunswick. The first city of any size that we came to was Edmunston, which is the Capital City of The Legendary Republic of Madawaska. This is a fascinating story and a full explanation of it can be found at http://www.lizbekistan.com/news/madawask.htm. I can’t think of very much to tell you about New Brunswick, but you need to understand that the route we followed as we passed through it only covers a very small section of the province. Our route only took us through the most westerly portion, in fact, as we passed through The Legendary Republic of Madawaska, the State of Maine was on the west side of the river and New Brunswick was on the east. If the rest of the province is as nice as the part we saw, it is definitely a beautiful place. However, I do believe that at least fifty percent of all the trees in Canada must grow there. The highway follows the River St. John, actually crossing the river in at least two places that I remember. One of the crossings is at Hartland were the longest covered bridge in the world is located.
But before we arrived at Hartland, just a little south of St. Leonard we stopped at a community named Grand Falls. I suppose the community was named after the waterfall that is located there. The falls is not as grand as some, but it still has sufficient flow to generate electrical power. The brochures in the information building indicated that the waterfall almost doubled in width during the spring run-off.
It seems that most of the farms in the province are situated along the banks of the river. They presented quite a peaceful, pastoral scene as we passed them. Once away from the riverbank, however, the scene changes to one of heavily wooded terrain much like Northern Ontario. Judging from all the “watch for moose” signs we saw, although we didn’t actually see anything other than road kills, we had to conclude that a great variety of wildlife could be happy there, if they only stayed off the roads.
Hopewell Cape provided another interesting stop for us. The Rocks Provincial Park is located there, and clearly demonstrates how high the Bay of Fundy tides rise. The rocks are located just a short distance from the shore and when the tide is in, not much of the rocks protrude above the water. When the tide is out, the ocean recedes completely leaving the rocks free standing, rooted to the ocean floor. It’s quite a sight to see from above and even more impressive from below. There is a foot trail that leads to a set of stairs that in turn provides access to the bottom. The stairs appear to be about equal to a three-storey walk up, perhaps a little less. The park provides a shuttle bus that takes all the old folks down to the head of the stars. Actually, it will take anyone with $1.25 to buy a ticket. Once you reach the head of the stairs you are on your own. Unfortunately, that was as far as Al was able to go, but Norma, Joan and I went down the stairs to look at the rocks from below. When we left, Al was talking to the Park Warden, when we returned he was still entertaining her. The man is a chick magnet, no doubt about it. We were there about noon, which is the perfect time to go down to the bottom. Once you are there, you can walk a long way along the beach. This allows people to wander quite a distance from the stairs and if you linger out there too long and the tide starts to rise, swimming is your only option. Because of this, the park staff patrols the beach a little before the tide rising time to herd all the people who can’t read signs, or don’t have watches, back to the stairs. This whole thing is a little difficult to describe, but I hope the snapshots will help.
Our next destination was the Confederation Bridge to Prince Edward Island. The New Brunswick end is located not very far from Moncton. The weather was fine, so we had no trouble crossing the bridge. When we arrived on the PEI side, our first stop was the information center located just a short distance from the bridge. After getting what information we needed, we tried to drive through the tollgate that we could see, but proved to be impossible to get to. As we soon discovered, there is no toll to get onto the island, but you can’t get off, either by the bridge, or the ferry, without paying the toll. We hadn’t intended to spend too much time on the island this trip, so we just followed the Trans Canada Highway to the ferry landing at Woods Island. We made a few side trips down some secondary side roads that took us through some quaint seaside villages and a great many potato fields.
We arrived at the Woods Island Ferry just in time to be the second last auto loaded. This was a longer crossing than our first ferry ride, and a little rougher. Once again we were riding a ferry at mealtime and while the others had their lunch, I just concentrated on holding on to my breakfast. We disembarked at Pictou NS and followed highways 104 and 4 to Port Hastings on Cape Breton Island. On the way, we passed through New Glasgow, Antigonish and some other smaller towns. We found a nice motel in Port Hastings and the next morning we were able to get a reasonably early start on our Cabot Trail excursion.
Instead of going up to Baddeck to enter the trail, which seems to be the usual way, we took highway 19 that runs up the west side of Cape Breton along the coast. After we had driven a few miles it was obvious we had made the correct choice. The highway overlooks the ocean almost all of the time and runs through some very interesting small villages. Norma and Al’s daughter, Colleen, had asked them to bring home some real ocean rocks for her collection and at our first stop on the trail, a picnic area located on a beach about half a mile long, we found the perfect ocean stones, flattish in shape, but nicely rounded and smooth. I can only imagine how many centuries it took to grind them into that shape. We found a little gift shop on the way where I found a good selection of east coast music CD’s. Naturally, I had to buy a couple. After you enter Cape Breton Highlands National Park, there is nothing to stop for except scenery and there is sure plenty of that. It is arguably one of the more spectacular drives in the eastern part of Canada and the park provides 25 or so scenic turnouts for viewing and photography. It was quite late when we finished our Cabot Trail tour and I’m not sure where we stayed that night, but I think it was Baddeck.
The next day, we drove along the south coast of Nova Scotia for some distance then across country to connect with highway 102 near Truro. It was a straight run from there to Halifax, but we were quite late arriving there nevertheless. We took a motel there for two nights in order to give us a full day to look around Halifax. Most of our day in Halifax was spent on the waterfront. The part we visited is a long boardwalk that extends for a considerable distance along the wharf. It is rather like an open-air museum and there are many older ships moored there as well as some newer vessels and nautical memorabilia in general. There is also a ferry terminal there, and outside the terminal entrance, we found a young fellow sitting with a sign that said he was broke and trying to get back home to Newfoundland. I don’t know if there is a ferry from Halifax to Newfoundland, but I would guess there is. He looked quite forlorn sitting there with tears in his eyes, so Joan and I gave him ten bucks. He may have been a professional panhandler for all we know, but we like to think we helped a poor Newfoundland kid get home. We had lunch at a seafood restaurant recommended to us by Al and Norma’s son-in-law Mike. It was a pretty fancy place, but we just had fish and chips of all things.
Peggy’s Cove was our destination for the next day. Joan and I had been there in 1996 and Al and Norma had been there many times with their tour buses, so there was nothing there that we hadn’t seen before. It was still a very pretty place to view and to photograph. Al and I had plenty of time to view and photograph it while Norma and Joan spent 2 hours in the gift shop.
After Peggy’s Cove, it was along the coast to Lunenburg passing through more small, quaint fishing villages. If you are looking for small, quaint fishing villages, Nova Scotia is the place to go. Lunenburg is an interesting place. It’s not that small, but it sure is quaint. Many of the buildings are very old, but well maintained. It too is built on the side of a hill that leads down to the waterfront. It seemed to have about four main streets, all at different levels on the hill and all running one way in opposite directions. All the shops seem to exist exclusively for the tourist trade. That is probably because the place is crawling with tourists. It was standing room only on the sidewalks and after half-an-hour of trying to find a parking place we left, disappointed that we hadn’t seen the waterfront, but content in the knowledge that we had seen Lunenburg, sort of.
By then we had our fill of small and quaint, so we drove across to Bridgewater and took highway 10 across the province to the Bay of Fundy again. On that road, we passed through more of the mostly wooded terrain that reminded us so much of Northern Ontario. We spent the rest of that day driving along the shore of the Bay of Fundy, planning to watch the tidal bore at Truro. We arrived in Truro in time to book a motel called The Tidal Bore Inn, and go out for our evening meal. We had all seen the tidal bore before and it had been quite spectacular. Joan and I saw it at Shubenacadie with Judy in 1996 and it was quite a sight. You can actually pay to ride the bore in a rubber raft as it rushes up the river. Some folks actually rode surfboards on it. Al and Norma had a similar experience on one of their bus tours, so we were really excited about the prospect of seeing it again. It wasn’t going to happen until almost 11:00 pm, well after dark, but the motel operator assured us that the viewing area was well floodlit and we would have no trouble seeing it. It was well past our bedtime when we drove to the viewing site to join a few others who were already there. After waiting for about 20 minutes, we heard what sounded like lapping waves and a little white water began to appear on the opposite bank. Suddenly, a great wave about 3 inches high came rushing up the river and it began to flow backward. That was it. That was all of it. Disappointment hardly covers the range of emotions we felt. Norma was so disgusted she threatened to sue the Tidal Bore Inn. Sleep is important for old folks and we had just given up about an hour and a half of it to watch this spectacle. Apparently, you have to know your tidal bore locations and you can’t always believe the advertising. There are tidal bores, and then there are tidal BORES.
The trip was pretty much finished by then, except for the going home part. The next morning we left for Saint John, toured around that city for a while, then it was back through New Brunswick again. Again we traveled through Fredericton, Woodstock and Edmunston, the Capital City of The Legendary Republic Of Madawaska, and on through Quebec for some more of that great French cooking. This time we traveled through the flat farming country on the south shore of the St. Lawrence to Montreal.
We arrived back in St. Thomas about 6:30pm to find that our dog, Kaos, had been sick at the Doggie Day Care Centre and had spent 3 days at the veterinary hospital. He was better by the time we picked him up. We still haven’t got the vet bill, so I’ll probably be sick when we do. Thank goodness we have insurance on the little mutt.
That is my account of our 2006 East Coast Vacation as near as I can recall. I hope everyone remembers that Don takes snapshots not photographs. Of course, as usual, any facts I can’t remember, I make up.
posted by Don Edmiston at 3:29 PM
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
THE STORM- A short story by Courtney Edmiston, grade 5, 10 years old.
There was a boy named Tommy who wasn’t afraid of anything. Except storms; he was terrified of storms. Tommy, and his mom and dad were watching the weather. “There will be rain and thunder storms for the next 14 days.” Said the weatherman.
“Oh no!” Said Tommy.
“Don’t worry Tommy, mom and I are here.” Said Tommy’s dad. Tommy’s dad’s name was Harold.
“OK, if you say so.” Sighed Tommy.
About 3 hours later it started to rain. Tommy ran to the window.
“Here it comes.” He said to himself as he watched the rain come down. Tommy’s mother, whose name was Carolyn, said. “Come away from the window, Tommy, we can play a game.”
Tommy went and sat down on the couch beside his dad. “What are we going to play?” Tommy asked his mom. Harold perked up and said. “Let’s play I spy!” He looked like he would jump as he said it.
So the family played I spy for a little while, then the phone rang. Carolyn answered it. “Hello,” she said into the phone.
“Hello,” said the person on the other end of the phone. “Would you and your family like to come over for dinner?”
“Sure,” said Carolyn, “I’ll talk to Harold and call you back, OK?”
“OK, buh bye.” Answered the other end.
Carolyn walked into the living room and said to the boys sitting on the couch. “That was Angela, she wanted to know if we would like to come over for dinner. I’m sure we would be able to spend the night if we had too much to drink and can’t drive, or if it were too late to drive home and it wouldn’t be safe."
“OK! Said Tommy Excitedly. “I love Aunt Ang’s cooking!”
“Ya, that would be great!” Agreed Harold.
“OK.” Said Carolyn as she returned to the kitchen to call Angela back.
When she returned from the kitchen she told the boys that they would be leaving at 4:00pm. The two boys went upstairs to get ready to go. Harold had a shower and then Tommy had a bath. Tommy was eight years old and he had older cousins named Cory and Chris. Tommy was thinking about them as he and his dad got dressed. Cory was seventeen and Chris was fourteen and they liked to tease him about being afraid of storms, but he still liked them. Harold and Tommy dressed in a suit and tie, but they took clothes they could change into and they also had some pajamas just in case they needed to stay overnight. They went downstairs to watch TV, but Carolyn sent them back upstairs to clean up the mess they made in the bathroom instead.
About 20 minutes after they left home, they had to stop and get gas. They tried to be quick about it, so the guy at the gas station wouldn’t get soaked from the rain, but as it turned out, he already was. After that, they were on their way. About 30 minutes away from Angela’s house the car just stopped. Harold tried to start it again, but it just wouldn’t start. It was a good thing they had their umbrellas, because they had to walk. They walked for about 10 minutes then Tommy Started to cry. They all stopped walking.
“Why are you crying, sweetie?” asked Carolyn. Tommy made a little whine, then took a deep breath and said. “I saw lightning come down over there.” As he pointed to where he had seen the lightning. Just then there was a crash of thunder. Tommy screamed in fear.
“It’s OK.” Harold said, trying to calm Tommy down. As they stood up, Tommy hugged his dad. Then they started walking again. Lightning flashed. Tommy flinched. Thunder boomed. Tommy stopped dead in his tracks.
“It’s OK”. Said Harold. “The more we stop the longer it will take to reach Aunt Ang’s house.”
Tommy darted forward and kept running until he reached the stop sign at the end of the road. His parents caught up to him and they turned the corner. Up the road was Angela’s driveway.
“We’re almost there!” Said Carolyn, excited, but out of breath. Lightning flashed with a crack of thunder. There were forks and flashes of lightning, thunder booming and crashing, trees were falling, rain was pouring and dumping down on them, wind was wailing, it was a storm for sure. Tommy was crying and screaming. He was so scared he couldn’t hold it any longer. The whole family ran up the driveway as fast as they could run until they got to the house. Angela rushed them inside and gave them some towels to dry off with. Tommy was still crying, but he was settling down. After he was dry, Chris took Tommy up to his room to watch a movie and play some video games.
After they had dinner, they decided to stay at Angela’s house until it stopped raining. It was like a little vacation, but it was really an adventure.
“Oh no!” Said Tommy.
“Don’t worry Tommy, mom and I are here.” Said Tommy’s dad. Tommy’s dad’s name was Harold.
“OK, if you say so.” Sighed Tommy.
About 3 hours later it started to rain. Tommy ran to the window.
“Here it comes.” He said to himself as he watched the rain come down. Tommy’s mother, whose name was Carolyn, said. “Come away from the window, Tommy, we can play a game.”
Tommy went and sat down on the couch beside his dad. “What are we going to play?” Tommy asked his mom. Harold perked up and said. “Let’s play I spy!” He looked like he would jump as he said it.
So the family played I spy for a little while, then the phone rang. Carolyn answered it. “Hello,” she said into the phone.
“Hello,” said the person on the other end of the phone. “Would you and your family like to come over for dinner?”
“Sure,” said Carolyn, “I’ll talk to Harold and call you back, OK?”
“OK, buh bye.” Answered the other end.
Carolyn walked into the living room and said to the boys sitting on the couch. “That was Angela, she wanted to know if we would like to come over for dinner. I’m sure we would be able to spend the night if we had too much to drink and can’t drive, or if it were too late to drive home and it wouldn’t be safe."
“OK! Said Tommy Excitedly. “I love Aunt Ang’s cooking!”
“Ya, that would be great!” Agreed Harold.
“OK.” Said Carolyn as she returned to the kitchen to call Angela back.
When she returned from the kitchen she told the boys that they would be leaving at 4:00pm. The two boys went upstairs to get ready to go. Harold had a shower and then Tommy had a bath. Tommy was eight years old and he had older cousins named Cory and Chris. Tommy was thinking about them as he and his dad got dressed. Cory was seventeen and Chris was fourteen and they liked to tease him about being afraid of storms, but he still liked them. Harold and Tommy dressed in a suit and tie, but they took clothes they could change into and they also had some pajamas just in case they needed to stay overnight. They went downstairs to watch TV, but Carolyn sent them back upstairs to clean up the mess they made in the bathroom instead.
About 20 minutes after they left home, they had to stop and get gas. They tried to be quick about it, so the guy at the gas station wouldn’t get soaked from the rain, but as it turned out, he already was. After that, they were on their way. About 30 minutes away from Angela’s house the car just stopped. Harold tried to start it again, but it just wouldn’t start. It was a good thing they had their umbrellas, because they had to walk. They walked for about 10 minutes then Tommy Started to cry. They all stopped walking.
“Why are you crying, sweetie?” asked Carolyn. Tommy made a little whine, then took a deep breath and said. “I saw lightning come down over there.” As he pointed to where he had seen the lightning. Just then there was a crash of thunder. Tommy screamed in fear.
“It’s OK.” Harold said, trying to calm Tommy down. As they stood up, Tommy hugged his dad. Then they started walking again. Lightning flashed. Tommy flinched. Thunder boomed. Tommy stopped dead in his tracks.
“It’s OK”. Said Harold. “The more we stop the longer it will take to reach Aunt Ang’s house.”
Tommy darted forward and kept running until he reached the stop sign at the end of the road. His parents caught up to him and they turned the corner. Up the road was Angela’s driveway.
“We’re almost there!” Said Carolyn, excited, but out of breath. Lightning flashed with a crack of thunder. There were forks and flashes of lightning, thunder booming and crashing, trees were falling, rain was pouring and dumping down on them, wind was wailing, it was a storm for sure. Tommy was crying and screaming. He was so scared he couldn’t hold it any longer. The whole family ran up the driveway as fast as they could run until they got to the house. Angela rushed them inside and gave them some towels to dry off with. Tommy was still crying, but he was settling down. After he was dry, Chris took Tommy up to his room to watch a movie and play some video games.
After they had dinner, they decided to stay at Angela’s house until it stopped raining. It was like a little vacation, but it was really an adventure.
posted by Don Edmiston at 10:33 AM
Sunday, July 23, 2006
DUFFY'S CORRESPONDENCE
Duffy’s writing career began in St. Thomas when he received a letter from the St. Thomas General Services Coordinator. There were two explanations as to why City Hall would write to a dog. The letter told him that the last national census had indicated that he didn’t have a license and it was time to pay up. None of us humans believed that, but Duffy did.
St. Thomas is a small city and dogs getting mail is big news, particularly when the dog writes back, so a reporter from the Times-Journal newspaper came to the house to interview him. He put a hat on his head and a pipe in his mouth and took his picture. Duffy was pretty patient about the whole thing, but he didn’t have much to say. The reporter also interviewed Mr. Lindsay at city hall. His explanation was that someone had taken Duffy to the free rabies clinic and had given them Duffy’s name instead of their own. Our daughter, Barbara had actually taken him to the clinic and because he was the one getting the shot, when the Vet said, “name please”, she said, “Duffy.” A natural mistake, I would have done the same thing. At any rate, the letter came addressed to Mr. Duffy at 42 East St., so Duffy felt it was only polite to respond. Duffy was like that. They published his picture, his letter, and a write-up in the newspaper and Duffy became the most famous dog in the city for a while.
Shortly after that, we moved to a farm down on the Lakeshore Road. Duffy loved it there, once he got used to it, and so did I. He must have got the writing bug pretty bad in the city, because he began writing to the editor of the Port Stanley Beacon and they became quite close friends. He introduced us and I got to know him quite well myself.
Duffy hated anything that made loud noises such as motorcycles and snowmobiles. It’s funny though; he didn’t mind lawn mowers at all. One day a snowmobile cut through our yard a little too close to the house. This insult was too much for him to bear and he ran out and grabbed the track with his teeth. When the snowmobile had finished with him he was badly injured. We used an old wooden door from the barn for a stretcher and placed him in the back of the pick-up truck and drove him to the Vet. They wired and pinned his broken jaw, set his dislocated hip and we brought him home again all bandaged up. He seemed to get better for a while, but gradually he went downhill. His jaw and hip healed, but he never recovered mentally. When his sight started to go and all he could do was lay in a corner trembling, I had no choice but to take that last sad trip to the Vet. And so it was that Duffy’s pen was silenced.
Regrettably, his habit of using the dictionary term for his female friends is sometimes disturbing to those who have become accustomed to hearing the word used in an abusive sense in regard to humans. I spoke to him about this many times, but he always insisted that referring to his friends in human terms, would be subjecting them to an indignity he would rather avoid.
So, Duffy, wherever you are, these are your letters, forever enshrined in the realms of Cyber-space for the whole world to see. Enjoy.
Mr. William Lindsay,
General Services Coordinator,
City Hall, Talbot Street,
St. Thomas, Ontario.
Dear Mr. Lindsay;
Your letter arrived the other day. I must say I was surprised and pleased. I don’t get very much mail. In fact, as near as I can recall, yours is the first letter I have ever received. I turned the dog license part of it over to the boss. Since my funds are quite limited, he usually pays for things like food, vet bill and licenses. If you would like to bring your records up to date over there, his name is Don Edmiston. He lives here at the house with us.
To be perfectly honest about it, I did see one small error on that notice. I’m a male dog, not a female. What’s more I’m still a bachelor. I thought we were going to be able to do something about that last week, but it didn’t work out. I met this nice little bitch down on the corner and boy she just knocked me right over. Everyone was against it right from the start. I’m confined to the yard as a rule, but I just had to see her. The fence isn’t very high, but being a poor jumper, I climbed it. Actually, I’m not much of a climber either, but oh! Mr. Lindsay, this bitch was something else. I rose to heights I never dreamed possible.
Well, this really turned everybody right around at our house. They just couldn’t figure out how I was getting out of that yard. They never would have guessed that a collie that was too dumb to jump would ever learn to climb. Last Saturday the boss spent most of the morning spying on me. I got away twice, but he finally caught me climbing the fence. Well sir, that did it. He fixed the fence and the romance was over. It was sad. I cried all day. Yes, Mr. Lindsay, I’m a male dog and if I could just get out of that yard for an hour, I’d prove it.
Well, I’d better not sit here telling you all my troubles. I’ll bet you have plenty of your own down there at city hall. It looks as though you have a real problem with the Federal Government. They’re always getting things mixed up. That list they gave you is a list of dogs, not dog owners. By the time they get that straightened out, it will be time for a new census. I never could figure out how they could snitch on us dogs and not say a word about all those marijuana farmers they found. Not that it matters to me. Except for medicinal purposes, I don’t use marijuana. Any dog will tell you that grass is good for a sick stomach. Now that you’ve taken to writing dogs, you’ll probably get a great deal more good advise like that. I asked the boss to include the license fee with my letter. The tightwad will likely take advantage of the two-dollar discount.
Yours truly,
Duffy.
November 28, 1977
Dear Mr. Prothero;
One of my friends in Port Stanley said that you might enjoy hearing from a dog. They tell me you’re a great defender of the canine point of view. I always feel a certain warmth for people who appreciate letters from dogs. When I lived in St. Thomas, I occasionally wrote to Bill Lindsay at the city hall, but I haven’t heard from him in some time. He’s probably miffed because I left town without telling him. I suppose it was unkind of me after all the interest he showed in me while I was there. There wasn’t time to say goodbye to half my friends. The old man simply marched into the house one night and announced that the city was no place for man, child, or beast, and moved us all to the country. It was sad.
After we got used to it, we were all glad we moved. It’s lovely in the country and I enjoy being a real watchdog. Although, since I watched half the people in St. Thomas pass through our back yard, I suppose you might say I was a watchdog there as well.
I like the work, but all that barking is not as easy as it sounds. On the other hand, the job has its lighter moments. In fact, some of them are down right funny. For instance, the night someone came to the door at three in the morning. Naturally, I barked. That’s the sort of thing any decent watchdog would do. Thinking I wanted out, the old man came trotting downstairs dressed just the way the stork dropped him. His hand was almost touching the doorknob when he heard a little knock on the other side of the door. Well, that woke him up in a hurry. Back upstairs he tore, bare feet and bare everything else just flying. Naturally, I thought it was a great deal funnier than he did. I don’t mention it anymore.
St. Thomas didn’t offer much in the way of a social life for a fenced in dog, but here in the Port Stanley-Union-Sparta area, I have made many good and fast friends. Mostly fast. The very first friend I made was the sweetest little bitch a dog could ask for who lived about a mile down the road. Beejee was her name. Ah, sweet Beejee, dear sweet Beejee. Her memory saddens me even today. I’ve never spoken to anyone about Beejee, but it may do me good to tell you about her now.
She was part Beagle, so I suppose that’s how she got her name. Since she was small in size, she probably seemed an unlikely mate for an adult collie, but I have found that size is not everything. She and I were great friends from the beginning. She was warm and tender, and every once in a while she wore a heavenly perfume that smelled like all the flowers of summer bursting at once. Sometimes she got all cuddly, and- well, frankly, one day I discovered I was no longer a bachelor. I was so proud of her when the puppies came. I’ve never seen such a perfect little mother. She spent three quarters of her time feeding those little gluttons. Even though she lost weight and nearly wore herself out, not once did she complain. “Look Duffy,” she would say. “Aren’t they sweet. See how fat they are. Don’t they look healthy?”
They certainly did, I had to agree. Fat, healthy and just like me. (Strange how thoughts of Beejee always move me to poetry like that.)
They all looked exactly like me except for two little black ones, but I forgave her that one small transgression, besides, it wasn’t her fault. Black Gilligan, from down the road, who was certainly no respecter of the married state, chased her right into her doghouse. But Black Gilligan’s pups were cute and we loved them too. As the summer wore on, I found it difficult to believe that two dogs could be so happy; then suddenly our lives changed.
It was the weekend of the annual hawk migration. Since Beejee lived right on the corner of the Hawk Cliff Road, her boss thought it would be a good time to put up a sign advertising the pups. The activities had been so well publicized in all the newspapers, people were there from miles around. Of course, the hawks failed to show up again, but that never seems to matter much. If the hawks ever get it right, if they show up just once when they’re suppose to, they’ll scare half those people to death.
Anyway, some of the people had driven long distances and not wanting to go home completely empty handed, they picked up a puppy. When the weekend was over, all of our babies save one were gone. She was a cute little bitch who looked exactly like me. They called her Buffy. I thought that was a nice touch. However, soon even she was gone. Poor Beejee was a long time getting over that. I was kept busy with all my watching, but she ran all over looking for her babies. She was never the same again.
Late that winter, I was hanging around the house, just watching, when I caught a whiff of her perfume. (My! How she poured it on sometimes!) I made a mental note to visit her that night. When I arrived, although her heavenly perfume still lingered, she was gone. I waited there for three days, neither eating nor sleeping, but she never returned. I know it’s unfair of me, but I have always suspected that the hand of man was involved in Beejee’s disappearance.
Eventually, I returned to my old habit of roaming at night. I had often noticed a truly handsome St. Bernard across the road from Beejee’s house, but being so involved with Beejee, I had never paid much attention to her. As I passed her house one night, she was outside. Since I always try to be a good neighbor, I stopped to say hello. She proved to be the unfriendliest bitch I have ever met. As a matter of fact, she told me to “hook it,” whatever that means. Every night for months I stopped to pay my regards, but the same thing always met me. It seemed to me there was something different about her- something I couldn’t quite put my toe on. Even though I’m considered a handsome dog with a decent personality, in spite of everything I tried, nothing warmed her up. I noticed that she never wore perfume the way Beejee had, and I began to suspect the hand of man in this case as well. I was never able to determine what it was, but that bitch seemed strange- somehow altered. Finally, I gave her up.
Well Listen, I’d like to tell you about Princess and a few more of my friends out here, but I have some rather pressing business, perhaps another time. Right now, I have a formal complaint to lodge about those dog traps I hear they’re using out in Southwold, my watching is piling up out in the yard, and some idiot just pulled in on a motorcycle. I hate motorcycles. The old man had one here for a while, but I think there was something wrong with it. It kept falling on top of him. He finally gave up on it and sold it. What a relief. Now one of the kids has one. It seems to stand up a little better, but it still sounds like a bulldog with a head cold. I saw the kid ripping around the yard the other day standing on the seat. He’s as stupid as his old man.
Drop me a line sometime, Mr. Prothero, I’d love to hear from you. I haven’t had a lick of mail since Bill stopped writing.
Only Me,
Duffy
Dear Mr. Prothero;
Things are a little slow around here with corn all off and the fall plowing finished. Since I have no one to bark at, I may as well catch up on my correspondence.
The last time I wrote, I think I told you about Duchess, my unfriendly St. Bernard neighbor. As it turned out, she wasn’t the only St. Bernard in the neighborhood. I found one over on the next road, named Princess. (You’ll notice how these St. Bernards tend to lean toward royalty.) Of course, Princess wasn’t her real name. She had a pedigree as long as your leg, Frank, and her real name was so ridiculous they just called her Princess.
She was friendly enough. On occasion, she even displayed those same wanton eyes that Beejee had. She wore Beejee’s perfume too. However, whenever she got those roving eyes and started splashing that perfume around, her folks locked her in a cage. My reputation as a climber must have followed me from the city, because her cage had a lid on it.
Except for her pedigree I could have been happy with Princess. She told me it was because of her pedigree that she spent so much time in her cage. I never met a dog that was prouder of its pedigree than she was. She would go on for hours about her ancestors. Black Gilligan told me they were all a bunch of drunks who never went anywhere without a jug strapped under their chins, but I don’t trust him anymore.
She once told me one of her ancestors had crossed the Alps with Hannibal. I had always heard that Hannibal crossed the Alps riding on an elephant and while I could see she had the size for it, I knew she had no trunk. Just trying to be friendly, I asked her at what stage in their evolution had her ancestors lost their trunks. She didn’t speak to me for three weeks.
When she finally got over it and started seeing me again, it didn’t take her ten minutes to get back on her pedigree. She began boasting about the long line of champions she came from. Although it crossed my mind to ask her what they had been champions at, I thought better of it, just listening politely. When she finished, I thought I should say something nice considering all the trouble I had recently got into over her ancestors, so I remarked, “My! Aren’t you an aristocratic bitch though?”
Frank, have you ever seen a St. Bernard’s teeth? Well I have. They are huge and she showed me every one she had. “Don’t you call me a bitch, you cur!” Well sir, that did it. A bitch is a bitch, and that’s what she was. It wasn’t my fault that I was a dog and she was a bitch, but a cur, that was something else. I wasn’t going to take that kind of talk from any offspring of a long line of brandy swilling hillbillies even if she did out weigh me by a hundred pounds. Right then, I didn’t care if her ancestor had ridden Hannibal across the Alps bareback with spurs on, trunk and all, I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. “Not only are you an aristocratic bitch, Princess, you’re a tattooed one as well.”
Fortunately, her cage was a stout one, but I split anyway. I never went back. Even with a pedigree as long as hers, she was still ashamed of what she really was. I don’t suppose humans ever get that way.
I heard later she had a litter of pups that looked so much like her that everyone thought they were clones. Rumor had it, they were sired by an import. I think they must have been, for Duchess is the only other St. Bernard around here, and even if she had the inclination (which I doubt), I can assure you she isn’t equipped for it. One thing I’ll say for Duchess, Frank, she may have been a snarly bitch, but she never pulled rank on me the way Princess did.
All dogs with pedigrees aren’t like Princess though. You take Jake, my best friend. He’s a blue merle collie who lives over near Sparta. Jake has a pedigree nearly as long as his nose, but you would never know it to talk to him. He’s as down to earth as any dog you could meet. The night I met Jake, I thought I had met my first genuine mad dog. He was standing in his yard looking every inch a champ. I trotted up and Said, “Hi, I’m Duffy. What’s your name.?”
“Jake,” he replied. “What’s your brothers name?”
Now, I haven’t seen any of my brothers since I was weaned. I haven’t the faintest idea where they are. I have a sister over that way, but I wasn’t in a hurry to admit that. According to the dogs over there, she’s plagued with the same ailment that Duchess suffers from. Although I didn’t think he knew where his brothers were either, I thought I had better humor him. “Which one?” I asked.
“The one standing beside you,” he replied.
I looked around to make sure I was alone, and then I spotted his eyeballs locked on his long nose. The poor dog was cross-eyed and saw two of everything. Naturally, he thought I was twins.
It was obvious as we chatted that here was a fine animal, but I could see he was almost worn out. Since he was a cow dog as well as a watchdog, he was spending half his time chasing cows that weren’t even there. I knew if he didn’t do something about it soon, he would either lose his job or collapse from over work. It occurred to me that his problem was similar to the one humans have when they try to sight down a rifle barrel with both eyes open. I suggested he try closing one eye, but try as he might, poor Jake just couldn’t close one eye without the other. Finally, between us, we discovered that by looking sideways at everything, he could see much better. So from then on, Jake cocked his head off to one side. He certainly looks funny, but he says he would rather see good than look good anyway. Jake and I have been the best of friends ever since. Why don’t you drop out and visit him sometime, Frank. You won’t have the slightest trouble finding him. He’s the only cross-eyed, cocked-headed blue merle in Elgin County.
I wanted to tell you about Blue, but the garbage men are coming down the road. If I’m not out there it will ruin their day. The garbage men and I are at war. Unfortunately, the first time I saw them picking up the garbage, I thought they were taking something the old man wanted. It was a natural mistake. After all, I saw him put it out there with my own eyes. They threw sticks and stones at me- one even kicked me. Actually, it was the worst ten minutes I’ve had since I came out here. Finally, I decided if they wanted it that badly, they could have it. I know better now, but the garbage men don’t, so the war goes on. I just stand back a little further now.
Only me,
Duffy
Dear Frank;
What a miserable day. With the wind blowing the snow around the way it is, I’ve had to keep my tail down all day. I hate winter. The old man threatens every year to move to Tahiti. I sure hope he takes me with him.
Blue certainly likes the snow though. As soon as he saw it starting to pile up, he went ripping around rolling and sticking his nose in the stuff until he was so wet and snowy they wouldn’t let him in the house. He’s not the brightest dog in the world, but he’s been a laugh a minute and I’ve really enjoyed having him around the place. He is a big black Bouvier de Flanders that the folks picked up somewhere about three years ago. I guess they thought I was lonely or something. You have probably surmised by this time that I never get lonely, but he certainly has been a great help with the watching.
I gained quite a reputation in the city as a climber because of that darn fence, but compared to Blue, I’m no climber at all. He’s what you might call a high altitude dog. If they ever call for dog volunteers for a flight to the moon, Blue will be first in line. He got started in the climbing business by following the kids around. They like to play in an old barn that has part of its tin roof rolled back by the wind, exposing the loft inside. It’s great sport for them to climb through that hole and jump off the roof into a snow bank. While watching the kids disappear up the ladder one day, he decided to climb up after them. Of course, when he reached the loft it was empty because the kids had all jumped off the roof. He could see daylight through the hole, so he decided to go out and take a look around. The next thing we knew he was right up on the peak of that barn, looking around as if he owned the whole world.
Everyone thought that was pretty funny until it became clear that Blue was not nearly as good at climbing down ladders as he was at climbing up them. Kids sometimes have a rather direct approach to solving problems and one of them got the idea that if it didn’t hurt him to jump off the roof, it shouldn’t hurt a dog either. While Blue sat there howling about his great predicament, the kid went up and shoved him into the snow bank. From then on, Blue climbed onto that roof every chance he got, sitting on the peak like a king on his throne. Sooner or later he always got tired of the game, or got hungry, then one of the kids would have to go up and kick him into the snow bank again.
Later that winter, he had a little run in with a snowmobile. The old man determined that there was nothing broken, but it was obvious that Blue would be laid up for a few days. My wise old man said, “Well, I guess that will end his climbing for a while.” Two days later he came home from work pleased to see Blue outside. Although he was still limping, at least he was up and around. After supper he came outside and was just about to get in the car when he heard Blue howling. A black dog is difficult to see in the dark and it didn’t occur to him that the dumb dog would be up on the roof, but of course, that’s where he was. Right on his favorite spot on the roof, howling like a banshee.
The old man had sense enough not to push the dog off the roof with his injured leg, even if he was calling him everything but a dog. It was obvious his only other choice was to go up and carry him down the ladder. Well, Frank, that was a sight. I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole seven years. He finally got Blue into the loft, but that was only half the battle. That loft is so full of machinery and piles of old lumber that you have to keep your eyes wide open to get through it in broad daylight. In the pitch black, with eighty pounds of squirming bouvier in his arms, it was all he could do to keep the flashlight pointed in the right direction long enough to find the ladder. I’ll never know how he got down that ladder without killing them both. It’s a good thing all the kids were in the house. I’ve never heard such language in my life. They have a picture of Blue sitting on that roof, but I’d give a whole case of milk bone for a movie of that night’s work.
After supper one night, later in the spring, Blue and I were lying around the house when we overheard the kids talking about flying saucers. At that time, everyone was seeing strange lights in the sky and all manner of funny things. Now Frank, I have been roaming around the countryside every night for years and I have yet to see a moving light that didn’t belong to a set of wheels, or a set of wings. I don’t pay much attention to that kind of talk, but Blue was still a pup and I could see he was upset. I tried to tell him not to take it too seriously, but he was still worried and I know he didn’t sleep most of that night.
A few days later we were lounging around the back yard, Blue was almost asleep, when the Port Stanley foghorn sounded. Blue had never heard it before and he was on his feet in a flash. “Listen Duf! That’s it! That’s a space ship if I’ve ever heard one!” Of course, he had never heard a space ship, or a foghorn, but he dashed across the lawn at a dead run. “Wait!” I barked. “It’s only the foghorn!” But, it was too late. He was off across the cornfield as fast as he could run. Each time the foghorn sounded he stopped, cocked his head and listened, then away he went again toward the noise. When he disappeared into the woods, I thought it would be wise to follow him in case he got himself into trouble. Since I have more sense than to run through a new field of corn, by the time I caught up with him, he was standing on the beach at Port Stanley.
“Look at that darn thing!” he snarled as I ran up. “Look at that thing flashing! It’s just the way the kids said! That’s a space ship if I’ve ever seen one! Let’s get it!”
Of course, he had never seen a space ship, or a lighthouse either for that matter, but he ran down that pier as if pursued by every demon dog in Hades. When I arrived at the end of the pier, he had already broken off two teeth chewing on the side of that lighthouse. That little episode was very embarrassing for him, but he never chased foghorns again. Whenever anyone mentions flying saucers, he just covers his ears and growls to himself.
Well, I guess I’d better get back on the job. I don’t think I’ll have much time to write for a while. Now that the snow is here, I’ll have to keep an eye on the hunters and the snowmobilers. They never hurt anything, but if I’m not out there barking and making a fuss, the folks think I’m not working.
Drop out and see me sometime, Frank, and bring Nancy with you. Just say, “Hi Duffy, I’m Frank.” I won’t bite. And don’t worry about Blue. He does everything I tell him, besides, with two of his teeth missing, he’s pretty careful.
Your old pal
Duffy
St. Thomas is a small city and dogs getting mail is big news, particularly when the dog writes back, so a reporter from the Times-Journal newspaper came to the house to interview him. He put a hat on his head and a pipe in his mouth and took his picture. Duffy was pretty patient about the whole thing, but he didn’t have much to say. The reporter also interviewed Mr. Lindsay at city hall. His explanation was that someone had taken Duffy to the free rabies clinic and had given them Duffy’s name instead of their own. Our daughter, Barbara had actually taken him to the clinic and because he was the one getting the shot, when the Vet said, “name please”, she said, “Duffy.” A natural mistake, I would have done the same thing. At any rate, the letter came addressed to Mr. Duffy at 42 East St., so Duffy felt it was only polite to respond. Duffy was like that. They published his picture, his letter, and a write-up in the newspaper and Duffy became the most famous dog in the city for a while.
Shortly after that, we moved to a farm down on the Lakeshore Road. Duffy loved it there, once he got used to it, and so did I. He must have got the writing bug pretty bad in the city, because he began writing to the editor of the Port Stanley Beacon and they became quite close friends. He introduced us and I got to know him quite well myself.
Duffy hated anything that made loud noises such as motorcycles and snowmobiles. It’s funny though; he didn’t mind lawn mowers at all. One day a snowmobile cut through our yard a little too close to the house. This insult was too much for him to bear and he ran out and grabbed the track with his teeth. When the snowmobile had finished with him he was badly injured. We used an old wooden door from the barn for a stretcher and placed him in the back of the pick-up truck and drove him to the Vet. They wired and pinned his broken jaw, set his dislocated hip and we brought him home again all bandaged up. He seemed to get better for a while, but gradually he went downhill. His jaw and hip healed, but he never recovered mentally. When his sight started to go and all he could do was lay in a corner trembling, I had no choice but to take that last sad trip to the Vet. And so it was that Duffy’s pen was silenced.
Regrettably, his habit of using the dictionary term for his female friends is sometimes disturbing to those who have become accustomed to hearing the word used in an abusive sense in regard to humans. I spoke to him about this many times, but he always insisted that referring to his friends in human terms, would be subjecting them to an indignity he would rather avoid.
So, Duffy, wherever you are, these are your letters, forever enshrined in the realms of Cyber-space for the whole world to see. Enjoy.
Mr. William Lindsay,
General Services Coordinator,
City Hall, Talbot Street,
St. Thomas, Ontario.
Dear Mr. Lindsay;
Your letter arrived the other day. I must say I was surprised and pleased. I don’t get very much mail. In fact, as near as I can recall, yours is the first letter I have ever received. I turned the dog license part of it over to the boss. Since my funds are quite limited, he usually pays for things like food, vet bill and licenses. If you would like to bring your records up to date over there, his name is Don Edmiston. He lives here at the house with us.
To be perfectly honest about it, I did see one small error on that notice. I’m a male dog, not a female. What’s more I’m still a bachelor. I thought we were going to be able to do something about that last week, but it didn’t work out. I met this nice little bitch down on the corner and boy she just knocked me right over. Everyone was against it right from the start. I’m confined to the yard as a rule, but I just had to see her. The fence isn’t very high, but being a poor jumper, I climbed it. Actually, I’m not much of a climber either, but oh! Mr. Lindsay, this bitch was something else. I rose to heights I never dreamed possible.
Well, this really turned everybody right around at our house. They just couldn’t figure out how I was getting out of that yard. They never would have guessed that a collie that was too dumb to jump would ever learn to climb. Last Saturday the boss spent most of the morning spying on me. I got away twice, but he finally caught me climbing the fence. Well sir, that did it. He fixed the fence and the romance was over. It was sad. I cried all day. Yes, Mr. Lindsay, I’m a male dog and if I could just get out of that yard for an hour, I’d prove it.
Well, I’d better not sit here telling you all my troubles. I’ll bet you have plenty of your own down there at city hall. It looks as though you have a real problem with the Federal Government. They’re always getting things mixed up. That list they gave you is a list of dogs, not dog owners. By the time they get that straightened out, it will be time for a new census. I never could figure out how they could snitch on us dogs and not say a word about all those marijuana farmers they found. Not that it matters to me. Except for medicinal purposes, I don’t use marijuana. Any dog will tell you that grass is good for a sick stomach. Now that you’ve taken to writing dogs, you’ll probably get a great deal more good advise like that. I asked the boss to include the license fee with my letter. The tightwad will likely take advantage of the two-dollar discount.
Yours truly,
Duffy.
November 28, 1977
Dear Mr. Prothero;
One of my friends in Port Stanley said that you might enjoy hearing from a dog. They tell me you’re a great defender of the canine point of view. I always feel a certain warmth for people who appreciate letters from dogs. When I lived in St. Thomas, I occasionally wrote to Bill Lindsay at the city hall, but I haven’t heard from him in some time. He’s probably miffed because I left town without telling him. I suppose it was unkind of me after all the interest he showed in me while I was there. There wasn’t time to say goodbye to half my friends. The old man simply marched into the house one night and announced that the city was no place for man, child, or beast, and moved us all to the country. It was sad.
After we got used to it, we were all glad we moved. It’s lovely in the country and I enjoy being a real watchdog. Although, since I watched half the people in St. Thomas pass through our back yard, I suppose you might say I was a watchdog there as well.
I like the work, but all that barking is not as easy as it sounds. On the other hand, the job has its lighter moments. In fact, some of them are down right funny. For instance, the night someone came to the door at three in the morning. Naturally, I barked. That’s the sort of thing any decent watchdog would do. Thinking I wanted out, the old man came trotting downstairs dressed just the way the stork dropped him. His hand was almost touching the doorknob when he heard a little knock on the other side of the door. Well, that woke him up in a hurry. Back upstairs he tore, bare feet and bare everything else just flying. Naturally, I thought it was a great deal funnier than he did. I don’t mention it anymore.
St. Thomas didn’t offer much in the way of a social life for a fenced in dog, but here in the Port Stanley-Union-Sparta area, I have made many good and fast friends. Mostly fast. The very first friend I made was the sweetest little bitch a dog could ask for who lived about a mile down the road. Beejee was her name. Ah, sweet Beejee, dear sweet Beejee. Her memory saddens me even today. I’ve never spoken to anyone about Beejee, but it may do me good to tell you about her now.
She was part Beagle, so I suppose that’s how she got her name. Since she was small in size, she probably seemed an unlikely mate for an adult collie, but I have found that size is not everything. She and I were great friends from the beginning. She was warm and tender, and every once in a while she wore a heavenly perfume that smelled like all the flowers of summer bursting at once. Sometimes she got all cuddly, and- well, frankly, one day I discovered I was no longer a bachelor. I was so proud of her when the puppies came. I’ve never seen such a perfect little mother. She spent three quarters of her time feeding those little gluttons. Even though she lost weight and nearly wore herself out, not once did she complain. “Look Duffy,” she would say. “Aren’t they sweet. See how fat they are. Don’t they look healthy?”
They certainly did, I had to agree. Fat, healthy and just like me. (Strange how thoughts of Beejee always move me to poetry like that.)
They all looked exactly like me except for two little black ones, but I forgave her that one small transgression, besides, it wasn’t her fault. Black Gilligan, from down the road, who was certainly no respecter of the married state, chased her right into her doghouse. But Black Gilligan’s pups were cute and we loved them too. As the summer wore on, I found it difficult to believe that two dogs could be so happy; then suddenly our lives changed.
It was the weekend of the annual hawk migration. Since Beejee lived right on the corner of the Hawk Cliff Road, her boss thought it would be a good time to put up a sign advertising the pups. The activities had been so well publicized in all the newspapers, people were there from miles around. Of course, the hawks failed to show up again, but that never seems to matter much. If the hawks ever get it right, if they show up just once when they’re suppose to, they’ll scare half those people to death.
Anyway, some of the people had driven long distances and not wanting to go home completely empty handed, they picked up a puppy. When the weekend was over, all of our babies save one were gone. She was a cute little bitch who looked exactly like me. They called her Buffy. I thought that was a nice touch. However, soon even she was gone. Poor Beejee was a long time getting over that. I was kept busy with all my watching, but she ran all over looking for her babies. She was never the same again.
Late that winter, I was hanging around the house, just watching, when I caught a whiff of her perfume. (My! How she poured it on sometimes!) I made a mental note to visit her that night. When I arrived, although her heavenly perfume still lingered, she was gone. I waited there for three days, neither eating nor sleeping, but she never returned. I know it’s unfair of me, but I have always suspected that the hand of man was involved in Beejee’s disappearance.
Eventually, I returned to my old habit of roaming at night. I had often noticed a truly handsome St. Bernard across the road from Beejee’s house, but being so involved with Beejee, I had never paid much attention to her. As I passed her house one night, she was outside. Since I always try to be a good neighbor, I stopped to say hello. She proved to be the unfriendliest bitch I have ever met. As a matter of fact, she told me to “hook it,” whatever that means. Every night for months I stopped to pay my regards, but the same thing always met me. It seemed to me there was something different about her- something I couldn’t quite put my toe on. Even though I’m considered a handsome dog with a decent personality, in spite of everything I tried, nothing warmed her up. I noticed that she never wore perfume the way Beejee had, and I began to suspect the hand of man in this case as well. I was never able to determine what it was, but that bitch seemed strange- somehow altered. Finally, I gave her up.
Well Listen, I’d like to tell you about Princess and a few more of my friends out here, but I have some rather pressing business, perhaps another time. Right now, I have a formal complaint to lodge about those dog traps I hear they’re using out in Southwold, my watching is piling up out in the yard, and some idiot just pulled in on a motorcycle. I hate motorcycles. The old man had one here for a while, but I think there was something wrong with it. It kept falling on top of him. He finally gave up on it and sold it. What a relief. Now one of the kids has one. It seems to stand up a little better, but it still sounds like a bulldog with a head cold. I saw the kid ripping around the yard the other day standing on the seat. He’s as stupid as his old man.
Drop me a line sometime, Mr. Prothero, I’d love to hear from you. I haven’t had a lick of mail since Bill stopped writing.
Only Me,
Duffy
Dear Mr. Prothero;
Things are a little slow around here with corn all off and the fall plowing finished. Since I have no one to bark at, I may as well catch up on my correspondence.
The last time I wrote, I think I told you about Duchess, my unfriendly St. Bernard neighbor. As it turned out, she wasn’t the only St. Bernard in the neighborhood. I found one over on the next road, named Princess. (You’ll notice how these St. Bernards tend to lean toward royalty.) Of course, Princess wasn’t her real name. She had a pedigree as long as your leg, Frank, and her real name was so ridiculous they just called her Princess.
She was friendly enough. On occasion, she even displayed those same wanton eyes that Beejee had. She wore Beejee’s perfume too. However, whenever she got those roving eyes and started splashing that perfume around, her folks locked her in a cage. My reputation as a climber must have followed me from the city, because her cage had a lid on it.
Except for her pedigree I could have been happy with Princess. She told me it was because of her pedigree that she spent so much time in her cage. I never met a dog that was prouder of its pedigree than she was. She would go on for hours about her ancestors. Black Gilligan told me they were all a bunch of drunks who never went anywhere without a jug strapped under their chins, but I don’t trust him anymore.
She once told me one of her ancestors had crossed the Alps with Hannibal. I had always heard that Hannibal crossed the Alps riding on an elephant and while I could see she had the size for it, I knew she had no trunk. Just trying to be friendly, I asked her at what stage in their evolution had her ancestors lost their trunks. She didn’t speak to me for three weeks.
When she finally got over it and started seeing me again, it didn’t take her ten minutes to get back on her pedigree. She began boasting about the long line of champions she came from. Although it crossed my mind to ask her what they had been champions at, I thought better of it, just listening politely. When she finished, I thought I should say something nice considering all the trouble I had recently got into over her ancestors, so I remarked, “My! Aren’t you an aristocratic bitch though?”
Frank, have you ever seen a St. Bernard’s teeth? Well I have. They are huge and she showed me every one she had. “Don’t you call me a bitch, you cur!” Well sir, that did it. A bitch is a bitch, and that’s what she was. It wasn’t my fault that I was a dog and she was a bitch, but a cur, that was something else. I wasn’t going to take that kind of talk from any offspring of a long line of brandy swilling hillbillies even if she did out weigh me by a hundred pounds. Right then, I didn’t care if her ancestor had ridden Hannibal across the Alps bareback with spurs on, trunk and all, I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. “Not only are you an aristocratic bitch, Princess, you’re a tattooed one as well.”
Fortunately, her cage was a stout one, but I split anyway. I never went back. Even with a pedigree as long as hers, she was still ashamed of what she really was. I don’t suppose humans ever get that way.
I heard later she had a litter of pups that looked so much like her that everyone thought they were clones. Rumor had it, they were sired by an import. I think they must have been, for Duchess is the only other St. Bernard around here, and even if she had the inclination (which I doubt), I can assure you she isn’t equipped for it. One thing I’ll say for Duchess, Frank, she may have been a snarly bitch, but she never pulled rank on me the way Princess did.
All dogs with pedigrees aren’t like Princess though. You take Jake, my best friend. He’s a blue merle collie who lives over near Sparta. Jake has a pedigree nearly as long as his nose, but you would never know it to talk to him. He’s as down to earth as any dog you could meet. The night I met Jake, I thought I had met my first genuine mad dog. He was standing in his yard looking every inch a champ. I trotted up and Said, “Hi, I’m Duffy. What’s your name.?”
“Jake,” he replied. “What’s your brothers name?”
Now, I haven’t seen any of my brothers since I was weaned. I haven’t the faintest idea where they are. I have a sister over that way, but I wasn’t in a hurry to admit that. According to the dogs over there, she’s plagued with the same ailment that Duchess suffers from. Although I didn’t think he knew where his brothers were either, I thought I had better humor him. “Which one?” I asked.
“The one standing beside you,” he replied.
I looked around to make sure I was alone, and then I spotted his eyeballs locked on his long nose. The poor dog was cross-eyed and saw two of everything. Naturally, he thought I was twins.
It was obvious as we chatted that here was a fine animal, but I could see he was almost worn out. Since he was a cow dog as well as a watchdog, he was spending half his time chasing cows that weren’t even there. I knew if he didn’t do something about it soon, he would either lose his job or collapse from over work. It occurred to me that his problem was similar to the one humans have when they try to sight down a rifle barrel with both eyes open. I suggested he try closing one eye, but try as he might, poor Jake just couldn’t close one eye without the other. Finally, between us, we discovered that by looking sideways at everything, he could see much better. So from then on, Jake cocked his head off to one side. He certainly looks funny, but he says he would rather see good than look good anyway. Jake and I have been the best of friends ever since. Why don’t you drop out and visit him sometime, Frank. You won’t have the slightest trouble finding him. He’s the only cross-eyed, cocked-headed blue merle in Elgin County.
I wanted to tell you about Blue, but the garbage men are coming down the road. If I’m not out there it will ruin their day. The garbage men and I are at war. Unfortunately, the first time I saw them picking up the garbage, I thought they were taking something the old man wanted. It was a natural mistake. After all, I saw him put it out there with my own eyes. They threw sticks and stones at me- one even kicked me. Actually, it was the worst ten minutes I’ve had since I came out here. Finally, I decided if they wanted it that badly, they could have it. I know better now, but the garbage men don’t, so the war goes on. I just stand back a little further now.
Only me,
Duffy
Dear Frank;
What a miserable day. With the wind blowing the snow around the way it is, I’ve had to keep my tail down all day. I hate winter. The old man threatens every year to move to Tahiti. I sure hope he takes me with him.
Blue certainly likes the snow though. As soon as he saw it starting to pile up, he went ripping around rolling and sticking his nose in the stuff until he was so wet and snowy they wouldn’t let him in the house. He’s not the brightest dog in the world, but he’s been a laugh a minute and I’ve really enjoyed having him around the place. He is a big black Bouvier de Flanders that the folks picked up somewhere about three years ago. I guess they thought I was lonely or something. You have probably surmised by this time that I never get lonely, but he certainly has been a great help with the watching.
I gained quite a reputation in the city as a climber because of that darn fence, but compared to Blue, I’m no climber at all. He’s what you might call a high altitude dog. If they ever call for dog volunteers for a flight to the moon, Blue will be first in line. He got started in the climbing business by following the kids around. They like to play in an old barn that has part of its tin roof rolled back by the wind, exposing the loft inside. It’s great sport for them to climb through that hole and jump off the roof into a snow bank. While watching the kids disappear up the ladder one day, he decided to climb up after them. Of course, when he reached the loft it was empty because the kids had all jumped off the roof. He could see daylight through the hole, so he decided to go out and take a look around. The next thing we knew he was right up on the peak of that barn, looking around as if he owned the whole world.
Everyone thought that was pretty funny until it became clear that Blue was not nearly as good at climbing down ladders as he was at climbing up them. Kids sometimes have a rather direct approach to solving problems and one of them got the idea that if it didn’t hurt him to jump off the roof, it shouldn’t hurt a dog either. While Blue sat there howling about his great predicament, the kid went up and shoved him into the snow bank. From then on, Blue climbed onto that roof every chance he got, sitting on the peak like a king on his throne. Sooner or later he always got tired of the game, or got hungry, then one of the kids would have to go up and kick him into the snow bank again.
Later that winter, he had a little run in with a snowmobile. The old man determined that there was nothing broken, but it was obvious that Blue would be laid up for a few days. My wise old man said, “Well, I guess that will end his climbing for a while.” Two days later he came home from work pleased to see Blue outside. Although he was still limping, at least he was up and around. After supper he came outside and was just about to get in the car when he heard Blue howling. A black dog is difficult to see in the dark and it didn’t occur to him that the dumb dog would be up on the roof, but of course, that’s where he was. Right on his favorite spot on the roof, howling like a banshee.
The old man had sense enough not to push the dog off the roof with his injured leg, even if he was calling him everything but a dog. It was obvious his only other choice was to go up and carry him down the ladder. Well, Frank, that was a sight. I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole seven years. He finally got Blue into the loft, but that was only half the battle. That loft is so full of machinery and piles of old lumber that you have to keep your eyes wide open to get through it in broad daylight. In the pitch black, with eighty pounds of squirming bouvier in his arms, it was all he could do to keep the flashlight pointed in the right direction long enough to find the ladder. I’ll never know how he got down that ladder without killing them both. It’s a good thing all the kids were in the house. I’ve never heard such language in my life. They have a picture of Blue sitting on that roof, but I’d give a whole case of milk bone for a movie of that night’s work.
After supper one night, later in the spring, Blue and I were lying around the house when we overheard the kids talking about flying saucers. At that time, everyone was seeing strange lights in the sky and all manner of funny things. Now Frank, I have been roaming around the countryside every night for years and I have yet to see a moving light that didn’t belong to a set of wheels, or a set of wings. I don’t pay much attention to that kind of talk, but Blue was still a pup and I could see he was upset. I tried to tell him not to take it too seriously, but he was still worried and I know he didn’t sleep most of that night.
A few days later we were lounging around the back yard, Blue was almost asleep, when the Port Stanley foghorn sounded. Blue had never heard it before and he was on his feet in a flash. “Listen Duf! That’s it! That’s a space ship if I’ve ever heard one!” Of course, he had never heard a space ship, or a foghorn, but he dashed across the lawn at a dead run. “Wait!” I barked. “It’s only the foghorn!” But, it was too late. He was off across the cornfield as fast as he could run. Each time the foghorn sounded he stopped, cocked his head and listened, then away he went again toward the noise. When he disappeared into the woods, I thought it would be wise to follow him in case he got himself into trouble. Since I have more sense than to run through a new field of corn, by the time I caught up with him, he was standing on the beach at Port Stanley.
“Look at that darn thing!” he snarled as I ran up. “Look at that thing flashing! It’s just the way the kids said! That’s a space ship if I’ve ever seen one! Let’s get it!”
Of course, he had never seen a space ship, or a lighthouse either for that matter, but he ran down that pier as if pursued by every demon dog in Hades. When I arrived at the end of the pier, he had already broken off two teeth chewing on the side of that lighthouse. That little episode was very embarrassing for him, but he never chased foghorns again. Whenever anyone mentions flying saucers, he just covers his ears and growls to himself.
Well, I guess I’d better get back on the job. I don’t think I’ll have much time to write for a while. Now that the snow is here, I’ll have to keep an eye on the hunters and the snowmobilers. They never hurt anything, but if I’m not out there barking and making a fuss, the folks think I’m not working.
Drop out and see me sometime, Frank, and bring Nancy with you. Just say, “Hi Duffy, I’m Frank.” I won’t bite. And don’t worry about Blue. He does everything I tell him, besides, with two of his teeth missing, he’s pretty careful.
Your old pal
Duffy
posted by Don Edmiston at 10:33 PM
0 comments
FRED'S REVENGE- A short story by Don Edmiston
Arnold and Thelma had just emerged from the clubhouse and were preparing to spend a leisurely afternoon beside the pool when two World War II aircraft buzzed the campground. Since it was the weekend of the annual air show, this wasn’t unexpected. Although Arnold had only seen pictures of them, it seemed clear to him the planes had been Spitfires and he said so to Thelma. Harold, who had joined them, confirmed his judgement. Since Harold is a man who seldom makes absurd statements, I was surprised to hear him declare that even without his glasses he could see they were Spitfires. Without his glasses on, I wouldn’t have accepted his identification on a whole stack of R.A.F. flight manuals. Nor would Ernie, who came strutting by just as they were discussing the merits of that particular breed of fighter aircraft. If the Spitfires had proven to be Snoopy flying an inverted Sopwith Camel, it wouldn’t have made any difference to me, but it seemed important to Ernie to inform the boys they were mistaken. “I flew Spitfires with the R.A.F.,” he announced. “And I certainly know one when I see it.”
I don’t know what the club would do without Ernie. How one man could accumulate such a vast store of information and compress it into one skull without suffering some sort of mental aberration is beyond me. The immensity of his knowledge is a constant amazement to all of us. As if this was not enough, his expertise even extends into the field of sports. He throws the discuss just as well as he throws the javelin and he shoots the put nearly as well as he shoots the bull. Volleyball and badminton are child’s play for him. The first person to get a hole-in-one on our new Frisbee golf course was Ernie. In short, what he can’t do, or doesn’t know, isn’t worth doing, or knowing. We would all have a better chance of swimming the Atlantic Ocean than beating Ernie at anything.
Since Harold, or Arnold were too young to have even been in the war, and since they weren’t accustomed to flying in the face of such authority anyway, they decided to let the matter drop. I really don’t think the identity of those planes meant any more to them than it did to me. Normally, that’s where it would have ended, but unknown to the group, Fred had been lying in the sun not ten feet from them the whole time and had overheard the entire conversation.
Fun Loving, Fearless Fred, a trouble maker from birth, who, as a youth, had absolutely no respect for his elders and grew up to be an impudent agitator without any respect for anyone. Because of this profound disrespect for authority of any kind, he began planning –although he had always thought a Spitfire was a sports car –to have a little fun at Ernie’s expense.
I think it was about three weeks later that he finally pulled it off. On the day it happened, he was occupying his usual horizontal position beside the pool, apparently sleeping. I say apparently, because with Fred you never know for certain. Even when he’s vertical, you can’t be sure. Only two words in the English language can guarantee a reaction from him. One is work and the other is beer. I won’t try to describe these reactions here except to say they are equal, but opposite.
Before long, Ernie came swaggering across the lawn and lay down near him. He said nothing to him, of course, because he thought he was asleep. But, Fred was not asleep. In fact, he was wide-awake, his mind as alert and sharp as it ever gets. Ernie had lain there just long enough to doze off when he was rudely shaken from his slumber. “So Ernie,” said Fred. “I hear you were a Spitfire pilot with the R.A.F. Is that true?”
“What the hell was that!” Cried Ernie in alarm as he jerked upright on the lawn. Fred’s voice has a peculiar other world quality to it that many people find disturbing. Being awaked by him is an eerie experience. This was particularly true in Ernie’s case. As a child he had been told a tale about one of his distant relatives in the old country that had upset him a great deal. While drowsing in the Tower of London in broad daylight, this relative had encountered Anne Boleyn with her head under her arm. The man had never recovered from the experience and Ernie has always expected to see a similar spectre himself. As a result, Ernie is seldom caught sleeping in daylight; so on this rare occasion when he did slip off, he was understandably started by the apparitional resonance of Fred’s voice.
Nothing in this world –or any other one either, for that matter –can prevent Ernie from holding forth on his favourite subject, namely Ernie, and as soon as he realized it was not Anne, he replied.
“Yes I was. I got in three tours before they made me an instructor.”
“Do you ever wish you could get back up there,” asked Fred casually.
“Sometimes.” Ernie was really warming up to his subject by this time. “The way some of these guys fly today they could sure use some advise. Once in a while I get the urge to get up there and show them how we did it when flying really meant something.”
“Not me,” said Fred. “I had all the flying I want during the war.”
“Oh! You were in the Air Force too! What did you fly?”
Fred’s lips barely moved, but his words were like rifle shots to Ernie. “Messerschmitt ME109’s mostly.”
Although the conversation had not been overly stimulating to this point, a large crowd of curious people had gathered on the surrounding lawn. It was apparent to everyone, a significant, historical event was unfolding. Someone mentioned that he had never seen Fred more than four feet from his beer before. It was a fact; he had been lying there without a beer in sight for almost half an hour. We all gained a great deal of respect for Fred that day. If he was suffering any stress because of his low blood alcohol count, he certainly didn’t show it.
I suppose it was his love of practical jokes that made him forget his beer that day. Ruining someone’s day seems to be one of his main joys in life. One evening in the clubhouse, some of the older members were reminiscing about their early days in the club. Fred had only been a member for a short time, so he was only listening. It was a pleasant conversation, most of the members had very fond memories of past events and they were looking forward to many more in the future. For Ted, the park owner, the first few years had been rather difficult. During the conversation he happened to make a casual remark about how he had always bent over backward to please the members. Everyone had forgotten that Fred was in the room, but it only took him twenty seconds to end the conversation. “Well there you go!” Said he. “There’s your problem! I don’t see how anybody could get anything done in that position. Hell, all you can see are treetops and airplanes! Look at all you’ve accomplished in ten years! Think of what you could have done if you’d straightened up!” Ted wasn’t seen around camp for several days after that.
A pleasant, almost carnival atmosphere was spreading throughout the camp. “I have to get my camera!” Shouted Nell, as she ran to her cottage. “If I don’t get a picture of this, no one will believe that I actually saw Fred with the fingers of his right hand and his right elbow straight at the same time!”
Lloyd was giving eight to five odds Fred could lay there for ten more minutes without his beer and members were lined up half way to the clubhouse with their money in their hands. His preliminary calculations had shown, if Fred could hold out, his winnings would pay for his new fireplace chimney, buy two spare chains for his chainsaw and still have enough left over for six cases of Blue. Even if Fred drank half the beer, which was likely, he was convinced he had a good thing going.
Ted was pleased with all the activity, but someone heard him muttering; “If I’d known this was going to happen, I would have invited the public, sold tickets and opened the bar.”
In all fairness to Fred, he did look magnificent lying there with his Horn of Plenty around his neck and his medical bracelet glistening against the background of his golden tan. The bracelet was a gift. Several weeks previously, some of the boys had become concerned about him. They felt that people should know what to do if he was ever found sober and unable to function, so they took up a collection and bought him the bracelet. It reads; “In case of emergency, administer 48 ounces of cold Labatt’s Blue orally and shake well.”
Ernie’s initial reaction on learning Fred had been a Messerschmitt pilot was astonished outrage, followed closely by utter disbelief. He was sure that Fred was too young to have been in the war, but the more he thought about it, the less sure he was. He thought about Fred’s wife and wondered why an attractive young woman like Sandy would marry a man that old, but he had learned from experience that you can never tell what a woman might do. Besides, he had known men before who looked younger than their years and considered himself a good example of this.
His confusion was not unreasonable. Years of riotous living and dissipation have aged Fred considerably. It’s difficult for a stranger to know if he is a young fifty-five, or an old thirty-one. When reminded that he looks older than Sandy he says it’s because she was born quite late in life, while he was born at a very early age. Many things Fred says don’t make any more sense than that, but we love him anyway. That may be a bit of a stretch, but at least we accept him.
Be that as it may, one thing is certain, Ernie didn’t love him. As far as he was concerned, he was lying only three feet from the enemy.
“Those Spitfires were quite the airplane,” continued Fred. “Out of 267 planes I was lucky enough to shoot down, only 116 were Spitfires. I was shot down fifteen times by Spitfires and only managed to get three of those Messerschmitts back in one piece. We could all see that the war wasn’t going the way Adolph had promised us it would. We had Spitfires and Hurricanes around there thicker than fleas on a camel’s ass and I was fed up to my false teeth with all that falling out of the sky. Finally, I applied for a transfer to the rocket Corps.”
“’Do you realize how much those planes I’m losing cost’, I said as I handed the application to the Commander. ‘Not to mention all those damn parachutes. I’ve gone through enough parachute silk to build tents for every Bedouin in North Africa’”
“’ You’re too late,’ he said, tearing up the application. ‘All the rocket bases are gone and I don’t care how many planes you’ve lost, Messerschmitt pilots are scarce- even bad ones.’”
“When I heard Adolph and Eva had taken the short way out, I knew it was all over. I grabbed the first Messerschmitt that would fly and headed for Spain. My usual luck held up, of course, and I ran out of gas over France. I bailed out- which was something I had gotten rather good at by then- and spent three weeks hiding out in a haystack.”
Ernie would have run and hid if he hadn’t been suffering from that state of inertia that occurs only in the nonplussed. Although the number of allied planes shot down by German pilots during the war has been well documented; Ernie had never been able to accept the totals. He wasn’t prepared to accept Fred’s totals either. “You don’t even sound German to me,” he finally muttered.
“That’s because I was born in Australia. My father went there in 1913 to look for opals. That’s where he met my mother and they didn’t return to Germany until 1938. By that time I was 20 years old. Naturally, I didn’t speak German very well. Can you imagine all the trouble that got me into? Nobody ever got used to hearing a Luftwaffe pilot speaking German with an Australian accent. I was almost shot down four times by my own side. I spent as much time in Gestapo interrogation rooms as I did in airplanes. The war wasn’t a total loss though- I met Sandy in that haystack. She had been a collaborator and was hiding out from the French too. Gradually, a herd of cows ate the haystack and we both ended up on the end of a French farmer’s pitchfork.”
“Wait- wait just a minute,” croaked Ernie. “I don’t believe a word of this.” His face was only three shades lighter than a mulberry, his throat was making strange bulging motions and big veins were standing out on his temples. I thought he was hyperventilating, but Hilda, who seems to know about such things, exclaimed, “I think he’s having a stroke!” Most of the members usually accept Hilda’s advise on medical matters, except for Fred. He hasn’t spoken to her since the day she told him a good cure for his ingrown toenail was limping.
Ernie may not have been having a stroke, but he was in bad shape nevertheless. His voice was quivering and barely audible as he continued. “I don’t believe you ever were a pilot and I don’t believe you met Sandy in any damn haystack either.”
Fred had done his homework well. At least, he no longer thought a Messerschmitt was a new German cocktail, but he was afraid he had gone too far with the haystack. “Well,” he admitted. “The part about the haystack isn’t true. I was just having a little fun with you. Actually, I met Sandy in a concentration camp. She had shacked up with an SS Colonel during the war and the French were pretty upset about it. The first time I saw her, her head was shaved and she had this big ugly letter C tattooed on her forehead. I married her out of pure pity. Can you imagine anything more pathetic than a bald-headed, tattooed, ex-collaborator?”
Ernie thought he had Fred there and cried out triumphantly. “There’s no tattoo on Sandy’s forehead!”
“I know,” answered Fred calmly. “It cost me a fortune to have that thing removed. They did a pretty good job of it, but if you look closely, you can see it every time she passes a Frenchman.”
This was too much for Ernie. He could see the whole thing was a fabrication and Fred could see the fun was over. Just as Ernie was about to tell Fred what he thought of his little joke, Fred interrupted.
“Actually Ernie, I was just a little kid during the Second World War, but I’ve admired Spitfire pilots most of my life. My fondest hope has always been that some day I would meet one. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am it finally happened. My pleasure isn’t even diminished by the fact that even if you were born in the cockpit of one of the snarling bastards, ten thousand feet in the air in the middle of a dog-fight, those two aircraft Arnold and Harold saw were Spitfires.”
I don’t know what the club would do without Ernie. How one man could accumulate such a vast store of information and compress it into one skull without suffering some sort of mental aberration is beyond me. The immensity of his knowledge is a constant amazement to all of us. As if this was not enough, his expertise even extends into the field of sports. He throws the discuss just as well as he throws the javelin and he shoots the put nearly as well as he shoots the bull. Volleyball and badminton are child’s play for him. The first person to get a hole-in-one on our new Frisbee golf course was Ernie. In short, what he can’t do, or doesn’t know, isn’t worth doing, or knowing. We would all have a better chance of swimming the Atlantic Ocean than beating Ernie at anything.
Since Harold, or Arnold were too young to have even been in the war, and since they weren’t accustomed to flying in the face of such authority anyway, they decided to let the matter drop. I really don’t think the identity of those planes meant any more to them than it did to me. Normally, that’s where it would have ended, but unknown to the group, Fred had been lying in the sun not ten feet from them the whole time and had overheard the entire conversation.
Fun Loving, Fearless Fred, a trouble maker from birth, who, as a youth, had absolutely no respect for his elders and grew up to be an impudent agitator without any respect for anyone. Because of this profound disrespect for authority of any kind, he began planning –although he had always thought a Spitfire was a sports car –to have a little fun at Ernie’s expense.
I think it was about three weeks later that he finally pulled it off. On the day it happened, he was occupying his usual horizontal position beside the pool, apparently sleeping. I say apparently, because with Fred you never know for certain. Even when he’s vertical, you can’t be sure. Only two words in the English language can guarantee a reaction from him. One is work and the other is beer. I won’t try to describe these reactions here except to say they are equal, but opposite.
Before long, Ernie came swaggering across the lawn and lay down near him. He said nothing to him, of course, because he thought he was asleep. But, Fred was not asleep. In fact, he was wide-awake, his mind as alert and sharp as it ever gets. Ernie had lain there just long enough to doze off when he was rudely shaken from his slumber. “So Ernie,” said Fred. “I hear you were a Spitfire pilot with the R.A.F. Is that true?”
“What the hell was that!” Cried Ernie in alarm as he jerked upright on the lawn. Fred’s voice has a peculiar other world quality to it that many people find disturbing. Being awaked by him is an eerie experience. This was particularly true in Ernie’s case. As a child he had been told a tale about one of his distant relatives in the old country that had upset him a great deal. While drowsing in the Tower of London in broad daylight, this relative had encountered Anne Boleyn with her head under her arm. The man had never recovered from the experience and Ernie has always expected to see a similar spectre himself. As a result, Ernie is seldom caught sleeping in daylight; so on this rare occasion when he did slip off, he was understandably started by the apparitional resonance of Fred’s voice.
Nothing in this world –or any other one either, for that matter –can prevent Ernie from holding forth on his favourite subject, namely Ernie, and as soon as he realized it was not Anne, he replied.
“Yes I was. I got in three tours before they made me an instructor.”
“Do you ever wish you could get back up there,” asked Fred casually.
“Sometimes.” Ernie was really warming up to his subject by this time. “The way some of these guys fly today they could sure use some advise. Once in a while I get the urge to get up there and show them how we did it when flying really meant something.”
“Not me,” said Fred. “I had all the flying I want during the war.”
“Oh! You were in the Air Force too! What did you fly?”
Fred’s lips barely moved, but his words were like rifle shots to Ernie. “Messerschmitt ME109’s mostly.”
Although the conversation had not been overly stimulating to this point, a large crowd of curious people had gathered on the surrounding lawn. It was apparent to everyone, a significant, historical event was unfolding. Someone mentioned that he had never seen Fred more than four feet from his beer before. It was a fact; he had been lying there without a beer in sight for almost half an hour. We all gained a great deal of respect for Fred that day. If he was suffering any stress because of his low blood alcohol count, he certainly didn’t show it.
I suppose it was his love of practical jokes that made him forget his beer that day. Ruining someone’s day seems to be one of his main joys in life. One evening in the clubhouse, some of the older members were reminiscing about their early days in the club. Fred had only been a member for a short time, so he was only listening. It was a pleasant conversation, most of the members had very fond memories of past events and they were looking forward to many more in the future. For Ted, the park owner, the first few years had been rather difficult. During the conversation he happened to make a casual remark about how he had always bent over backward to please the members. Everyone had forgotten that Fred was in the room, but it only took him twenty seconds to end the conversation. “Well there you go!” Said he. “There’s your problem! I don’t see how anybody could get anything done in that position. Hell, all you can see are treetops and airplanes! Look at all you’ve accomplished in ten years! Think of what you could have done if you’d straightened up!” Ted wasn’t seen around camp for several days after that.
A pleasant, almost carnival atmosphere was spreading throughout the camp. “I have to get my camera!” Shouted Nell, as she ran to her cottage. “If I don’t get a picture of this, no one will believe that I actually saw Fred with the fingers of his right hand and his right elbow straight at the same time!”
Lloyd was giving eight to five odds Fred could lay there for ten more minutes without his beer and members were lined up half way to the clubhouse with their money in their hands. His preliminary calculations had shown, if Fred could hold out, his winnings would pay for his new fireplace chimney, buy two spare chains for his chainsaw and still have enough left over for six cases of Blue. Even if Fred drank half the beer, which was likely, he was convinced he had a good thing going.
Ted was pleased with all the activity, but someone heard him muttering; “If I’d known this was going to happen, I would have invited the public, sold tickets and opened the bar.”
In all fairness to Fred, he did look magnificent lying there with his Horn of Plenty around his neck and his medical bracelet glistening against the background of his golden tan. The bracelet was a gift. Several weeks previously, some of the boys had become concerned about him. They felt that people should know what to do if he was ever found sober and unable to function, so they took up a collection and bought him the bracelet. It reads; “In case of emergency, administer 48 ounces of cold Labatt’s Blue orally and shake well.”
Ernie’s initial reaction on learning Fred had been a Messerschmitt pilot was astonished outrage, followed closely by utter disbelief. He was sure that Fred was too young to have been in the war, but the more he thought about it, the less sure he was. He thought about Fred’s wife and wondered why an attractive young woman like Sandy would marry a man that old, but he had learned from experience that you can never tell what a woman might do. Besides, he had known men before who looked younger than their years and considered himself a good example of this.
His confusion was not unreasonable. Years of riotous living and dissipation have aged Fred considerably. It’s difficult for a stranger to know if he is a young fifty-five, or an old thirty-one. When reminded that he looks older than Sandy he says it’s because she was born quite late in life, while he was born at a very early age. Many things Fred says don’t make any more sense than that, but we love him anyway. That may be a bit of a stretch, but at least we accept him.
Be that as it may, one thing is certain, Ernie didn’t love him. As far as he was concerned, he was lying only three feet from the enemy.
“Those Spitfires were quite the airplane,” continued Fred. “Out of 267 planes I was lucky enough to shoot down, only 116 were Spitfires. I was shot down fifteen times by Spitfires and only managed to get three of those Messerschmitts back in one piece. We could all see that the war wasn’t going the way Adolph had promised us it would. We had Spitfires and Hurricanes around there thicker than fleas on a camel’s ass and I was fed up to my false teeth with all that falling out of the sky. Finally, I applied for a transfer to the rocket Corps.”
“’Do you realize how much those planes I’m losing cost’, I said as I handed the application to the Commander. ‘Not to mention all those damn parachutes. I’ve gone through enough parachute silk to build tents for every Bedouin in North Africa’”
“’ You’re too late,’ he said, tearing up the application. ‘All the rocket bases are gone and I don’t care how many planes you’ve lost, Messerschmitt pilots are scarce- even bad ones.’”
“When I heard Adolph and Eva had taken the short way out, I knew it was all over. I grabbed the first Messerschmitt that would fly and headed for Spain. My usual luck held up, of course, and I ran out of gas over France. I bailed out- which was something I had gotten rather good at by then- and spent three weeks hiding out in a haystack.”
Ernie would have run and hid if he hadn’t been suffering from that state of inertia that occurs only in the nonplussed. Although the number of allied planes shot down by German pilots during the war has been well documented; Ernie had never been able to accept the totals. He wasn’t prepared to accept Fred’s totals either. “You don’t even sound German to me,” he finally muttered.
“That’s because I was born in Australia. My father went there in 1913 to look for opals. That’s where he met my mother and they didn’t return to Germany until 1938. By that time I was 20 years old. Naturally, I didn’t speak German very well. Can you imagine all the trouble that got me into? Nobody ever got used to hearing a Luftwaffe pilot speaking German with an Australian accent. I was almost shot down four times by my own side. I spent as much time in Gestapo interrogation rooms as I did in airplanes. The war wasn’t a total loss though- I met Sandy in that haystack. She had been a collaborator and was hiding out from the French too. Gradually, a herd of cows ate the haystack and we both ended up on the end of a French farmer’s pitchfork.”
“Wait- wait just a minute,” croaked Ernie. “I don’t believe a word of this.” His face was only three shades lighter than a mulberry, his throat was making strange bulging motions and big veins were standing out on his temples. I thought he was hyperventilating, but Hilda, who seems to know about such things, exclaimed, “I think he’s having a stroke!” Most of the members usually accept Hilda’s advise on medical matters, except for Fred. He hasn’t spoken to her since the day she told him a good cure for his ingrown toenail was limping.
Ernie may not have been having a stroke, but he was in bad shape nevertheless. His voice was quivering and barely audible as he continued. “I don’t believe you ever were a pilot and I don’t believe you met Sandy in any damn haystack either.”
Fred had done his homework well. At least, he no longer thought a Messerschmitt was a new German cocktail, but he was afraid he had gone too far with the haystack. “Well,” he admitted. “The part about the haystack isn’t true. I was just having a little fun with you. Actually, I met Sandy in a concentration camp. She had shacked up with an SS Colonel during the war and the French were pretty upset about it. The first time I saw her, her head was shaved and she had this big ugly letter C tattooed on her forehead. I married her out of pure pity. Can you imagine anything more pathetic than a bald-headed, tattooed, ex-collaborator?”
Ernie thought he had Fred there and cried out triumphantly. “There’s no tattoo on Sandy’s forehead!”
“I know,” answered Fred calmly. “It cost me a fortune to have that thing removed. They did a pretty good job of it, but if you look closely, you can see it every time she passes a Frenchman.”
This was too much for Ernie. He could see the whole thing was a fabrication and Fred could see the fun was over. Just as Ernie was about to tell Fred what he thought of his little joke, Fred interrupted.
“Actually Ernie, I was just a little kid during the Second World War, but I’ve admired Spitfire pilots most of my life. My fondest hope has always been that some day I would meet one. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am it finally happened. My pleasure isn’t even diminished by the fact that even if you were born in the cockpit of one of the snarling bastards, ten thousand feet in the air in the middle of a dog-fight, those two aircraft Arnold and Harold saw were Spitfires.”
posted by Don Edmiston at 1:12 PM
0 comments
THE BIG BOOK OF POETRY- By Shaya-Lynn McConnell, age 10, grade 5
To My Teacher
Teacher, Teacher
Why are you so nice?
At the beginning of the year,
I thought you were as hard as ice.
But, now you’re melted
And you never felt it.
So at the end of the year,
I might shed a tear.
To My Hampster
My furry friend,
If you ever go away, that will be the end.
In your ball you roll around
Without a sound.
One morning I woke up and you were stiff as a board.
So now you’re in a better place and you’re with The Lord.
Goodbye hampster!
To This Bunch Of Flowers
Oh flowers,
Oh flowers!
You look so nice!
But now you have to pay the price!
You killed the grass,
You wrecked the soil!
So flowers are you ready to be boiled?
If you aren’t, then that’s too bad,
Oh, cheer up flowers don’t be sad.
Teacher, Teacher
Why are you so nice?
At the beginning of the year,
I thought you were as hard as ice.
But, now you’re melted
And you never felt it.
So at the end of the year,
I might shed a tear.
To My Hampster
My furry friend,
If you ever go away, that will be the end.
In your ball you roll around
Without a sound.
One morning I woke up and you were stiff as a board.
So now you’re in a better place and you’re with The Lord.
Goodbye hampster!
To This Bunch Of Flowers
Oh flowers,
Oh flowers!
You look so nice!
But now you have to pay the price!
You killed the grass,
You wrecked the soil!
So flowers are you ready to be boiled?
If you aren’t, then that’s too bad,
Oh, cheer up flowers don’t be sad.
posted by Don Edmiston at 10:51 AM
0 comments
IN THE SHADOWS- A short story by Shaya-Lynn McConnell. Dedicated to her Grandma and Grandpa
My heart was pounding as I raced to the phone and dialed 911. A Calm reassuring voice asked me to tell them what happened. I caught my breath and started to explain.
It all started when I came home from a party. As I walked past the garage, I noticed that the screen door was closed, but the one behind it was open. My parents were out and they weren’t coming back until I was asleep.
I slowly opened the door and went inside. I saw that there were muddy footprints going around the house. I went upstairs to investigate and I found that the upstairs hallway was dark and the window to the bathroom was open. I went into my parent’s room to see if they had come home early and gone to bed, but there was no sign of them.
I heard a voice behind me. Terrified I turned around. “Who’s there?” I screamed. As I ran downstairs I heard footsteps coming down after me. I ran outside to our neighbour’s house and called the police. They came to the house and searched high and low, but there was no sign of the person anywhere.
That night I slept at our neighbours house and left a note on our door that said: “Dear Mom and Dad, I’m at our neighbour’s house, please come and get me when you get home.”
One hour later, my parents came to get me. I told them what happened and that the police had come to check the house.
The next morning I jotted down what had happened the night before, because I wanted to solve the mystery. (I was really good at solving mysteries.)
The police stayed hidden around the house looking for anything that even moved, but nothing happened.
I went into my house to pack all of my things up because we would be living at our neighbours house until this was over. When I went to my closet, I noticed that there was a tiny hole in the wall and beside it was a little microphone. I took a picture of it and left.
I showed it to a police officer that was escorting me to my neighbour’s home. When we were almost there, I saw someone sneak into the house! The policeman called for backup. They went inside the house and caught him red-handed!
I finally realized how the microphone got there. I had seen a van pull up across the street when I got home from the party. He must have snuck in through the bathroom window and planted the microphone in the wall and got out in time for me to get into the house. He must have spoken through another microphone probably in my ceiling, or something.
Anyway, I got an award at the police station for solving the mystery!
It all started when I came home from a party. As I walked past the garage, I noticed that the screen door was closed, but the one behind it was open. My parents were out and they weren’t coming back until I was asleep.
I slowly opened the door and went inside. I saw that there were muddy footprints going around the house. I went upstairs to investigate and I found that the upstairs hallway was dark and the window to the bathroom was open. I went into my parent’s room to see if they had come home early and gone to bed, but there was no sign of them.
I heard a voice behind me. Terrified I turned around. “Who’s there?” I screamed. As I ran downstairs I heard footsteps coming down after me. I ran outside to our neighbour’s house and called the police. They came to the house and searched high and low, but there was no sign of the person anywhere.
That night I slept at our neighbours house and left a note on our door that said: “Dear Mom and Dad, I’m at our neighbour’s house, please come and get me when you get home.”
One hour later, my parents came to get me. I told them what happened and that the police had come to check the house.
The next morning I jotted down what had happened the night before, because I wanted to solve the mystery. (I was really good at solving mysteries.)
The police stayed hidden around the house looking for anything that even moved, but nothing happened.
I went into my house to pack all of my things up because we would be living at our neighbours house until this was over. When I went to my closet, I noticed that there was a tiny hole in the wall and beside it was a little microphone. I took a picture of it and left.
I showed it to a police officer that was escorting me to my neighbour’s home. When we were almost there, I saw someone sneak into the house! The policeman called for backup. They went inside the house and caught him red-handed!
I finally realized how the microphone got there. I had seen a van pull up across the street when I got home from the party. He must have snuck in through the bathroom window and planted the microphone in the wall and got out in time for me to get into the house. He must have spoken through another microphone probably in my ceiling, or something.
Anyway, I got an award at the police station for solving the mystery!
posted by Don Edmiston at 10:32 AM
0 comments
Links
Previous Posts
- Photos from our 2008 vaction in Northern Ontario
- Frome Pond in Autumn
- Glenn's Stained Glass Butterfly
- Hopewell Rocks, Hopewell Cape, New Brunswick
- Indian Harbour, Nova Scotia
- Indian Harbour, Nova Scotia
- Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia
- The Slave Ship Amistad, Halifax Harbour, Nova Scotia
- World War II Corvette, Halifax Harbour, Nova Scotia
- Indian Harbour, Nova Scotia
Archives
