Scram!

“Scram” is just an excellent word meaning to, “runoff, run away, get out, get away, bolt, skedaddle, beat it, or scarper”. In retrospect I scrammed from Ontario, like Snagglepuss the Tiger from the old TV cartoons it was, “Exit smiling! Stage West!” Not that I had anything against the Province of my birth, it’s just that, having spent 48 years there, I figure that I’ve got twenty years left to see the rest of this country; there’s lot’s to see!

The month leading up to my departure was just a trifle frenetic. There was packing to be done, a bathroom to be refurbished, rooms to paint, and, of course, I had to upgrade my toys. A new laptop was in order, something capable of creating, and, doing justice to, complex presentations. Subsequently a projector was required so I got one of those too. Finally, a new cell phone to keep in touch with the home folk. Now I’ve never been what you might call a cellular fellular, but, it was time to bite the bullet. I explained to the nice people at ‘Dodgers’ what I needed, and added that I was using a Vista system with which their phone would have to co-operate. “No problem,” they assured me, “this phone is 100% Vista ready!”

Poor Old multi-media me! Between the packing and patching I had very little time to experiment with all my new toys! However, one of the wonderful things about our hi-tech society is that new things usually work, just the way they should, straight out of the box; I was confident!

Just one week prior to my departure Collingwood Toastmasters held a fair well ‘Roast and Toast’ in celebration of my leaving. Members of Sun & Sand Speakers were invited as well as a few friends. Each person in attendance was allowed three minutes to get their licks in, while a few were given longer periods in the prepared speech segment of the evening. To my astonishment my wife Julie was the first person with a prepared speech! Julie, who hates getting up before an audience, and who has been known to faint in front of one! It was an enjoyable evening and had I been General Evaluator I could have admonished my friends on only one issue; the intention of a Roast is that the ‘victim’ shall be thoroughly raked over the coals. Even the concept of ‘Toast’ has exposure to heat at its base. Your words were too kind, dear friends, but I cherish them, and carry them with me still. Even Julie used her ten minutes extolling virtues which I had no idea I possessed. Now, why would that woman hold back the tides for so many years, only to let the dam burst during my last week in Ontario? At that point I broke down and decided to bring her west with me!

I was given the final speaking slot for the evening. Suspecting that, ‘the knives would be out’, I decided to bring along a few of my own. It was my intention to do a brief multi-media overview of the evolution of the knife through the two million years that Humanity has been tinkering with them. Image is essential in presentations, so I decided that I’d go, “dressed to kill!”

People keep telling me that they’ve never seen a leather kilt other than mine. Perhaps it’s just as well they haven’t. Leather kilts were standard issue to the highland regiments in Canada’s Military till the end of WW1. A member of a highland regiment got a parade kilt in the regiment’s official tartan, but the leather kilt was the official battle dress. My Grandfather, Hughie McLaughlin, who served in both wars, wore a leather kilt in the trenches of WW1. German troops saw leather kilts, and they certainly stuck in their minds; they called the Canadian Highlanders who wore them the ‘Ladies from Hades’, and rightly so!

My Brother-in-law, Bill, was teasing me about the advisability of bringing my leather kilt west with me. “It might”, he suggested, “Make the cowboys uncomfortable!” I wanted to assure him that the only way a kilt might make a real cowboy uncomfortable would be if, while wearing one, he happened to squat, ...with his spurs on! “Come a tie-yi-yippy-yippy-yeah!” I think, more likely, what would give a cowboy grave concern would be those black leather chaps which the dudes wear in downtown Toronto parades.

On the day in question I decided that I’d best run through my presentation a couple times. I’d put together the slide show two weeks before, and knew my material inside out and backwards, (which is often the way I present it!) However I hadn’t tied it all together with the projector just yet. Quickly I linked everything together, plugged it all in, and ....none of it worked! I found out later that it was partially a Windows Vista issue, and partly my own inexperience! An entire afternoon spent with high blood pressure, and the air blue with what I shall refer to here as ‘technical language.’

It was just the same as the phone ‘Dodgers’ sold me with assurances that it was, “Vista Ready.” They didn’t lie, the phone is “Vista Ready”, and Vista itself is, well, more or less ready; what we’re all waiting for is June 15th, when the phone’s maker, Sony Ericcson, may, or may not, be prepared to release the software that enables the phone to work in conjunction with my computer. I spent an hour on the phone with a ‘Dodgers’ customer service rep, murmuring sweet nothings such as misrepresentation, fraud and my favourite, robbery! He offered me a $25.00 rebate. I sighed and asked to talk to his boss. Another hour of sweet nothings and the fine fellow offered to exchange the phone for one that would do what I wanted it to do with my Vista laptop. After 10 minutes in ‘hold hell’ the rep was back on line, a forlorn tone in his voice, “Mr. Mackay”, he said apologetically, “None of our phones will work with Vista until June 15th, or, possibly September!” Another demonstration of ‘sweet nothings’, and they reimbursed me for what they advertise as a $400.00 phone, and let me keep the phone. Am I a happy customer? Well, let’s just say, come June, or possibly September, I’ll call you and let you know.

Our times move so rapidly that the only way they can sell you a phone that isn’t obsolete is to peddle it before its market ready. By the time its functional it is neither the latest nor greatest, and you, my friend, are an ‘also ran’ in the ‘trendy’ race. I don’t want a phone that will last forever; I’d be quite pleased with something that lasted five years. But can you imagine something useful which could last one thousand years with virtually no change in design or function; and more important, the customers just as happy with it in the last ten years of the millennia, as the customers were in the first ten years? We’ll never see anything like that ourselves, but it sounds like my Scramasarce.

The scramasarce is just a big ugly knife, 18” long, with a heavy 12” blade. Invented in the early years AD, by 200 AD it was very popular, and like popular things even in this day, it got invited everywhere. The Vikings loved it, the Pictish Highlanders in what’s now known as Scotland thought it just the neatest toy, the Normans used it, and, eventually, the Germanic tribe that invented it brought it to England to show it off. They called a ‘sarce’, and the English, with their typical and inimitable knack of mispronouncing everything, called it a ‘sax’. Of course it wasn’t called England back then; the country had been overrun by another Germanic tribe called the ‘Angles’, who called it ‘Angleland’. The tribe that invented the scramasarce were so impressed with their own ingenuity, that they actually named themselves after it; the word, ‘sarce’, by itself means ‘knife’ or ‘blade’, and they called themselves ‘Sarcans’.

What kind of angry, violent, psychotic bastards name their people, their culture, their nation after a big ugly knife? Ooops, I don’t want to risk offending anyone; before I go any farther I must ask, “Are any readers, by any chance, “Anglo-Saxons”? Hmmmm ....just as I suspected; well ....that’s where the name comes from! As for myself, I call it simply a ‘scram’ as that is what most people, when faced with it, would choose to do. I say ‘most people’ and this is true, with the possible exception of those in downtown Toronto, where the fellows are mostly packing 9’s; in these circumstances it may be best to leave your little knife in your pocket, and seriously consider ‘scramming’ yourself.

People think of the scramasarce as a weapon, and it was used as a weapon, but don’t forget, in those times nearly anything that came to hand was used as a weapon. The word ‘Scam’ itself simply meant ‘food’ and ‘sarce’ meant ‘blade’. It was a food blade, or, eating utensil, if you prefer. More than that it was the medieval equivalent of the Swiss Army Knife. As a Freeman, and only freemen were permitted to carry weapons, you would use it to shave, slaughter a hog, open those annoying sealed plastic containers from the computer store, and, after a thorough wipe on your kilt, sit down at table for a tasty and refreshing lunch.

It was worn suspended horizontally from a belt behind a man’s back; partially for concealment, and partially because it was close to hand there. Its popularity began waning about 1000 AD but it was still popular until well into the 14th century. Then the Ladies, as Ladies are want to do, put their collective foot down, and refused to have big ugly knives at their tables, (they might have been better to have kept the knives and rid themselves of the big ugly men who carried them, but that’s a topic for another time!). Instead they proposed using something called a ‘fork’, and it’s interesting to note that most of the first forks had only a single tine. That’s right, it was still really a knife, just a little more civilized in appearance.

European history never ceases to amaze me; people wandering, or more often than not, marching, where ever the winds of change swept them. Our ancestors spring from some of the most cross pollinated cultures in the world; medieval mongrels some might say, but, hey ....they must have done something right.

My presentation that evening left something technical, (like competence), to be desired, but, I was facing one of the most forgiving audiences in the world; besides, when you stand in front of a group dressed in a black leather kilt, swinging a five foot long Claymore Sword, criticism isn’t something you anticipate. When I’d arrived I was surprised to notice a bar set up in the room; not something I often see at Toastmasters. I felt it might be best to give the bar staff a little warning; slipping over to the two young ladies I smiled and introduced myself saying, “Please, if later on this evening you happen to see me waving a sword at other patrons in a threatening manner, cut me off! ...before I do the same thing to someone else!

On my drive home that evening I mused over the events of the day and was well satisfied; it had been a good day. I was still basking in this warm glow as I rounded Wilson’s Corner just short of my home. There seemed to be some sort of obstruction on the highway. It looked for all the world like a Ride Patrol! I hadn’t seen anything like that in ages! Apparently they hadn’t seen anything like me recently either. The lady officer was the picture of professional curtsey as she stepped up to my rolled down window. “Have you had anything to drink this evening sir?” as the flashlight beam peaked in the window and ran over my face. “Yes,” I replied, “I had one beer at 6:30 then another beer after dinner at 8:30.” “Are you sure it was only two?” she continued, as the beam left my face and descended to my knees.

Now I suspect that the lady officer had seen men’s knees before, but perhaps she wasn’t used to seeing them exposed like that on a cold March evening. “Just two” I assured her. The light now began to migrate towards the back of my vehicle. Before I continue I must mention that it’s next to impossible to put five foot long Claymores into the trunk of a Hyundai without folding them first. Folding had not seemed to me a viable option, so I had lowered the back seat in order that they might lay down in relative comfort. I’ve noticed over the years that there are several ways in which you can divide the world. One of the most dependable ways that I’ve found is that people generally fall into one of two groups; those, like myself, that like and admire historic weapons, and those that seem apprehensive when the subject of the topic lies close to hand. This officer struck me as falling into the latter group.

She took a step back from the car which I interpreted as a bad sign. She wasn’t reaching for her pistol, which I thought a good sign. But she was giving me the type of look which I can only describe as something you might receive when someone casually enquires, “Do you still have an ex-wife?” It was a rather poignant moment, but I didn’t spend the night in jail, nor did I have my breath tested. I’d like to say it was brilliant oratory that saved the day, but that would be misleading. Rather I suspect it was the projector screen that was also in the back of the car that gave a semblance of plausibility to, what I admit were, a suspicious set of circumstances.

I was released and believe me when I say, ”I scrammed!” It was, “Exit smiling! Stage homeward!”

James, (Mack the Knife!) Mackay

'Would you care to say a few words?

I knew in advance that, that when I left Ontario, there would be many things I would miss, and that foremost amongst these would be Collingwood Toastmasters, and ‘Sun & Sand’ Toastmasters of Wasaga Beach. The camaraderie I found in those two clubs, and the warm, genuine people who extended such, I will always treasure. Toastmasters; it’s a good place to grow!

The other evening a young lady asked me if I had joined Toastmasters because I was a good speaker. I had to think about that for a moment, and finally replied, “No! Some people come to Toastmasters because they are good speakers, and wish to hone their skills in a mutually supportive environment. Then there are those who have a perceived need, whether it be a presentation for their boss, a toast to the bride at the wedding of a daughter, or just to put the best face on their every day communications skills. Then there are those like myself, who come in desperation; who have no other choice in the matter!”

I believe that I mentioned that I was raised in a rural, Presbyterian community. That means a community with a more than healthy dose of Calvinist Pre-determinism; everything will be all right, just keep your head below the crowd, your back bent to the wheel, don’t draw unnecessary attention to yourself, and by your works shall ye be assured of your own salvation. That meant, for the greater part, that members of the community were reticent, reserved, quiet and retiring; in short, shy! It’s hard to imagine an entire community conforming to that outlook, but for the most part, in their own way, they did. My Father was, for years, President of our local Co-op; it was a job he accepted willingly, and executed with commendable reliability. The only thing he dreaded in the position was the once yearly Share Holders meeting, for there, rather than standing comfortably with friends and neighbours, his hands tucked comfortably into the bib of his overalls, He had to stand in front of a couple hundred of them, in a suit! Let me assure you, there is a tremendous difference between ‘with’, and ‘in front of’! I admire the way he faced this personal dilemma, and he always worked through the ordeal, but brevity was the heart and soul of his presentations.

Julie and I toured the West coast of Newfoundland last year on our trek to Lans aux Meadows at the Provinces’ most Northern point. It is a rugged landscape, vaguely reminiscent of Canada’s tundra regions. What made it most interesting was the fact that the entire area was cut off from the modern world till the 60’s. No road connected them with the larger areas, and likewise, no Ferry service. They were literally a country onto themselves. Great people; honest, friendly, brutally hard working, tough and independent, but ....shy. It’s the old Canadian isolation thing.

Was I shy? Well ....not that I could bring myself to mention. I remember grade one; I was the first in my family to go to what might now be considered a modern school. My older sister, Marlene, went to the one room school at the west end of 18/19 side road, but, even then, I was swept up in the wave of the future, and registered in, what was to me the unimaginably huge, Duntroon Central School. I couldn’t believe all the other kids! It took me years to get over the shock!

In High School they wanted me to go out for football, but that interfered with the harvest and ploughing; I commonly missed the first month of classes for this reason, and generally forfeited the last month or so of school for seeding. Volley Ball was something my Father allowed me to go out for, because, by that time, most of the heavy farm work was done for the year. I think that I was allowed two practises, both disappointing, (to my Father), because after practise there was still 8 miles between myself and the farm. What we called ‘hitch-hiking’ on those back country roads generally amounted to nothing more than a long, slow walk while watching for cars which never appeared.

My only claim to fame in High School was when I joined the Drama Club. Was I nervous about appearing on stage? Not on your life; it never even occurred to me as something which I might aspire to! No, I volunteered as set producer designing, building and painting the back-drops. You will forgive me a little modest bragging; I did on one occasion spend an entire scene on stage. You notice I said, ‘spend’, and not ‘appear’; we were appearing in a drama competition, and the back-drops were disintegrating from being moved from town to town. For our final production I had to stand, spread-eagle, holding the panels together so that the show might go on! It felt good to know that at last I had attained my 15 minutes of fame!

Everyone I think is blessed with a teacher or two that change their lives. I can think of several in mine, but in High School it was Dennis and Neil. Between them they decided that I should go to University, (a decision that I never would have reached myself!), and that Guelph would be the best place for me to go. It was small, and agriculturally oriented. I remember the nick names still; U of Moo, U of Goo, or even worse, ....U of Moo Goo! Myself I simply referred to it as ‘Farmer University’, or, if you prefer, good old FU! I’d like to say that University changed my life, and solved all my dilemmas. Change my life it did! For the first time I actually enjoyed the education process. I did fairly well, got good grades, and came out the other end with my dilemmas intact. Still couldn’t stand up and talk in front of people to save my life!

I’ll give you one little glimpse into my high/low educational experience. It was a huge class by Guelph standards; perhaps 250 students. The professor insisted that he have a couple 15 minutes seminars each week. Naturally not everyone could do one; he selected victims by lot ....I was one of about 15 winners/losers! I don’t remember any of the other presenters being very good, but I do recall one that was a total write-off! I worked, studied, prepared until I knew my material, and finally I was introduced! It is an uncanny feeling gazing out at a solid wall of 500 eyes expectantly gazing back at you! At the very least I wanted to turn and look in the same direction that they were all looking; at worst I wanted to turn tail and run! In reality I stood there for several icy minutes while my thoughts fled like unruly teens upon the arrival of a small town cop! Finally my Professor took pity on me and let me leave the stage. At that point I knew I would never stand up in front of an audience again!

It was an ex-wife who brought me to Toastmasters. It’s funny how it’s wives, past and present, to whom I owe many of the best things in my life. I had been litigated to a financial stand still and, for our last appearance in court I’d chosen to represent myself, and did so in a more than passable manner. I decided that I wanted to return to school and study law. Unfortunately the Ontario Real Estate bubble, back in 1990 to which I’d contributed all my financial steam, popped just then leaving me in penurious dry dock! With no immediate means of returning to school I decided to still work in that direction by joining Toastmasters. Why Toastmasters? Well, I felt that I had something to say, but no way of getting it across; no delivery system! Also, in the back of my mind, an irritating little voice that kept whispering, “It’ll never fly Orville!” But Toastmasters provides excellent flight instruction, great hangers, a long straight runway, superb flight crew, and, of course, training manuals. Did I crash and burn? You Bet! Still do fairly regularly. But each time, with many helping, supportive hands, I was able to, “get myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again!” Where else would you rather fail than amid friends? Eventually, with effort and determination, you will rise from the ashes, reborn; after that the sky’s the limit. I won’t apologize for the Phoenix imagery, but ....it’s a Mackay thing.

I’d like to describe all the characters, goings on, and great presentations I’ve known and observed in both Sun & Sand Speakers, and Collingwood Toastmasters, but the material to be covered is vast, and I have only so much time. Let me just introduce one member from Collingwood whom I’ve known for a number of years, Alice Cowan. Alice is a phenomenal artist and a warm inquisitive person with well thought out views and attitudes. Did I mention she also has a great eye for detail? Approaching the age of 70, Alice is now on sabbatical from Collingwood Toastmasters while working on a publication. For her last presentation that I observed, Alice gave us an overview of various types of barnyard manure from an artist’s point of view. She covered all the bases, touching on colour, texture, and smell of several different animal species. Alice explained that she’d become interested in the topic while doing paintings in rural farm settings. The grand finale of her talk was a step by step overview of how she had pulled one of her major works together. The subject was a farmer cleaning out his stable. Alice explained that the only location which provided a suitable perspective and proper lighting, was that found on top of the manure pile. In order for her easel and chair to sit square a piece of plywood was set in place, and day after day, in the hot sun, Alice, her easel and her dog sat there until the painting was complete. You have to admire a Lady who not only knows her sh... well ...stuff, but keeps right on top of it.

I was looking forward to coming to Calgary where there are 67 clubs, all within 20 minutes or so of my humble abode, (depending on where I’m parked!) I intend to visit them all eventually but felt it would be best to start at the top and gradually work my way down. That in mind, I began my adventure with the Calgary Pace Setters Club; deets below:

Calgary Pace Setters Club -
Club #: 8170, Dist #: 42, Est: 05/01/1991
Meeting Time: 7:30 pm, Tuesday Midlands United Church
250-146 Ave SE, Calgary, AB, T2W 2H9,
CanadaClub Status: Open to all
(403) 256 0688
msbarr@shaw.ca
www.calgarypacesetters.com

I must admit that I was taken somewhat aback at my first visit to this club. The reason for this was that they were having a meeting like none I’d ever seen before. It was a ‘book report/movie review’ evening, and they were quick to inform me that this was a special occasion, not a regular meeting. Each member was to prepare in advance a report on a book which they had read, or a movie that they had seen recently. In five minutes they were to sum up their experience, and give a recommendation to their fellow members as to whether they felt the material worth pursuing. It was quite enjoyable and the members even extended an invitation to myself to participate. Fortunately I had read a book once, (well, actually, I read it twice as I just didn’t quite get it the first time, and, after the second reading, still unenlightened, gave up in disgust!) Armed with this rather meagre material, I was able to extract foot from mouth long enough to deliver, in my usual rambling, shambling manner, a vague overview of “Dickens of the Northwest Mounted Police”. It is the story of Francis Dickens, third son of Charles Dickens of English Literary fame; how he came to join the North West Mounted Police, and the adventures he faced there.

All in all it was an enjoyable evening and a refreshing break from routine; I’d suggest this theme for other clubs. The only addition I might make is that perhaps the participants do their reviews as manual speeches, and receive the subsequent evaluation. My second visit to this club was just as enjoyable and again turned up several gems which I must share with you.

The first is the club President, Marilyn Barr, who greeted me at the front door when first I visited. It was a warm greeting, and in her voice I detected the rich, rolling lilt and timbre of the highlands. At my query, Marilyn informed me that yes, she was originally from Scotland, and had been in Canada 28 years. Hmmm... thought I, must have only been one year old upon her arrival; two at the most. It seemed also that she brought the legendary Scottish frugality to her club, perhaps not as concerns money, but with regards to time! Each moment of the meeting was stretched to accommodate the maximum, many leaving change to be spent on other matters.

The business meeting was quite interesting. Most clubs I’m familiar with have the President conduct the Business portion of the meeting, or, if necessary, the Vice President of Education steps in to fill the role. The Pace Setters though leave the monthly business meeting in the hands of the Chairman of the evening, and I believe that this is a great idea! After all, most of us don’t get to become President of a club, and business meetings are something we all face; the experience is not just good for us, but, I believe, essential. Our Chairperson for the evening really put us through the hoops, attending to not just the day to day affairs of the club, but also motions, and the subsequent amendments to motions, with a deft administration of Roberts Rules of Order. Quick, slick and efficient, without getting bogged down in detail, and never once holding up the flow of the evening. Well done!

As a guest I was invited to participate in the Impromptu portion of the meeting, and our Topics Master played her role with ingenuity and flair; “What, James,” she demanded, “would be your contribution to World Peace, should you happen to be a finalist in a beauty pageant?” Many of you have observed my ‘James in the Headlights’ look as I try to think of something to say while the ‘Beads of Desperation’ break forth freely upon my brow; ....well, they’ve seen the look in Calgary now, and I’m sure they will see it again! Finally, muttering, stuttering and stumped I alluded that if I were in a Beauty Pageant, the best that I could possibly do for world peace, would be to skip the swimsuit portion of the competition! Sad, but so!

The Pace Setters do set a tight pace, and after two meeting I must confess I’m a little a little short of wind; but I’ll be back. If you are a Toastmaster visiting Calgary the Pace Setters offer both education and entertainment; I’d suggest that you make their meeting one of your first stops. If you are a Calgarian thinking of joining Toastmasters, my advice would be the same.

Many of you reading will have no idea how exhausting is the life of the unemployed. This last two weeks has taken a toll on me, and I’m off to Pincher Creek for a weekend of R&R. When I return I should be refreshed, re-invigorated, and fully prepared for another week of doing ....well, nothing!

James, (the B. is for Bashful), Mackay

Cultural Clash in 'Big Sky Country!'

Yes, it is ‘Big Sky Country’ here. The air is fresh and crisp and there’s room for a fellow to really stretch without worrying about jostling some politically correct/corrupt Liberal. Yes, I call myself a conservative but I am aware that lines blur and definitions get hazy depending on where you are located. I suppose that south of the border I’d be considered a socialist. Out here in Alberta they probably assume I’m a liberal, (I am from Ontario after all). None of it matters really, just so long as everyone’s happy. It does seem a little ironic though that I’m in Alberta looking for a starter home, while my pal Steve seems about to consolidate his tenancy at 24 Sussex Dr. in Ottawa.

“Gone are the days when the Ox would fall down,
I’d pick up the yoke and plough the field around.
Gone are the days when the ladies said, “Please,
Gentle Jack Jones, Won’t you come out with me”

Jerry and the Warlocks

It may seem odd for a fellow to leave a well paying job after 21 years, throw caution to the wind, and leap frog half way across the country. Call it mid-life crisis if you will, but I call it curiosity, wanderlust, and a desire to get a little closer to my rural roots. A fellow named Plato, from a different time and country, once said that, “The unexamined life isn’t worth living.” His student, a fellow named Aristotle, mulled that over for a while, and, while he agreed for the most part, he carried the notion a little further by stating, “The unplanned life isn’t worth examining!” Planning has always been my downfall, so, with the minute hand sweeping so quickly towards the age of 50, it was time to do a little planning. While continuing with my plans I’ll do just a little examining too.

Yes, I grew up on a farm planted firmly between the communities of Creemore, Duntroon, and Duneden. Duneden! Taken from the Gaelic, that’s a name to lend a small community a little flair. “Dun” of course means ‘fortress’, and “Eden”, on course, really needs no explanation, and there you have it, “Fortress at the entrance to Eden”. My Scottish forebears were drawn to this rugged, hilly terrain, and while their judgement may have been lacking in regards to agriculture, I do admire their taste in landscape. Perhaps that is what I’m trying to get in touch with, my rural, and other, roots.

I was born on the threshold of the 1960’s, the decade that shook up rural Ontario and dumped it unceremoniously into the 20th century. My Father had been a tank gunner in the 2nd world war and I asked him one time what was it that he most missed when he was overseas. “Rock Cola!” was his immediate response, “At nights I’d lay under the tank with shells bursting all around, and all I could see in my mind was a frosty bottle of Rock Cola. There was nothing like it in Europe.” That’s how antiquated we were back then; Rock Cola, just like Fred and Barney, way back when, in Bedrock. But Bedrock isn’t a bad place to be; especially if you wish to build a solid foundation.

My Mother and Father grew up on opposite sides of the small town of Creemore; She 5 miles to the north of the tiny community, He about 3 miles to the south/west. Both grew up on small farms during the depression. He developed a passion for farming; she swore she would never marry a farmer. They met in Toronto after the war when my Father was on the Police Force. In later years when teased about it she’d set her chin firmly and exclaim; “I didn’t marry a farmer! I married a policeman, who decided to farm!”

That’s how my family ended up on the west half Lot 18, Conn. 5, Nottawasaga township, and where we remained in one form or another till just into this our new century. I often teased that I was descended from a long line that my Mother once listened to! It was true! And a fine line it must have been for she continued listening through 50 years of marriage, while raising four children, and working a farm. In the end she slipped from this world to the next clinging to it tightly still!

It was a tight-knit Scott/Presbyterian farm community and at our Sunday School Picnics some of the older men and women still spoke Gaelic. When my Father began farming here in the early ‘50’s he did everything with horses. We did eventually get self propelled equipment, and fine stuff it was too, but, from the beginning and continuing to the very end, we lived and worked with horses. In the beginning they were an eclectic bunch with a heavy leaning towards Clydesdales. As we became more prosperous, and horses became well, not an amusement so much, but a necessary asset for small day-to-day jobs, leaving the heavy ‘oomph’ of modern farming to machines, my father began buying huge, matched Belgian teams. ‘Big Dumb Blondes’, I always called them, but wonderful, calm, patient animals, and Oh! so easy on the eyes as they meandered through the twilight pasture. Of course we had riding horses too, but more of them later.

My Great Uncle, Harold Miller, was, as he was called in the Ontario papers, “The last of the Pony Express”. I can just remember Uncle Harold sitting on His Sister’s porch in the Hamlet of Duntroon on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I would be very small then, and he seemed ancient to me, all weathered and worn; grizzled with generally a couple of days growth of whiskers on his etched face. A painter did his portrait back in the ‘60’s, and it gained a level of local fame, showing Harold on a fine, sunny day sitting in his buggy, holding the leads in his gnarled old hands. That is what Harold did for a living, a Postal worker, delivering the mail, six days a week, through the rolling hills that enfolded the town of Duntroon. In summer he drove an open buggy, and in winter a cutter with top, and drapes surrounding the driver, with just a slit through which the reins passed. “Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor dark of night....” well, you get my drift. It was partly age that ended a long and quiet career. It was partly an antiquated way of life being swept before an impatient and unforgiving future. But at the end it was just local youth who brought that era to an end. One Halloween night they broke into Harold’s barn and painted his horses with oil based paint. That was the last of the Pony Express!

As you might guess life on 18/19 side road was quiet by today’s standards. We knew the owner of each automobile that chanced to pass, and, if we were within shouting distance of the road, they often stopped to chat. And why not? If the weather is fine, and the crops are tended, what better pastime than chatting with your neighbours? One year, before we kids were old enough to do all the work, (that’s right, at birth the doctor gave me a slap on the ass and handed me to my Father saying, “There you are Jim! An eight and a half pound hired hand!”), my father placed an ad in the local paper looking for someone, anyone!, to help with the haying. A local wag, Alex McDermott, later claimed that it was two years before another car ventured down our side road. “They just weren’t willing,” claimed Alex, “to take a chance that the haying wasn’t yet finished!”

I think that the greatest contributor to our discontent these days is our marvellous media which showers us with images of what we might aspire to, and constantly reminds us of how the Jones are doing, and what we must do to keep up. As a child on the farm I knew that we were rich, and I felt sorry for those that didn’t, for whatever reason, have those things that we did. We had the fields, the machines, the cows and horses, a huge garden, and ....did I mention the meals? Never heard of ‘lunch’ till I left the farm. It was breakfast, dinner, and supper! I remember hearing of a somewhat eccentric threesome that had lived close to us, two brothers and a sister, who’d never married and still lived together on the family homestead. Apparently the sister was a marvel of a cook, and her baking, it is said, approached the immortal, especially her pies! At meals, when the pie was trundled in, it was cut in three equal pieces, and each member of the family got an even share. You didn’t have to wait for desert either, the Family Rule was, “Pie, then Tatties, then Pie again! It was school that finally ‘Bust my Bubbles’. Grade one! Looking around I could see that while we might be rich in our own farm way, we sure didn’t have much money, and hardly any shiny, store bought stuff. I don’t recall it troubling me, but I did notice.
In the end I blame two things for the loss of that way of life. The first was the loss of Sunday as a day of rest. In our austere Scots, Presbyterian, agrarian community the world came to a stop late Saturday evening, and didn’t dare creep forward till sometime in the am Monday morning; (quite often about 4:00am!) At church on Sunday Black was the proper attire of a man’s suit; grey might be accepted, if the shade was dark enough, ....but the wearer would be forever suspect. You never saw a blue suit on a man at our church, they weren’t Presbyterian, and just didn’t get it.

Then in the 50’s an ambitious young fellow moved into the neighbourhood and took up farming. A hard worker, respectable and ploughed a straight, neat furrow; it looked like he fit right in, except that he was two generations younger than the locals. He was just starting up while they were in the slow country process of shutting down. He was looking forward to having children, they were past their child bearing years, and they’re kids had limped out of the hayfield and hitchhiked straight into town, too smart to take up farming! There was really only one aggravating thing about him; if the weather was nice, he worked on Sunday!

On fine summer Sunday’s the ladies sitting in the passenger seats of the solid black cars passing his farm on the way to church would stare straight ahead icily, unblinking and unwilling to even glance at an interloper so callous as to blaspheme the Holy day by driving team or tractor through his own fields. Their husbands, sitting solemnly in black at the wheel, with tight collars chaffing sunburned Adam’s Apples, would glance cautiously, and grimace slightly. They knew where they wanted to be, but had better sense than to mention the fact! I asked my Father about it in later years, and he answered, “I felt that God wanted me to make it possible for people to eat, and I knew that he wouldn’t mind me doing some of the work on his day; especially when it was him who provided the sunshine.”

The second suspect in the decline of that way of life was the convenience of bottle feeding. I confess that I’m a natural man; never, as a babe in arms, did I receive my required nutrition from anything that had to be boiled before and after! But Mother succumbed to the times as well and, unlike my older sister and myself, my younger brother and sister were raised on the bottle! That’s right, both of them were deprived, while I, then as now, am depraved. Those early influences in life stay with you, and I’m still a sucker for a nice set.
So perhaps that’s what I’m looking for, a place a little quieter, a little friendlier, a slightly slower pace. I’m the first to admit that I may never find it, but at the same time I realize that some places hold closer to my ideal than others. Julie and I spent wonderful time in Eastern Canada, and we found the pace and people pleasing there. But the jobs are scarce there, and, however much we might wish or feel otherwise, we aren’t quite ready to retire yet. We hope to find something similar out here in Calgary, and I believe I’ve seen lot’s of positive indications so far in my adventure. A fellow once said, “East is East, and West is West, and never the Twain shall meet!” (....unless there’s another Twain on the same Twack!)

It seems to me that the East and West are a Twain, similar in many positive and refreshing ways, the only obstacle on the Twack is that big area surrounding Toronto. When Julie and I were in Nova Scotia we spent a delightful afternoon talking to lovely lady who brought us up to date on local history, and lent us insights into the people there. “How is that everyone is so warm, open and laid back here?” I asked. She paused for a moment, looked me straight in the eye, and replied, “It’s because we shipped all the assholes to Ontario!”

Change is inevitable, and I’ve avoided it as long as I can; the time to act is now, for just a little later will be ....too late. I admit that change generally entails loss, but I suspect it also comes with its share of gain as well. It reminds me of our old Piano instructor, who I shall here call Barb. It was my older sister who met her first, and she became a friend of our family; a closer friend to some than to others I suppose. She was 22, and had followed her ‘draft-dodger’ boyfriend up to Ontario where he was working on his Master’s degree at U of T. Tall and slender she was; a child of the 60’s with jet black hair, and that almost ethereal, translucent ivory skin which so often accompanies it.

In no time she ingratiated herself into our lives, and was soon hired by my Mother to teach my younger siblings, Lori and David, to play the piano. Lonely, as she was stuck out in the country in an old farmhouse while her boyfriend Larry stayed in Toronto during the week to pursue his education, she often graced our table for evening meals. The roads were poorly maintained in winter in those days; travel difficult, and storms frequent. One night she was storm-stayed at our place.

Looking back, even now I don’t know how things transpired. I suspect it was squeaky Farmhouse floorboards; perhaps it was maternal intuition. In any case, late that night my bedroom door burst open, and my own Mother caught myself and the piano teacher involved in what I can only describe as an enchanting conversation. She just didn’t understand. It was a major change in our lives! Poor Barb lost a job! My younger sister lost the chance at entertaining in the musical fashion she so aspired to, (and has never forgiven me for by the way!) Our family lost an entertaining social connection. And myself ....well, never mind what I lost! My Mother never discussed the matter with me, and from outward appearances seemed quite miffed. On the inside, who knows, she took the matter to the grave with her. I hope that on the inside she was pleased in some small way; that she no longer had to depend on our family doctor’s assurances; that deep inside she knew, “It’s a boy!”

My losses in any event were, to my mind, trivial. Did I gain from the experience? Well, I’ve never mastered the piany; if asked I can perform a rudimentary “Chopsticks”, but, believe me, I’m seldom asked! But, at almost fifty I can look back through all the intervening years, and recall how one evening, as a mere youth, I tickled those ivories!
But now I have put all that behind me and am headed to Calgary with, as Corb Lund put it so well;

“My hair in my eyes like a Highland Steer,
A Spring in my step like a White Tailed Deer,
A hitch in my hip like an old sheep Dog,
I’ll puff out my chest like a Big Bull Frog!”

The Hurtin’ Albertans

As I drove through Manitoba and Saskatchewan I could see the country opening up, and feel the change in the air; that elusive, laid back, rural vibrancy! The endless convoy of 18 wheelers I’d been scrunched between all through Ontario began to thin out and passenger vehicles became more plentiful. In the early evening, approaching Calgary, I could see the Buffalo, etched against the horizon by the setting sun. And that was when I saw that which I’d seen on the Internet before, but had never expected to witness in Canada! “Tailgate trinkets,” is the best I can do to describe them, and they dangled gracefully from the trailer hitch of the SUV in front of me, swaying gently as the vehicle rolled and curved with the sweep of the foothills. I’ll try to put a picture at the top to show you what I mean before I post.

Finally, when I’d settled into my room for my first night in Calgary, and opened my first copy of the Calgary Sun, my eye was caught by a large ad. It was for a performance by the Royal Winnipeg Ballet Company, and, between the pictures and the enthusiastic write-up, I found myself thinking, “Yeah, I wish Julie were here! I could really go for that!”

Tailgate trinkets & Ballet performances! An odd cultural pairing I must admit; but this is Big Sky country, and there’s room here to embrace just about anything you’d care to mention, (and even those you wouldn’t dare mention!). Besides, everybody should have a pair!
When travelling you must choose your companions carefully, and I brought several along to help ease my passage. As I barrelled west along the TCH Howlin’ Wolf was sitting in the passenger seat ...well, ....Howlin’,

“Come all you Ladies when the day is done,
You don’t have to worry, you can have your fun!
Come on Baby take me by the hand!
I’m three hundred pounds of Muscle and Man!”

Howlin’ Wolf

Yes, Calgary, back-lit by the setting sun, is an enticing Lady. I think that I can have fun in this town!

James R.W.R.N Mackay

Go West Young Man!

Since we first colonized North America opportunity has been knocking on the Atlantic side of the continent, but the answer has slowly but surely creeping towards the Pacific. It’s as though the rainbow begins in the East, but the Pot of Gold lies in the west! Just as Grampa Joad, in Steinbeck’s, “Grapes of Wrath,”, wanted to reach California, pick a big bunch of grapes, and ‘squoosh’ the juice all over his old body, I too wanted to romp out here, grab handfuls of $100 bills, and squeeze till the change cascaded about my feet! Poor old Grampa never made it. I have, but I haven’t found those $100 bills just yet.

Julie, in a conversation with friends, commented how worried she was that I would be lonely in my travels. In jest I remarked that there would be enough $50 hookers out there that no man need ever fear loneliness. It didn’t go over well as marital remarks go, but the subject of loneliness was not broached again.

For my first four nights in Calgary I stayed in an inexpensive Hotel. While there I became quite familiar with the clientele. For the most part they were a nice combination of itinerate workers, families pausing in the pursuit of their own rainbow, a little apprehensive of the necessary expense, and, due to the proximity of the airport, a few travelling businessmen. A nice eclectic mix and, once familiar with the clientele, it became easy to pick out those that did and did not fit in.

When I’d had enough and moved back into my truck I didn’t really stay in the Hotel parking lot, but went about my business through the day, using the parking lot and/or the one of the Husky service center beside it, as a home base. Here I could return in the evening and, over a cup of tea, watch the mysteries of the hotel/trucker world unfold. It’s a completely different world from that which you observe within the hotel walls. I call it my own ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ program, and enjoy the practice, although I’m aware there are other terms for it.

It was the Wednesday of my first week here, about 4:30pm, and I’d returned from points elsewhere to freshen up, grab a bite to eat, and take a few moments to meditate before going to a Toastmasters meeting for the evening. I’d hardly arrived when a rather shabby Ford half ton pulled into the row in front of me. It was grey in a hazy, rusty sort of way, and various bits dangled forlornly. Like myself, long past its prime, and like myself just didn’t seem to fit into this picture.

It appeared that the driver was a slight young lady, her hair in a pony tail which she immediately unloosed and began to brush out. There was quite a flurry of activity for a few moments; make-up adjustments interspersed with quick intense phone calls, and an odd combination of impatient cigarette smoking with rapid gum chewing. It was her hair I suppose that stuck in my mind, a very light ash blonde that reminded me of my daughter Allison’s hair ....before it dyed.

Then, the phone set aside, but still working the gum and smoke, she stepped out of the truck and another frenzy of activity began. Off came the knee length trench coat and I could see that she probably fell just a trifle short of twenty. About the same age as my daughter, just as slim, but taller with the wicked spikes on those tall lace-up boots. “Ah!” thought I to myself, “how much less callous today’s youth than those of my own day. Here is a young rancher’s daughter, in her Father’s truck, taking a few moments out of her unimaginably cluttered social life, to visit a dear Uncle stopped in this lonely city for a day or two on business. In my time I believe that I forgot Aunts & Uncles from about age twelve till thirty.

She had on a form fitting black sheath that must have had a good jag of spandex thrown in just to showcase her assets. Short? Well some might say so. Myself, well ....had you knocked another quarter inch off it you would have seen my angina. Such is the glory of innocent youth; the complete unawareness of its effect on others. A vixen she was in her rapid deft movements adjusting that dress just so, all the while chewing gum and smoking yet another cigarette. Bright as a fresh minted dime she put her coat back on, adjusted the belt to best advantage, shook out her shoulder length ash hair, cast aside her butt, and marched towards the entrance with confidence and determination. But she paused just short of the door and made one quick phone call; I assume just making sure that she did not embarrass her uncle by catching him in a nap.
Not much of a gambler I still bet myself she’d be back in less than an hour ...given the timidity of lethargic age when faced with the vibrancy of youth. With a weary sigh I composed myself for twenty minutes meditation and rose refreshed to begin putting together my modest supper. As I was trying to camouflage the results of my latest culinary endeavour with a drift of pepper I noticed her striding confidently back to her less than pristine truck. She climbed in and immediately launched into a rerun of the preening ritual I’d observed when she arrived; hair combed out and tied in a pony tail, meticulous attention to makeup, and cigarette puffed in short intense beacon bursts; all three interspersed with urgent cell calls. Then ...nothing! What had gone wrong? A spat with her boyfriend? Perhaps Uncle, in a moment of warmth and trust, had disclosed to her a serious malady, and she, her teen shoulders inadequate to such a burden, was rallying the entire family to his beside in condolence.

Whatever it was it was important. She was out of the truck, pacing, smoking and celling like a fiend! This went on for ten minutes and I began to fear that all my conjecture was crumbling around me. Then the arrival of the white knight; ....or black Honda in this case, a Honda in better shape than the Ford, but not noticeably so. To her rescue came two strapping cousins. I’d say brothers, but, in this case the family similarity was a little vague. Rural rappers this pair; undone basketball shoes, pants slung so low you could see the tops of their socks, and, on a cloudy damp day, sunglasses on top of their billiard smooth heads.

For a few moments the cousins gave the old Ford received more attention than it had received in the last half decade. Both heads were together under the hood, each one taking a turn behind the wheel, while their sweet cousin paced and played with her cell. Finally the hood went down. They hadn’t been as successful as they’d wished. In a rush they beckoned the Lady to their Honda. I was disappointed in her response to this gallantry. With an exclamation I couldn’t quite hear she spun on the toe of her elegant right stiletto and round housed the driver’s side door with the left; ...a rather cunning stunt! Stamping around the front of the truck she repeated this action to the front passenger fender-. Finally, one last fond adieu; two swift kicks to the box, and into the Honda she placed her indignant self. As they passed my van I saw her sitting in the back seat, another lit cigarette between her lips, counting a handful of twenties. The truck sat there till I vacated a couple days later, and may well sit there still.

My first Wednesday in Calgary someone, noting that I was from Ontario, enquired politely, “I guess you’re not a Flames fan, eh? I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, while I did enjoy playing hockey in university, and always loved watching my friends on other teams play, I couldn’t sit through a NHL game to save my life! Discretion is the entirety of my valour, I’m afraid, so I responded with enthusiasm, “I’ve been fascinated by the flames for ages, and there are few things I enjoy more than watching the leafs get burned!” From that point my new found best, but somewhat misled, friend got on famously. Oh well, ...it’s a Mackay thing.

I was not ab-whored by the scene I described in the hotel parking lot. It’s a scene as old as humanity itself. I’ve read that during the Industrial Revolution one in three houses in London were bawdy houses. Not in the modern sense, but just in the sense that, in one third of the homes, someone, whether it be wife, daughter, or maid, would look to the world’s oldest profession, and hone their entrepreneurial skills. It was economic necessity. I don’t know that it’s necessary now a days, and doubt that it’s economical, but it certainly seems popular.

My Father, who was for ten years one of Toronto’s finest, described to me a fellow he used to see regularly on his beat. Long dark hair and flowing beard, he dressed in a simple robe, and looked much like the pictures of the Biblical Jesus that we’re so familiar with. Without doubt he suffered some form of mental aberration, but my Father said that he was amazed at the normal, lucid and authentic manner in which he presented himself. If asked he could tell you how many souls went to heaven that day, and how many failed the test! He could predict the date and time of the end of the world with the accuracy of a Coo-Coo clock! But he was well informed on current affairs, and could converse easily. My Father, ever the Farmer, even in uniform, was always willing to shoot the breeze. He asked Jesus, for that is what the fellow called himself, “What do you think of all the Lovin’ going on in the parks and allays?” He said that Jesus mulled the question over for a moment then pronounced, “I think it’s here to stay!”

I did not get involved with that young ‘looker’, nor any similar; I’m twenty or thirty years too old and two or three hundred dollars short for such adventures. Fan of flames though I am, the heat of youth is too much for me. I can’t find kindling, my coals are banked, and my ashes hauled long ago; ...I’ve been burnt before! Besides, like that poor old truck, this rusted out old reprobate wouldn’t stand up well to such a battering of his fenders!

But, had I managed to broach the $50.00 question, I cannot imagine the response being positive. Oh she might have been polite. She might not have repulsed my advances with a stiletto roundhouse. But even with a polite “No!”, I’m sure the inference in the well tweaked but arched eyebrow would convey the essence of the attitude I found here on my first trip. “Let the Cheap Eastern Bastard Freeze in the Dark!, ...Alone!”

My title for this piece was taken from a quote from a lady named Mae. It read, I believe, it pre-revisionist times as; “Go West Hung Man!”

james

It's Just the Drugs Talking!

Just two days prior to my undertaking this adventure, Julie went down to our local pharmacy and brought me home a three month supply of drugs. It seemed appropriate at the time and perhaps just a touch ironic too. You see, this is the second time I’ve driven west. The first time was almost thirty years ago, and then, like now, I brought approximately three months worth of drugs with me, (for a one month trip!) My! How time flies once you’ve had your fun!


And drugs were fun back then! What I take now-a-days borders on routine and chore, the generic, no thrills variety. The main difference, I believe, is that what I took back then were mainly ‘uppers’. But the stuff my doctor looks so serious about as he pens another script, all go in the opposite direction; ....straight down! There are pills to keep my blood pressure down! There are other pills to keep my clorestrol down. Sugar pills keep my glucose levels down. Anti-depressants keep me, well ....I’m not sure, but, I can see my analogy is breaking down.


The end result is that I’m now an “all talk, no action” kinda guy! And that gets me down! Those male readers of my age or older will get it. Subsequently, many of the female readers of a similar age group won’t! It’s no joking matter, and I was never one to tell jokes anyway. However I do occasionally enjoy a true to life anecdote, and perhaps you’ll allow me to share one now, if only to help shrug off this gloomy topic.


Grampa stepped out onto the porch and stretched approvingly in the early morning June sunshine. As he gazed about the promising day before him, he spotted his young grandson, Jimmy, kneeling in the grass. “What are you doing there son?” he chuckled, “You’ll be getting your jeans wet in the dew.” “Come here quick Grampa,” Jimmy called, “and see this poor worm that the rain last night forced from his home!” As Grampa ambled towards him Jimmy explained, “If I leave him lying on the grass the robins will eat him, so I’m trying to put him back in his hole!


Grampa looked at Jimmy with fond old eyes and chuckled, “Well son, that’s a grand idea, but you can’t put the worm back in his hole unless he wants to go there.” “Oh yes I can Grampa, just you wait and see!” With that Jimmy dashed across the lawn and darted into the house. In just a twinkle, he was back; carrying an aerosol can of his Grandma’s hairspray. Tenderly he stretched the poor worm out to its full length. Quickly he applied an even coat hairspray along the worms entire length. For a moment Jimmy let the sun dry the spray, then gently rolled the worm over and applied a coat to his other side. “Now, watch this Grampa,” Jimmy exclaimed, and he picked the worm up as if it was a pencil. Placing one end of the worm in its hole he began gently tapping its other end with his forefinger. In less time than it takes to tell, the worm was completely out of site! Grampa was laughing so hard that he had to hold his belly with both hands. As he wiped the tears from his eyes he pulled out his tattered billfold and withdrew a $5.00 bill. Still chuckling he said, “That was a pretty good trick son, this $5.00 is for you. Jimmy beamed at the old man.


The next morning was another lovely summer day. Grampa again stepped out on the porch and stretched. Jimmy came running across the lawn to greet him, and together they made plans for the day. As they turned towards the door to go in for breakfast, Grampa hesitated, and reached into his pocket and pulled out another $5.00 bill. “This is for you son”, he said as he tousled the boys hair. “But Grampa”, Jimmy exclaimed looking up in wonder, “You don’t have to give me that; you already gave me one yesterday.” Grampa just laughed and ruffled his hair again, “It’s not from me son”, he explained, “It’s from your Grandma, she enjoyed your trick too!”


The worst thing about all the pharmaceuticals is the realization that, even if I take them regularly, as prescribed, I won’t live forever, but ....it may seem that way. Just a word about the anti-depressants, they don’t bring me down, they keep me from arriving there by my own devices. Some English writer once said, “A rose, by any other name would smell as sweet”, and that may be true as flowers go. But I’m not so sure it applies to the terms for our mental aberrations. I liked the old term, ‘manic/depressant’. It sounded serious; even a little edgy with that almost ‘maniac’ thrown in. But, ‘Bi-polar?! What’s flattering or edgy about that? It sounds, for all the world, like nothing less than a fellow with a penchant for white, gay bears.

James, (The B. aint for Bear) Mackay

My world and welcome to it!

There are many forms of RV travel. The most common is going to a destination, renting a campsite, hooking up water, sewers, hydro, cable TV, and sometimes a clothesline or two. Then you sit and bake in the summer sun, swilling beer and developing a terrific peel, with 500 other couples more or less like yourselves. Julie and I avoid these settings. The means we prefer is called, “Boon-docking”, which means primarily, camping without any of those hook-ups, and preferably, without any of those neighbours. It can be in a Wal-Mart parking lot, or a provincial park, or just by a secluded stream by a quiet stream. We’re not fussy. We can, and have, slept almost everywhere.

But my favourite, and what I’m forced to choose now, is ‘Stealth Camping’. That simply means that you camp, without hook-ups, or conventional amenities, where ever you like, where ever you can, but generally, where you’re not allowed. We’ve slept in down town Toronto and on the main street of many a small town. We’ve slept on old docks and long unused logging roads. You may call us exhibitionists, but no ....we pull the drapes. I’ve always enjoyed it on vacations, and for the next couple of months I’ll have nothing but.

I’ve never disliked cops but, over the years I’ve noticed that I generally feel better when there are none of them around. What it comes down to really is that old Monte Python bit; ‘The importance of not being seen.’ If you use common sense, behave yourself, don’t leave any messes or garbage, in short, don’t raise any red flags, most people will not notice you, and most of those that do will presume, (accurately), that you are neither a threat nor any sort of menace. Julie and I have never been disturbed on any of our Stealth missions. However, just the idea of RCMP storm troopers knocking at 3:00am, and politely directing me to move on into the night, has me keeping my light under a bushel.

When Julie first suggested, three years ago, that I treat myself to a lap-top model I almost swooned. It must be 30 years since I’ve been near a strip club. But, as she very quickly pointed out, those weren’t the models she had in mind. We got one then, and both of us are happy with it sitting on the Jotto desk between the driver and passenger seat. It’s handy for navigation, taking notes and watching DVDs while flying down long mountain switch-backs. It is a cheapie. The reason for that is vibration is death to computers. The heads, riding just a few microns above surface of the disk, are susceptible, as is the disk itself. The Canadian army has its own Tuff-service lap-tops that will survive tank explosions, direct artillery hits, and quarts of beer spilt on the keyboard, but I don’t think that you’d want to pay for one. Way more than army toilet seats! “The best thing to do is get a cheapie and throw it out in a couple of years when it fails to function.

But, two is twice as nice as one, and now I have a second laptop. You know, one for routine chores, and one to take to bed with me. That’s literally true. I do have a King size bed and Julie is fussy about what software I run on my hard drive. So now I have an office in bed. It makes multi-tasking a dream, literally. Most important, as this is not in the disposable price range, is that I can buffer it in its case, on a mattress, (and we all know that a mistress is just what you find between a mister & his mattress!), and surround it with pillows when travelling.
Two problems I’ve encountered: I don’t type well lying down in the dark! I don’t seem to have the same energy that I did at home. Yes, I spent last night trying to type in the dark, (I’ve spent worse nights!), but even spell check threw up its hands in disgust! This will require a little thought; perhaps a few LED’s on the ceiling over the bed. They work quite well in the galley, lasting forever, and not a battery yet. Their light is sufficient to read/type by, and hardly causes noticeable illumination outside. I did mention that this is Stealth camping.

The second problem may not be so simple. Despite the fact that, when you enter my home you will see many AC outlets, these are a disappointment for all but those times when you are plugged into ‘shore-power’. A generator is the best answer, but an expensive one. Oh, yes, you can find them really cheap, but the first problem is finding one small enough to fit in the desired spot, that still puts out the required watts. The second, and killer, problem is the expense of having it attached in the spot that the factory should have placed it in the first place. Not cheap, or easily do-it-your-self-able.

That leaves me with three options. We have an on-board 12 volt marine battery which is charged by either a ‘shore line’, or the van engine. This is very good for one night of conservative use, i.e., lights, fan, possibly furnace. To this I’ve added a second, portable marine unit for emergencies. Lastly, I have the use of the van motor with an inverter to convert the DC current to AC. The problem with the marine batteries is that the conversion to AC power is pretty inefficient, and they don’t last long. The van motor works quite well but gets 0 mph when used as a generator, (about half, I believe, of its usual mileage.), and it really isn’t very stealthy is it?

Well, that’ll give me something to work at in my idle moments.

james

Safe Tea First!

In ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ Steinbeck had some of the character refer to the Oakies by the derogatory slang term, “Shit-heels”. Many believed that the term signified that the Oakies were of agrarian background and had been, as farmers have doing since the beginning, clomping through meadows and stables, putting both feet squarely in the profit! But the term carries a slightly more slanderous overtone. It refers to a being so culturally and economically backward that, having neither porcelain seat nor worn pine board to ease his morning ablutions, he has to squat. Small inaccuracies of aim are then inevitable, lacking hind sight. Did I mention earlier that I had no porcelain amenities?

Yes, I have abandoned my friends at the Super 8 and am once again, back where I belong; living on the streets. It feels like home! Don’t get me wrong! The Super 8 is a fine facility. It’s just that I never did enjoy hotel; they are handy but expensive, convenient but oh so impersonal. It all started with the fact that there was no coffee maker in the room. The coffee provided in the lobby for clients was ....well ....I wouldn’t want to step into it either! So, when the urge hit, I’d have to throw on a jacket, go down four floors, march across the Husky parking lot, and bring back ‘trucker brew’. But man does not live java alone, and, by Saturday night I was ready for a cup of tea!

That was the straw, (or tea leaf if you prefer!), that broke the camel’s back. I set out to brew a cup of tea. I’m almost embarrassed to tell you that it didn’t turn out as well as expected. The goal itself was attainable, but the means of attaining it scant. I have a tin coffee perk in the van which I use to make coffee or tea for myself and my bride on the gas burner when we’re camping. Unfortunately, there’s no heat source in the room! But wait....I’m not always as look as I stupid! I remembered then that when I’d arrived, and hung up my jacket in the closet, I’d noticed the micro-wave bolted to the floor!

It had struck me as odd at the time! What kind of desperate criminal would try to steal a $50.00 micro wave? It wouldn’t happen in Ontario! But, let’s not be hasty to judge my new province ....they must have had their reasons. The goal now was in sight. I just had to go down to the Trek and bring back Tea bags, and a real porcelain cup. Eureka! Off I went happily, and was soon back again just as happily. Now, let’s see ....the recipe, if I remember correctly, is fill cup with water, Ok! Now, place the cup in micro and bring to a boil. I hadn’t really scoped out the mic yet, but as I knelt before it I marvelled at its sturdiness; “they sure know how to make them!” I thought in wonder. It was small, you couldn’t have gotten more than 4 tea cups in it, but ....one was all I needed!

It’s not pleasant to admit that at almost 50, with all the hi-tack toys Julie insists on piling upon me, that I’m still trying to figure out micro waves. But please understand, it was dark, it was in a closet, I was on my knees, and I’m half blind! Eager with anticipation I placed the cup, closed that impossibly heavy door, and began to press buttons. Nothing happened! Indeed, nothing happened for quite a while, and I feel it safe to assure you that, if I ventured back there now, nothing would still be happening! I’d just locked my best ....no! ....my only teacup, in a vault!

Time to resort to the big guns. In the Trek we do have a drip brewer; but it’s clunky, huge, and requires ac current to use ....therefore, it seldom is used. I headed down four flights to retrieve it, stopping for a mament to explain to the front desk. He blinked at me solemnly and enquired, “You have a micro wave in your room? “No! No!” I insisted, “I have a safe in my room, ....but I can’t make Tea in it!!” With that I zipped out the door, nipped into the van, and, within 45 seconds tripped back through the main entrance, drip in hand. Both clerks were staring at me. They’d obviously been deep in conversation, ....a conversation I’d just interrupted. “Sir?,” the more authoritarian clerk blinked at me solemnly, “you were trying to make Tea in the safe?” The blinking continued un-abated. “No”, I replied, “I was trying to make Tea in a micro wave.” “However”, I continued, striving for a firm, level tone, “When you have an hour or two to spare, you might come up and help me figure the safe’s combination! “ My cup is in it, and I want it back!”

So, there you have it. I’m now back in my van. I can make a cup of whenever I choose. True, it steams the windows completely, but let those truckers think what they wish! It is snug and homey. The only real problem I can see is the gas ring. There’s nothing complicated about these, but its tight quarters; lots of stuff hanging everywhere, and all kinds of things to trip over; accidents can happen. But, as I told you earlier, flame is my element. And the name Mackay itself means “Son of, (a bitch! I just set myself on), Fire!

Next time I’ll bring a cook!

James T. Mackay

On the Steps of the Super 8 I sat down and Wept!

This I wrote late Thursday night after three days of driving and three or four hours trying to get my stuff to work with their stuff. Looking back I realize just how tired I was then; ...just too stubborn to acknowledge the fact! =(

Yeah! It was a long, snowy, slushy day ...with unrewarding overtones. I have a feeling, (...or lack of!), that I’ll still have ‘driver’s cramp’ when I begin the second long drive of this adventure. What I need is a massage! Oh well, I guess that’s what it’s like to be single and unkneaded. I was quite excited to have the opportunity to get a room with wireless internet access! I’ve had both the time and opportunity to connect on this trip, but, regrettably, never both at the same time! I feel like such a pioneer, romping along in my ox-cart at 110 clicks, and no way to get in touch with the home folk.

All a-twitter with anticipation I hooked up the lap-top that my own Honey insisted I purchase, and, heart in mouth ...double clicked on Outlook! TAH-DAH!!!! .....”Windows cannot connect to the Internet”!!!! Freddy! Uncle Charlie! Kate! ....Now, as a new computer user, you may often assume that the fault is entirely your own, and 99% of the time you’ll be right. I took the safe bet. With my bare hands I clawed the soft-ware entrails from the brute! I must admit that, while I did feel somewhat better, Windows still could not connect. I phoned the front desk and enquired whether they might, upon rare occasion, have difficulties with their wireless network. My smug tone cast distain upon anyone whose wireless didn’t work nearly as well as my own. “Yes,” they assured me, “When a lot of people are using it, it’s hard to connect” I laughed airily as I hung up the phone, and immediately dissolved into what I can only describe as “un-Presbyterian” language. Had you heard that an iguana can hold its breath for 28 minutes? That’s the level of trivia the hotel TV offers me as I sit here inconsolable.

Too bereft to carry on at that point, I abandoned my room to seek solace with the wonderful ladies at the Husky gas bar. I sat through a huge steak, and innumerable coffee refills, and, thus fortified, rolled up my sleeves and prepared to do battle with the forces of Evil! Did you know that sloths move so slowly, that algae grows on them? More input from the television. In short, I had to use System Restore for my first and second times. That’s Microsoft for you, “Quality is job 1.1”. The first time they insisted that it hadn’t worked. They were correct. The second time, they insisted that it hadn’t worked, and it had!

Getting in touch with my inner gypsy!

I was never one to travel. Even as a child we didn't do vacations. Unless you count the two months my father, (Also James B.), set aside each summer in what can only be described as a pastoral setting. Yes, an annual tour of the hayfields. I was never 'itching to get at it', but, after 20 or 30 years in the field, so to speak, just the thought leaves me itching. We are all shaped by experience, and, I believe it was haying that contributed to what I can only describe as my 'balefull' outlook on life.

But that all changed recently, thanks to Julie Anne Eliza Mackay; the same woman responsible for most of the positive changes in my life. It was her own true self that dragged me, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century, travel-wise at least. It was her idea to invest in our Roadtrek and we've never looked back. Two years of fabulous vacations and even better weekends! Imagine, we can tour North America, and never be more than 10 feet from our King size bed!

When Julie suggested that I leave the province she was concerned that I would be lonely, all by myself in our Trek. I politely tried to hide my smile! How could I be lonely in the place where I'm most at home? Everything I could possibly need is at my finger tips. Well, OK, it may be buried under 5 or 6 other things, but it's all at my finger tips, ....should I choose to dig.

But I find I miss my porcelain most. It's surprising how attached we get to the small comforts in life. Oh, I do have my porcelain fixtures with me, but, until the temperature improves, it's strictly, "Look but don't touch!" Kind of like my first date, but this lasts so much longer!

Yes, I never could hold my liquor, but it's very disconcerting, at this age, to realize that I can't hold my water either! Thousands of kilometres and quarts of foul coffee do take a toll on a man, and it's me who constantly has to pay that toll. This is all complicated by the fact that I'm diabetic. You see, my liver, which was formerly reserved for higher callings, now looks at glucose as it's mortal enemy, and deals with it the only way it can, ....sends it straight to my bladder! Only one thing could deprove the situation, and that would be a five pound sack of Reese's Peanut butter cups. I found these stowed on the passenger seat shortly after exiting Wasaga Beach for points west by my very own Honey! Tasty, but they do raise the glucose levels off the chart. So my 3000 kilometre drive out here was literally a whizz.

I'd mentioned earlier that the distance from the driver's seat to my bed is less than 10 feet; .....I didn't tell you that it's just eight feet to the loo! But, at these temperatures that vision is no more tangible than the mirage laid out so tantalizingly before the thirsty wretch in the desert. You can stop for coffee every 45 minutes, but that really slows down the driving process, and more coffee just adds to the problem. I toyed with the idea of producing my own, "Trucker Bombs", but ruled that out as too barbarous for environmentally friendly me. I won't describe these 'bombs' to you, just let me say, if you happen to see a full diet 7up bottle in the ditch, ....leave it right where it is!

In the end I had to learn to drive through the pain, and, for anyone who may have seen me standing at the side of the TCH during the last week, "No, I wasn't hitchhiking."

The second dilemma I've faced in my solo flight is just that, it’s solo! I had realized from the first that there would be no one but myself to blame for my geographical blunders, and was fully prepared to shoulder that burden. Realistically I'd always assumed that 50% of my love for travelling in the RoadTrek was due to the presence of my co-pilot, my one true love, my very own Julie Anne Eliza Mackay. I may have to revise that statistic to 75%.

Yes, we're separated for the time being, but will be together again soon. I'm not worried about her travelling out here though. This is the same woman who proudly announced, on our first date, "I'm a Hargeaves; I only have to pee once a day!" I know, it was an odd conversational gambit, but, you really had to be there!

That's all for now,

James P. Mackay

Abandon Hype All Ye Who Enter Here!

And now it can be told! I know. It is a rather "Dante"ing title, with definite overtones of the Inferno. But let me explain: I am a Mackay! The name was created in the 12th century from the Pictish term, "eth" which means "fire", and translated into Gaelic as "aye", which means the same thing. Add on the Gaelic, "Mac", which simply means, "Son of", and you end up with a title which means, "Son of Fire". I might add that, I do feel a little, 'out of the frying pan', just now, and everything ahead is, 'into the fire', so, as you can see, I'm in my element, so to speak.

I must begin by thanking Joan, my lovely sister-in-law, (I have several), for coming up with the idea of a web log. Thank you Joan. Just what I need, ....more work, and 'tecky' things to figure out! But, a good idea none-the-less; ...and one that I shall try to be faithful to.

Before we begin our 'Odd'essy, I must confess that, while I have always held truth as my highest ideal, I've never found much practical use for it! It is not my intent to be practical here. Before you read on, I must warn you, all the names in the following are true, only the facts have been changed to protect the innocent. On a final note, I refuse to apologize to the Hargreaves half of my family for any views, opinions, or slanderous thoughts. I can only admit that, what you've probably long suspected, is, alas, true! I will not apologize to the Mackay half of my family either, for they, more than most, will appreciate the fact that, "Absense makes the heart grow fonder", and are probably thankful for the opportunity to grow fond of me. For anyone else perusing these pages, WYSIWYG, or, "What you see is what you get"! And I won't be apologizing for that either!

That said, let the game begin,

james