Hillbillies, Rednecks & Crackers All! =)

Just prior to my 'bolting' from Calgary, my Brother in Law, Jimmi, dropped in to tell me of his recent trip to Scotland with his lovely wife Cassie. Jimmi and I both married into the Hargreaves family, and, as such, are both 'Outlaws' in the bosom of this fine clan. Because of the time difference between Ontario and Alberta Jimmi traveled via a time machine, and, in the picture above, you can see hi arriving through the time portal. I'd like to say that I managed to capture the shot just at the moment of his arrival, but, truth to tell, the picture is a product of Jimmi's potent imagination; generally a picture is worth a thousand words, but, by the time my fellow outlaw is finished with a picture, I'd estimate it's value at about one million!

The two of them had a grand time in Scotland and sent me a picture of cattle grazing at Glen Coe, a historic Scottish site. The day, February 1st, 1692, is still recalled by many as a day of infamy. The events leading up to that day were a distillation of politics and sadly twisted religious fervor. In August, 1691, King William III offered a pardon to all the Highland clans who had risen against him in earlier years but only if they took an oath of allegiance before 1 January, 1692. Alastair MacLain, 12th Chief of Glen Coe (who had joined Claverhouse in 1689), despite the four months notice, left it to the last minute to take the oath. This was because, like many other Highland chiefs, he waited for the approval of the deposed King James VII - which was late in coming. But he compounded this by going to the wrong place to take the oath and arrived at Inveraray after a dreadful journey through the snow, too late to take the oath by the deadline. The government had been waiting for just such an the opportunity to "make an example" of anyone who stepped out of line. The fact that it was this section of the clan Donald, was considered a bonus. Over the years in the "Wild West" atmosphere of the Highlands, they had done more than their fair share of raiding and thieving.

Plans were drawn up by the Lord Advocate, John Dalrymple. Dalrymple's orders to the commander of the force sent to carry out the atrocity were chilling. Here is an abstract (in the original spelling) -

"You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, the M'Donalds, of Glencoe (The MacLains were a subsidiary family within the MacDonald Clan) and putt all to the sword under seventy. You are to have special care that the old fox and his sons doe upon no account escape your hands. You are to secure all the avenues, that no man may escape.... This is by the King's special command, for the good of the country, that these miscreants be cutt off root and branch. See that this be putt in execution without feud or favour, else you may expect to be treated as not true to the king's government, nor a man fitt to carry a commission in the king's service. Expecting you will not faill in the fulfilling hereof as you love yourself, I subscribe these with my hand. Master of the Stair (John Dalyrmple).

Around February 1st, 1692, 120 men of the Earl of Argyll's Regiment of Foot, under the command of Captain Robert Campbell were billeted with various MacDonald families in Glencoe, who recieved them in the hospitable tradition of the Highlands. Captain Campbell was related by marriage to old MacLain, and was billited at the Chief's own house; MacLain's youngest son was married to Campbell's niece. Their purpose in being there was to collect what was then called the "Cess" tax, but on February 12th a Captain Drummond arrived bringing with him the orders, above, and delivering them to the hand of Robert Campbell. In all probability Campbell, up to that point, had no knowledge of the real intention of his mission, but, upon receiving his orders he accepted them, and set about their fulfillment.



The evening of the 12th Campbell spent playing cards with his intended victims, wished them goodnight upon retiring, and accepted an invitation to dine with the MacLain the following day. MacLain was slaughtered in the morning while attempting to rise from his bed. His two sons escaped, as, initially, did his wife; but she was tracked down, killed, and the fingers hacked from her hands in order to pocket her rings. Not all the soldiers took part in the massacre; Francis Farquhar and Gilbert Kennedy deliberatly broke their swords rather than carry out their orders. Both were arrested and imprisoned for their insubordination; both were later exonerated and gave evidence at the trials of their superior officers. Two additional army units failed to arrive to complete the slaughter, their official reason for their tardiness was that they were held up by snowstorms, but it is generally accepted that their officers, aware of the true nature of their mission, held back, unwilling to participate in this heinous crime. 200 MacDonald/MacLain men dwelt in Glen Coe with their wives and children; had not the two additional units held back it is believed that the slaughter would have been complete.



As it was 38 men were murdered that morning, either in their homes or as they tried to flee the Glen. Another 40 women and children died of exposure after their homes were burnt to the ground. In the Highlands murder was considered almost the worst crime; but the very worst crime was, "Murder Under Trust", and, to fit the bill, it had to be premeditated. If you accepted a Highlander's hospitality, had a falling out, came to blows and you killed your host, that was bad, but people acknowledged that these things happened. However, to come hat in hand to a man's home and accept his hospitality with the intention of killing him ....that was completely unacceptable. Because of this the Campbell name was drawn into infamy, and the watchword ever since has been, "Never Trust a Campbell!"



'Those that don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it,' I've heard said, and there may be some truth in the adage. I have several cubbyholes in my Roadtrek, and these must be battened down prior to transforming my 'cottage' into my transportation; failure to do this tends to change mundane objects into projectiles. But, rising at 3:00 am to 'get the word out' often defeats my generally 'hit and miss' memory. The one cubby hole is directly above the microwave, and handy too as it is about 4 feet long, 6 inches tall, and slopes back about 9 inches. It is perfect for stowing condiments, coffee, tea, and the odd can of soup; because of the coffee it is the first thing to be opened in the morning, and, hopefully, the last thing to be shut. However, one morning, wheeling off the Trans Canada to rush to my paper route, it suddenly hit me! Thunk! Right in the back of the neck! The pain was intense and followed by a 'thud'. I braked and pulled over to the side of the road simultaneously switching on the interior light. There it was, rolling on the floor, (to my ear laughing!), a can of soup! Campbell's soup at that! And, can you believe it? Tomato! That does it! If ever again I bring soup into the comfort of my home ....it will be Heinz!



It's funny, but after living in the Trailer Park for nearly a month, and getting prepared to leave for Saskatoon, I'm finally getting to know some of the 'full timers'. The site immediately to the west of mine I have never figured out; the curtains are always drawn, I never observe anything that might indicate any sort of regular schedule, and there seems to be three generations cohabiting there. The one fellow reminds me of my old pal Louis Ashi; he's got the same frame, just a little younger, and is covered in tattoos, (I don't recall Louis ever having a tattoo.) What he lacks is Louie's confident stride, level gaze, and balls ....nobody has balls like Louie. However, as a neighbour I've never been able to get more than a grudging grunt out of him; I kind of suspect that they think I'm a cop ....it's an accusation I've run into freakwently over the last 30 or so years. Yes, there's been ample cops in my family, but ....don't forget, ....I'm the white sheep!



However, one morning we were both headed to the office at the same time; I wearing my New York, "Statue of Liberty" shirt, and he, when we encountered by chance, a frown and a slightly furrowed brow! "Hey!" he exclaimed, "I have that exact same shirt!" His tone conveyed to me more than just a suspicion that I might have been fleshing out my somewhat skeletal wardrobe from the 'common wealth' of the camp laundry facilities! We got the matter straightened out to our mutual satisfaction, and, were it not for my immanent departure, I could foresee our neighbourly relationship blooming into a genuine friendship; hell ....I might even show him my tattoo! Actually, it's tatone; tattwo is only just on the books!



I'd just returned from my paper route one Saturday morning, and was tiptoeing through the swamp that is my camp site to plug in the Trek, when a voice called out, "Hey! Do you work night shift?" And that is how I met John, a cabinet maker and finishing carpenter, born on a farm just outside of Calgary, and raised all over North America. We introduced each other, and, though I really wanted a coffee, chatted for well over an hour. The topics were numerous and broad ranging, just the way a conversation should be. John told me how he had migrated down to South Carolina, and worked there for 15 years, finally going so far as to attempt attaining a green card; but there he was stymied! "They said that there was no demand for my carpentry skills!" he exclaimed, "And here, in 15 years, I'd never been able to keep up with the work!" John explained that he'd sought out the green card because he was thinking of buying a house, and that, a lawyer warned him not to make the purchase the house without a work permit. If he was caught, the lawyer explained, the US Immigration department could, and possibly might, confiscate anything that he could not prove was brought with him from Canada.



John is of Germanic ancestry, his family having arrived in America in the 1720's. Germany was, at that time, a very feudal society, and I wish I could remember John's surname, because it was the name of the town from which his family migrated. He told me that there weren't too many Canadians with his family name, but the States was loaded with them. He went on to inform me that several years ago he'd been contacted by a very distant cousin from California who was compiling a family genealogy, and whom eventually sent him the work in progress. "I was so mad when they wouldn't give me the card," he said, "that I went home and got my copy of the book, and took it down to the Immigration Office." "I set it on the desk and told the officer, I'm more American than most legal Americans; my family arrived in this country 50 years before it even became a country!"



I couldn't help laughing at this had to ask, "Well, ...how did that work out for you?" John admitted that it had not helped his cause, in fact, it seemed to put the immigration officer over the edge! "So," he continued, "I came back to Canada, but those were 15 of the best years of my life; they call those people I lived and worked with Hillbillies and Rednecks, and, sure, some of them had rough lifestyles, but, when they looked you in the eye, and spoke to you, you knew that what they said was true. They spoke with earnestness and feeling, and when they told you that they would do something, you knew that it would be done!" I smiled and thanked John; "You know," I explained, "most of those Hillbillies and Rednecks are related to me distantly; either by family, or at least by place of origin.

Redneck

"The origins of this term Redneck are Scottish and refer to supporters of the National Covenant and The Solemn League and Covenant, or "Covenanters", largely Lowland Presbyterians, many of whom would flee Scotland for Ulster (Northern Ireland) during persecutions by the British Crown. The Covenanters of 1638 and 1641 signed the documents that stated that Scotland desired the Presbyterian form of church government and would not accept the Church of England as its official state church.
Many Covenanters signed in their own blood and wore red pieces of cloth around their necks as distinctive insignia; hence the term "Red neck", (rednecks) which became slang for a Scottish dissenter*. One Scottish immigrant, interviewed by the author, remembered a Presbyterian minister, one Dr. Coulter, in Glasgow in the 1940's wearing a red clerical collar -- is this symbolic of the "rednecks"?
Since many Ulster-Scottish settlers in America (especially the South) were Presbyterian, the term was applied to them, and then, later, their Southern descendants. One of the earliest examples of its use comes from 1830, when an author noted that "red-neck" was a "name bestowed upon the Presbyterians." It makes you wonder if the originators of the ever-present "redneck" joke are aware of the term’s origins - Rednecks?
*Another term for Presbyterians in Ireland was a "Blackmouth". Members of the Church of Ireland (Anglicans) used this as a slur, referring to the fact that one could tell a Presbyterian by the black stains around his mouth from eating blackberries while at secret, illegal Presbyterian Church Services in the countryside. "

http://www.scotshistoryonline.co.uk/

John said that he wasn't surprised that I was having difficulties finding work in Calgary, and enquired as to what exactly it was that I was looking for. I told him that I'd been looking for just about anything, adding that I'd just applied for, and been granted, a job as carpenter's helper in Saskatoon. "A carpenter?" John exclaimed, "You should have no problem getting work here! Now, the fellow I work for is Oriental, and only builds high end housing starting at $1,500,000. and we have a full crew already, but, let me introduce you to the fellow in this trailer right over here; I know that he's always looking for someone." I thanked John for this consideration, and informed him that I wasn't a carpenter, but I'd been whacking boards together since I was a boy on the farm. John seemed pretty determined that I stay, but I assured him that I had made a commitment, and mentioned the $200,000.00 signing bonus that came with the Saskatoon job. "Yes," said John, "the difference in the cost of living between Calgary and Saskatoon really should be taken into consideration."

By this time it was 9:30 and I still had not achieved my goal of a cup of coffee, but, in one thing I am indeed my Father's son; if good conversation is at hand, there's nothing I prefer to shooting the breeze. In that short interval between placenta and shroud there is no better way to pass the time and get to know your neighbour; besides, it's part of my heritage.

CRACKER

"Another Ulster-Scot term, a "cracker" was a person who talked and boasted, and "craic" (Crack) is a term still used in Scotland and Ireland to describe "talking", chat or conversation in a social sense ("Let’s go down to the pub and have a craic"; "what's the craic"). The term, first used to describe a southerner of Ulster-Scottish background, later became a nickname for any white southerner, especially those who were uneducated.
And while not an exclusively Southern term, but rather referring in general to all Americans, the origins of this word are related to the other three. "

I told John that my caffine level had hit the critical zone, but that I'd enjoyed our chat, and that I'd like to here more about his Germanic origins. We agreed to get together later that day around a campfire and continue our discussion. However, when I wandered down the row of trailers that evening I found John busy helping his neighbour move his trailer to a different site, and just a little flustered by a visit he'd had from his son. I never did get the gist of the matter, John told me his 40 year old son was an alcoholic, and had shown up drunk and in some kind of trouble; he was upset but acknowledged that there was really nothing he could do for Jr. We made a tentative 'date' for the following evening, but the next day it rained, and I never did see John again.

At loose ends I then wandered down to the office to pick up a couple items, and I noticed the big, black, fully dressed Ford 350 with "Maverick Construction" written on it's side, had just had a bath, and that the owner, a fellow I'd noticed riding his big bike around, was standing there admiring his handiwork. "Looks good!" I said with a nod. "How much you got in your pocket buddy? It's yours!" the man said with a trace of a french accent. I laughed and introduced myself to Rene who, as it turned out, was the owner of Maverick. Rene was from the west corner of New Brunswick, kind of sandwiched between Quebec and the US border. He'd run a contracting firm in Calgary up till the economy tanked back in the late 70's; at that point he'd returned to NB, then migrated to New York State where he'd operated a business for a few years. What finally brought him back to Calgary was the revitalized economy, and a son whom he wished to get established in a construction business. 'Maverick' was born, and business was booming; they specialized in decks, fences and small structures and simply could not keep up with demand.

"I'm 62," said Rene, "and I want to take life easy now; I bought a great new home in NB two years ago, but had to come back out here to help my son." "This year we returned home for vacation, and invited all our friends and family to our new home for a party; it was a great party, but, the funny thing is, we still haven't slept in it! When all our guests went home, we went out to the driveway and slept in our trailer!" "I wish," I commented, "that I had run into you a couple of months ago, when I was looking for work." Rene is a lithe, energetic fellow with a great sense of humour, who, in a pinch, could pass himself off for a man of 40, at the peak of his abilities. "Why?" he asked, "You looking for work? Are you a carpenter?" For the second time that day I re-iterated my skimpy creds, not mentioning that I'd gotten my Phd at the tender age of 12, (Phd, on a farm, means ....post hole digger!) There are no greater respecters of education than farmers; raised in, shall we say a. stable environment, we know BS, (bachelor of Science), when we see it, and acknowledge that MS, (Master of Science), is More of the Same! Phd? Well, that's the same again, only this time, Piled Higher and Deeper!

I remember how I sweated to earn my Phd. The Farm was based on fine, heavy clay soil, and, while it would grow anything, (well, anything except crops like tobbacco, which require a very sandy soil), in a dry summer it baked up very much like a brick. The trouble with posts is that, before they are fully functional, they require a post hole! Not just any post hole; it must be at least four feet deep, and, because it will eventually have big, burly beeves of well over 1000 lbs leaning on it, you can't use the little, sissy posts that you see in town, no, the post must be at least 10" in diameter, and that means the post hole must be at least 14". That is only if you want to place your posts firmly, properly aligned, and permanent. The litmus test with posts is to come back 10 years later; if they are still standing just the way you placed them, then you know that you got the holes right!

I don't recall my Father ever embarking on venture that wasn't on a modestly grand scale, (at least by farm standards!) When I was 12 he decided to replace all the fencing on the home farm. Now, 100 acres is a modest size, but, when it's divided into 6 fields and a barnyard, you are looking at a lot of posts, or at least you hope to be looking at a lot of posts, the trick first, is to find holes to stick 'em in! Finding holes is simpler than it may first seem; you can dig 'em up most any place ....the key word is dig. Now, please recall what I was saying earlier about brick; better still, if you live in a brick house, get real close to that fine baked clay, take your hand, perhaps your fist, and give it a solid whack! Did it shift? Did little chunks fly gaily about? No? Didn't think so! Give it another whack ....little harder this time! What! Still the same? You really have to hand it to that third little pig ....he knew what he was about!

I remember the hot, sunny, very dry morning we set about what I came to refer to as my Father's 'half baked idea!'. About 9:30, after the livestock was tended to, the two of us set out up the farm lane, long handled spades resting on our shoulders;we even took a sharp crow bar along because ....well, just because you never know what you might run into. It's best to be prepared for any and all eventualities! Earlier in the Spring, between seeding and haying,we'd removed the old fence, and I admit, at that time, the soil had been fairly mallable. But, between then, and when we finally arrive to dig those holes, we'd had six weeks of Ontario summer sunhine; you know, the kind that feels very much like an oven! We laid out a fine, straight line, figured out our spacing, and prepared to lift our first patches of sod. You see, you really want a neat, tidy hole; the same diameter at the top, as it is four feet below the ground. There's a knack to it.

I remember when I put in the two little 'Flower back drop' fences at Helena St; my bride, that same Julie Ann Eliza that I've told you of before, was eager not just to get the job accomplished, but she also wanted to participate. Julie watched me dig the first few, and volunteered to do a couple herself; after all ...there's nothing to it! That's right, there's nothing to a posthole, the dilemma is, how do you get all that intervening, compacted 'stuff' out of the way, so that you can have the nothing arranged just so! Reluctantly I agreed to her experiment, after cautioning her that, "it's not as easy as I make it look!" Julie set to with a vengence, and, for a while, the sand flew! Then it coasted! Then it came to a complete halt, and just lay there, about 18" down the hole, flat on it's back, staring straight up at the two of us in complete defiance! Poor Julie took the failure of her experiment pretty hard; you see, there's lots in this world prepared to call a spade a spade, but few who have spent much 'quality time' with 'em. Myself? Well ...I'm made of sterner stuff; thick back and matching head have I. Don't forget now .... Helena St. was entirely sand!

Meanwhile, back at the farm, my father and I had lifted two nice concentric patches of sod, 14" in diameter; but, after all, that's what Sodbusters do! Sod usually lifts about 3" or 4" thick, once it's out of the way, all there is left to do is raise that spade high, and drive it into the earth below. This we did, and their bright sharp blades chewed through the first 3" below and ....came to an abrupt shuddering halt! We'd just hit a brick wall! All morning we toiled with that handy crowbar; it's point would sink into the brick, and, with a twist, would pop out one pathetic little chip of brick! At lunch we brought up buckets of water to soften the soil, but, when you stop and think about it, if brick was porous enough to allow water to pass through it, that third little pig would have drowned long before the wolf reached his door! It didn't pan out, and, at the end of two days we had dug ourselves 6 pathetic little holes; hardly adequate for rose bushes let alone 10" posts.

My Father was never one to take being stymied well; sometimes he would get quite quiet, and the air around would feel the same as the air that harkens an approaching storm. Other times he could get quite voluble, and I won't here describe those occasions. This occasion was one of the former variety, and, the third morning at our task he never said a word. Finally, at about 11:00 am, he gave me another chore to do, and disappeared in our truck. He arrived home around noon with a yellow contrapion in the box; my Phd! From that point on, I cherished the ground it rested on, but, for the next few years, it had little chance to rest long! Yes, we made many mountains out of mole hills, and it made our lives easier, well ....except for te odd occsaion when it would lodge on a rock. It never did this at the 1' level, but generally at the 6' level; then the shear pin would hit it's 'best before date', and my acquaintance with a spade would recommence. There's a lot of digging to free a 16" augar buried 6' deep, and these occasions would fall into the latter category of my father's moods, you know ....the voluble ones. I didn't describe them to you before, and have not the heart to inform you now.

Kinda' funny fella' my Father, and, before I get back to Rene, I'll share one little story with you of the man. It's a story I told in his eulogy, and it got me in trouble with little Bro, David, who afterwards said, "How could you tell people that about my Father; people will think he was a womanizer!" I'm afraid that David hadn't put much thought into the matter ....just another nut in my family tree! Oh, there might be a Dutch or German Mackay out there with a strong resemblance to myself, but, once James B. Mackay Sr. said his vows, there was no further possibility of womanizing.

It was sometimes an embarrassment to watch my Father haggle if he was buying something; that legendary Scottish thrift shone through in full force; but, he was quite unpredictable if he was selling something. A friend of mine, John, with two daughters, and a wife with equestrian aspirations, had rented a farm just a few miles from my own home, and, because of those aspirations, needed to put in quite a few rod of fence; you guessed it ....clay! John approached me on the matter of the possibility of putting my Phd to good use around his pasture. I was living on my own then, and called my father to make the appropriate enquiries. "No problem", was his reply, and we agreed that I would do this the following Saturday. Before hanging up, because this is a real world, and time and heavy equipment are costly commodities, I broached the subject which I knew to be a delicate one; "How much do you think you would charge them?" I asked. "We'll see!" was the reply, and I'd hung around with this fellow long enough to know that pursuing that matter any further would be futile, possibly detrimental to the planned project.

John was happy enough to hear the work would be done, but concerned about the matter of finances, as anyone who has been saddled with two just turned school age daughters, a farm, and those aspirations I mentioned would well understand. Saturday morning arrived, and I arrived at the farm to pick up the tractor and Phd, only to be foiled! It was a lovely day, and my father had nothing compelling to do, and there were few things he enjoyed more than a slow drive through the country, taking his time, and taking in the state of the world around him. On our arrivall the entire family came out to meet him. My Father was not a judgemental man on most things, but he was on children, or rather, the parents of children; but there was nothing amiss here, the girls, 5 & 7 presented themselves well with neat shiny hair, rosy well scrubbed skin, pretty clean dresses, good manners, and sweet smiles. It wasn't something you saw every day, and, in my father's books, it showed a couple doing the best that they could, in obviously tight circumstances. That was a good thing ....anything else might not have boded well on the cost of those postholes.

"Mr. Mackay," john broasched the delicate matter, "how much do you want per post hole?" My Father thought for a moment, and he had the curious habbit when making up his mind, of twitching his lip and drawing a little air between his teeth, as if trying to dislodge something stuck between his teeth; he did that now, looked John in the eye, and said, "We'll see." "Mr. Mackay," said John's wife, "would you like to join the girls and I for a cup of tea?" The four of them disappeared into the kitchen, leaving John and I to the task at hand. John was really concerned about the price. "Don't worry," I assured him, "I have no way of predicting what it will cost, but, whatever it is, it won't be too much. So, in a few hours, with the aid of my Phd, we sank a 100 or so holes, that, with shovel and crowbar, would have taken John a good chunk of the summer to do by his lonesome.

Finished in the field John and I adjourned to the house where my father, fortified with tea, conversation, and probably more than one piece of pie, was smiling, and ready to be on his way. The usual pleasantries were exchanged and, as Father was climbing aboard his tractor to depart, John approached him again, looking just a little blanched I might add, and asked, "Mr. Mackay, what do I owe you for those post holes?" That stoped Father in mid-step! He had to take his foot off the tractor platform and give the matter a few seconds deliberation. Finally, having weighed the matter carefully, he looked John straight in the eye, his lip twitched the way I'd seen it do all my life, and said, "Get something nice for the girls!" With that he climbed on the tractor, and putted off down the road, taking his time, observing, and taking a measure on the state of the world.

John was astonished! A fine fellow, and one I admired quite much. The kind of man who could get up on a grand morning, pull on the nose bag, get himself fully caffinated, pull a motor and transmission, replace them, and have time to wash up and enjoy a beer before lunch. A very capable chap, and one I wish I could say things turned out well for ....but I can't. Some people don't stand up well under unrelenting pressure, and John had more than his share. He ended up fellating a twelve gauge; it came ....he departed! There were the usual rumours that you hear in connection with these sad affairs, but I don't care to go into them here. But no, little Bro, of those rumours, neither word nor substance had anything to do with James B. Sr.

Yes, my father was, among many other things, a farmer, and, I might add, the top man in his field. And he was a "Cracker" and I say that with some pride; there was nothing that man enjoyed more, when time and obligation permitted, than to shoot the breeze, especially over a cup of tea. When I say, "Shoot the breeze," I'm not talking about gossip, I'm talking politics, world affairs, farm market reports, and history. What you had then, in that magic chunk of Nottawasga, was a generation of mountain men; men who'd worked brutal hard all their lives, who, when the call came, signed up and went to save the world, they saw much of that world, made their judgements accordingly, came back home, settled down on farms, and did the best they could to feed that world. A very well read bunch too, many of them; in summer there was little time for reading, but those long winter hours had to be filled somehow, and you can always find a library.

Sinchronicity is a marvellous thing, and, just when I get to talking about hillbillies, who should show up but the 'Ozark Mountain Daredevils'. Yes, I admit, a Redneck "jug" band, and they generally sound better when you are half way through the jug, but, I make no apologies for them; sing it fellas!

Cobblestone Mountain

Cobblestone Mountain it was made by hand,

from the magic and the mortar of a Cobblestone man.

Cobblestone Mountain it was laid by hand

from the magic and the mortar in a Cobblestone Land

Listen to me children there's a riddle and a rythme,

about a man who built a mountain that an angel couldn't climb.

He built it with the skill and the magic that he learned,

when he found the holy river and the riverboat burned.

Listen to me children, here's a word to the wise,

I got it from the man with the Cobblestone eyes.

Take it with a chuckle, or a little grain of salt,

but if the Cobblestone buckles, it's all your own fault.

Cobblestone Mountain it was made by hand,
from the magic and the mortar of a Cobblestone man.
Cobblestone Mountain it was laid by hand
from the magic and the mortar in a Cobblestone Land.

Thanks Fellas, you sang it just right; sweet and low, but not saccarine at all. Now, what happened to Rene? I must sink a few post holes around this weary head ....my mind does tend to wander! Oh! Yes, when I'd finished my spiel, Rene exclaimed, "I'll introduce you to my son, he could use you, and maybe I could retire a little sooner!" Sadly, I explained the Saskatoon situation to him, and he understood. We talked till it was almost dark, and I broke it off by explaining that I had all the weight of a paper route resting squarly upon these tired old shoulders, and that 3:00 comes early. I regretted the timing of our meeting, because, Rene was a fellow I could work for!

My writing may be a little more sporadic from now on. I've had this weekend off ...they wanted me to work, but I figured that that might finish me off. Six of the previous seven days I had worked 10 hours, and I am finding it very rewarding, but my body is complaining somewhat about the unusual demands being thrown it's way. Still, it's been an adventure ....one I'll share with you when time and stiff fingers allow. When I first arrived here, was unemployed, and sleeping under snow drifts, I'd stab at my keyboard with fingers blue from the frost. Now, I'm employed, and stabbing at my keyboard with fingers black and blue from my maladroit slinging of 16' 2x10s, two at a time, onto my chop saw. However, I'm making headway; I began here as a lowly 'Carpenter's Helper', and, in just one week, I'm already 'Chairman of the boards!' But, like my old pal Frank used to say,

"You is what you is ....and you be what you be!"

And I be, (if not a crack head!)

James (B. hittin' the soup ....or the soup B. hittin' James!) Mackay

P.S. Jimmi, feel free to use that time machine whenever you like ....it's always good to have you aboard! So, Y'all come back now! Hear? And have a heapin' helpin' of my hospitality! The soup's on me!

"I see", said the blind carpenter, who picked up his hammer and saw!

It was the perfect Sunday morning for a paper route; there was no dew in the grass, so my socks remained dry. I picked up my papers by 5:40, and varied my routine by counting them; too often now I have to return to pick up however many papers I have been shorted. This doesn’t bother me too much, but it drives some of the other carriers to distraction. A carrier is the bottom of the paper food chain, and it is them who must shoulder the blame for none or late delivery. It is the trucker who counts out the individual orders, and often, by the time we get there the truckers are long gone. Many of the carriers have much more ambitious routes than my own, and then they have day jobs besides, and some, I suspect, evening jobs as well; for the working poor the cost of living here in Calgary is a tough nut to crack.

Where I usually have problems is with the Calgary Herald; the driver for the Herald, Jim, is from London Ontario some twenty years ago, and tends to his job with sketchy diligence. When I arrive, and have questions for him, he is generally more interested in my van than the job at hand; sometimes, loading my papers, I have to ask him to remove himself from the side doors, in order that I might put the papers in. It is Jim that does the counting of the Heralds, and some of the carriers would see him hung for his consistent inaccuracy. But, this morning Jim is not there, and the Herald count is bang on. The Sun count is almost always right, and they include one extra copy to cover the possibility of shorting the carrier, so, usually, I have a free copy of the Sun each morning.

This morning I’m 4 Suns short, (I must add here that Jim sometimes drives for the Sun!), and there are no extras left in the extra bin. I’m a great believer in democracy, so I put a motion on the floor, (pavement actually), as to whether myself, or someone else should be short five Suns, and ask for a quick show of hands. A count shows the results entirely in my favour, so I quickly and happily remove five Suns from another carrier’s pile, and add them to my own. After loading these in my van, I have to go over the invoices and see if there are changes, and also whether there have been any complaints. I haven’t received a complaint since the night of the flood, but am not surprised to see one this morning. Such and such number at Whitnel Crescent, failed to receive her Saturday Globe yesterday morning!

The Globe is not a high demand paper in my area of Calgary; I usually have two to deliver on week days, and 3 on Saturday, but yesterday a new subscriber was added to Whitnel Crescent. I was short a Globe one other Saturday, and, as they don’t leave any extras, I just went out and bought one, dropping it off at the subscriber’s door. I mentioned this to my mentor, Janice, and she said, "Oh! You don’t have to do that!" But I explained to her that I have received a free Globe on Saturday, which I would have bought anyway, so I didn’t really feel out of pocket over the matter. I didn’t mention the fact that I was aware that my Boss, Cathy, was out of town, and therefore, it would be Janice that would receive the phone call later in the day, and have to rush a Globe to the irate subscriber.

So, yesterday, when I learned I was short, I just shrugged and didn’t give it any further thought; not, at least, till I reached Whitnel Crescent, and saw who my new subscriber was. I’d run into her once before, and I can’t bring myself to describe her as a ‘happy camper’; Whitnel Crescent is the end of my route, and when Cathy showed it to me, she informed me that ‘this was the perfect spot to rid myself of my newspaper debris, because there are three dumpsters there. Now, the debris amounts to about 20 sheets of brown paper, and 8 strips of plastic banding, so it doesn’t amount to more than a handful when placed in the huge dumpster. However, this one morning, this particular lady came out and demanded to know what it was I was placing in the dumpster; I told her. "Those dumpsters are intended only for the use of the tenants in these townhouses!" was her rejoinder. "Well", I explained, "the wrappings came off the newspapers that I just delivered to these tenants." That just didn’t seem good enough for her, and she continued on and on; I felt bad for her ....I think that the severity of the issue was holding her back from the enjoyment of an important soap opera! "Well", said I, "have a nice day", and left her glaring in my wake; "too bad she wasn’t a customer" I thought to myself.

Lo and behold my new customer was the same Lady! I had one Globe left and two places to deliver it to, she was number 3 on the list, but the delivery yesterday morning went 1, 2, and 4. I toyed with the notion of leaving the dextrous in her paper box, but held myself back! Sunday’s are great paper days, because there’s only the Herald and Sun to deliver. When I first started Janis told me that, in the beginning, I’d feel that I was losing my mind, but would soon figure out the landmarks, and finally, wouldn’t need the address sheet. I’d really doubted her about the address sheet; I know both myself and my memory, and didn’t expect any miracles from my corner! I never tried to memorize any of it, but was surprised this morning as I dropped a Sun into the box at #92, to find myself thinking, without looking at my sheet, "no need to stop at #115, because they get the post!" Wow! I’m learning in spite of myself!

Everything went smoothly, and, as I approached Whitnel Crescent at 7:30, I knew I was down to the short strokes! To my chagrin I found myself with two extra Suns, the one I’m supposed to have, and an extra. I felt bad for my fellow carrier; but, what’s the difference between being 4 short and being 5 short? I zipped through Whitnel, and, as I was doing the last couple addresses, I watched a young fellow, (and it’s always a surprise to me to realize just how many more ‘young fellow’ now-a-days, than I ever recall seeing 20 years ago!), come out of his home, and walk down to the Sun box at the corner. As he bent to place his coins I yelled, "Hey, Buddy, save your money! It doesn’t happen often, but I have an extra paper today!" He seemed delighted with his good fortune, and I can understand that; I’m not fond of paper boxes myself. The one at the end of Helena St. was a better gamble than a slot machine ....but just barely! I was happy, the route had worked slicker than snot on a doorknob!

I’m also happy about my new job. The company is just a year old, and increasing their capacity by 700%. They make prefabricated units for the Tar Sands, and they do it very well. But, what really captivated my attention was their ‘help wanted’ advertisement. I told Julie about it and she wondered if it could possibly be as good as it sounded. I said that it had to be; I doubt many people would stay at the job if it was mis-represented. I’ll see if I can insert the ad for you;

There once was a person from Saskatoon;

Who pined for more than a job.

They wanted to work where respect was the norm,

and they'd never again be called Bob.

(unless that was their name ;-)

This person has experience (and perhaps not a lot);

Swinging hammers and reading a tape.

If only an employer would give them a chance,

They'd work diligently, and never be late.

Holy Moly! (thinks myself) If that is the case;

We should meet in a heck of a hurry.

For the rest of your life, you'd love where you work,

And your mother would soon stop her worry!

If you have SOME experience in carpentry and would

like to work in a manufacturing plant where you will

learn how to increase your value many times over,

you better get your hammer swinging, tape reading

self over to our place!

We will pay you well, treat you with respect, give you

3 days off per week and provide unlimited

opportunities to advance in your carpentry career.

And you will LOVE IT!

Length of employment:

only until we chop down every tree on the planet

Yes, it sounded too good to be true to me too, but, after my interview I left with quite a positive feeling for Terry, my new boss. Its work I can be engaged in, and, that makes it, to me, more of a career than just a job. It sounds like a place where, when I leave at day’s end, I can leave knowing that, not only have I accomplished something for my employer, but something for myself as well; and that makes for job satisfaction! Even if it’s not quite as good as it sounds ....it sure beats choppin’ corporate cotton!

The other thing I was happy with was the fact that the RoadTrek has worked out just as well as I’d figured it would. Given power from a ‘shore line’ I have no problems living in it with all my gadgets; everything works just the way it should. I had not been happy with turning it into a daily driver, and even less so with making it into a beast of burden. When in Saskatoon I can just park it in that pretty RV campground, put the awning up, bask in the luxury of 30 amp service and the air conditioning that it makes possible, and leave it parked while I make my way by foot or bike. The park provides wireless internet access, right on your site, so I’ll no longer have to drive into town to check ‘e’ mail. This ‘Hooverville’ allows you internet access at the office for $2.00 for five minutes; I’ve never used it, but it certainly seems popular.

Yes, I’ve survived in my RoadTrek for two and a half months, and never felt in the least deprived as to my residence. It is comfortable, reliable, and, with just a little patience and re-arranging, everything works just the way it should. One thing I’ve noticed though, is that the recessed toilet sort of ....raises the bar ....if you know what I mean! The solution to that is, and I’ve adapted to it, that I’m no longer a Pointer, but have regressed to being a Setter! This has taken a toll on my masculine pride, but then, so does 5 minutes on my knees, scrubbing, every day; ....not much to be proud of there either! I find that I take my best shot when sitting directly on the target.

Living alone in the RT, and cast upon the mercy of my own culinary capabilities, I try not to put on airs. At the same time, being diabetic, legumes are very high on the list of things they enthusiastically allow me to eat. They are also convenient, but ....at a cost! I find that, as I wind my way through my morning route, I leave what you might call a, ‘paper trail’; such that, anyone, with a nose for detective work, might track me down with breath taking ease! Not that I know why anyone might want to do that! The severity, some evenings, is such that even I am reluctant, though all windows are wide open, and my fantastic fan going full tilt, to crawl into the fart sack with myself! But, a man has to take the bad along with the good, and, as Grampa Huey used to say, "A farting horse will never tire! A farting man is the man to hire!" Just don’t tell the good people at, MODERN INDUSTRIAL STRUCTURES INC. know that; at least not till they realize that I’m irreplaceable.

James (the B. is for ‘Full of Beans’) Mackay

Now, what's the odds of that!?

"I've been in the right place,
But it must have been the wrong time.
I'd have said the right thing,
But I must have give the wrong line.
My heads is a bad place,
And I wonder what it's good for.
I've been runnin' tryin'
To get hung up in my mind.
Just gotta give myself,
A good talking to this time.
Just need a little 'Brain salad surgery',
I got the cure for insecurity!"

Thank you BB,
And give my regards to Lucille

When Julie and I decided to come west, she felt that Saskatchewan was the place to go because of the lower cost of living; I said that I would first look at Calgary, though I don't much care for cities as I'm not used to them, because it had a generous population and supported so many TM clubs, that it lies as it does, snuggled up against the Canadian Rockies, was a bonus. The cost of living is problematic, though not insurmountable; I came here preapproved to buy one of theseexpensive pieces of real estate, and looked forward to doing so, but, for that preapproval to work, I need to generate the sort of salary that I was accustomed to in Ontario. That again could be difficult right off the bat, but would come eventually. What has really slowed the process down, and given cause for reconsideration, is the fact that I seem unable to get any sort of job interview.

A week or so ago they had that kerfuffle in the local papers concerning people from out of province arriving here with neither jobs, accommodation, or means of self support, and causing a drain on Calgary's social services; one writer went so far as to suggest that Ontarians, and Quebecois should arrive here with a thick skin. I happen to possess a thick skin, and the back of a duck; however, my poor wallet is growing somewhat gaunt. Many years ago I read a little book called, "Lies, Damn'd Lies, and Statistics," and, in spite of that, for the life of me I can't make heads nor tails of the statistics I've compiled here. In my two enjoyable months here I have submitted, by hand, fax and 'e' mail well over 200 resumes, many to head offices representing a wide variety of potential jobs. To be sure, some I was only vaguely qualified for, and I hadn't really any expectation of landing them; the majority were for positions for which I am qualified, and then there were even several for which I'm over qualified. This was not a 'blanket' application process, but each resume was aimed at an advertised position, many of which are still being advertised for. Not one call did I receive for an interview! I began to feel like the young fellow with a pocket full of cash who couldn't get lucky in a bordello!

I had really wanted a job in the newspaper world and applied for several; I have written for papers before, and have produced several of my own modest publications. I used a program called 'Aldus Pagemaker', since bought out by Adobe, and the program that everyone seems to favour now is called Quark, but the programs all do the same thing, and if you can attain the desired results with one, it doesn't take long to do the same with a new program. I was given the name of an editor of a rather prestigious local production, and a name to use in contacting him. I was very impressed and flattered when I sent him an 'e' mail, and had received a very gracious and obliging answer in less than two hours. When I wrote I explained that I wasn't asking for a job, what I really wanted was a mentor. In my message I'd given a broad overview of my background, and this gentleman asked for greater detail, and enquired as to whether I had a current resume on hand? I sent him the resume, and answered his questions. The only thing the resume listed that he had not known before, was my Ontario address, and the Ontario address of my previous employer. It's sort of odd ....I never heard from him again.

I have, up till just recently, never applied for a job in my life; I've just fallen into them. I had never drafted a resume, but I've got that down pat now. After about 6 weeks of ominous silence my self esteem had regressed to the point that it was fit only to be drug out and shot! Last week Julie and I discussed it, and I told her I couldn't really see the prospects here improving in any real hurry, so I'd start looking at possibilities in Saskatoon. Last Thursday I began researching Saskatoon, finally arriving at the provincial job site where I went through all the job listings. There was on that really caught my fancy; two actually, but one was a real job, and the other just a nice fantasy that I can't really look into until I have my life sort of structured. I decided that, as it was late in the day, I would apply for the real job immediately, and return to the site on Friday to apply for anything I might, in all modesty, aspire to. Friday I returned to the site and began drafting a more generic resume for general purposes. The phone rang, and I wondered, "What does Julie want at this time of day?" and answered it without looking at the call display. I almost fell off my Captain's chair! It was a request for an interview, less than 17 hours after I had submitted my resume! They'd even called long distance! I had my interview on Monday and it went well. The day before yesterday I received confirmation of my new position. 230 to 1 I'd call the odds on that, so I know where I must place my money; I'm not one to deprive an eager employer of an eager employee!

I really wasn't too dismayed by the lack of interest displayed here in Calgary; after 25 years of being a wage slave it was nice to have an extended vacation, even if most of it was spent grinding out resumes instead of exploring Calgary and it's surrounds. I like this city so much better than Toronto; it has a vibrancy to it that's hard to ignore. People are friendly and open here, and in spite of it's cosmopolitan nature, there is still a laid back rural feel to this place that is pleasingly reminiscent of the area where I grew up. There has been a reference I've picked up in the papers here, and on the radio, "The Centre of the Universe," and it strikes me as slightly derogatory, for which I can hardly blame the users. It refers, I believe, to Ontario in general, and Toronto in particular. I don't consider myself an Ontarian, and certainly not Torontonian; I am Canadian! Even so, I some how get the impression that this Creemore farm boy may just have meandered a little too far west of the "Centre of the Universe." Because of that I'll be, to quote a western band, "running back to Saskatoon!"

I did get one job while spending time here, and it was working in the newspaper industry; I've been up at 3:00 am every morning delivering the Herald, Globe, Post, and Sun to deserving Calgarians! It was the only job response I ever did receive, and it required neither resume nor application. I even responded to an ad for the "Psychic Hotline" which I thought would be fun, relatively harmless, and great training for impromptu speaking ....no response, but .....somehow I knew that was going to be the way it turned out! Some friends chided me on taking the paper route but it was fun and, more important, it gave me something challenging to do! Challenging!? you ask, well ....yes, trying to match up 200 assorted papers, with 200 assorted addresses, in an unfamiliar city, in neighbourhoods where shrubbery obscures all the street numbers, and that doesn't matter much because there's no light to read them by any how, is something of a challenge. Scrambling through the dark streets in the rain, your address list disintegrating before your very eyes, then the rain turning to snow, and your fingers turning blue/black with that rare combination of ink and cold, is a modest challenge, but a challenge none the less. Besides, I enjoy being up early, watching the city come to life; the first to chide the birds on the tardiness of their rising! The start time of the route made TM meetings way past my proper bedtime, but TM meetings were perhaps even more important to my self esteem than my paper route. The great self-destroyer of unemployment is the threat of allowing yourself fall prey to the twin dangers of apathy and lethargy; it feels good to cast both aside.

The other job prospect I spied in Saskatoon is that of DJ/MC; actually, since my first spotting I've seen a couple other ads for the same. I'm not really enthused about DJing, but, it is another opportunity to stand before an audience. The MC position I'm very interested in; I've MC'd weddings and other functons and enjoy it, besides, it's another opportunity to stand before an audience, and travel a bit besides; any job that will provide you two exercises that you enjoy, and, at the same time pay you for doing them, is a good job. My goal is to become an Entertaining Speaker, and I'm giving myself 5 years to make the necessary inroads in that direction; after all, I've heard that "DTM" stands for, 'Damn'd Talking Machine' and, given opportunity, I fit the bill!

I've been living in what I refer to as a 'Hooverville' on the outskirts of Calgary's NE and, though it is interesting enough in it's own right, it does get a little dreary sometimes; it makes me a 'Trailer Park Boy'. The girls at home, Julie & Allison even sent me a care package in a nod to Father's day and my approaching Birthday, and, in accordance with my new social standing, included a cute package of "White Trash Lip Balm!" Now, I don't know whether the two of them are suggesting that I'm 'White Trash', or they are just afraid that I'll be kissing a lot of it, but, never look a gift balm in the mouth; besides, if I'm to be an Entertaining Speaker, I must keep those lips supple! I've already found new digs in Saskatoon; it's a really pretty RV Park located just three miles from my new job, so I can leave my RoadTrek parked and either bike or walk to work ....possibly even delivering a few papers along the way!

"The thrill is gone!
The thrill has gone away,
The thrill is gone Baby,
The thrill is gone away.
You know you done me wrong Baby,
And you'll be sorry some day!

Thanks again BB

So, I'll head for Saskatoon this next Wednesday, and, in a way, it's a good thing; ....it gets mighty frosty way out here in the dark!

James (I'll B. running back to Saskatoon!) Mackay

My Parade Gets Rained on! =(

I had a very interesting evening this last Tuesday. I had travelled down to the South-East corner of Calgary to attend a Toastmasters meeting at the Pace Setters club. It’s about 15 miles from where I’m currently hanging my hat, and, in good traffic, hardly takes more than 15 minutes to get there. I went down late in the afternoon, the better to avoid the rush hour traffic. Shortly after my arrival, as I was doing a little surfing of the Internet variety, a light shower began; little did I suspect that, before the evening was out, all of Calgary would be surfing, (the H20 variety!) The light rain soon changed into a regular ‘gulley washer’, and lightening pummelled the cityscape horizon like the fist of an angry God. This was going to be no baby boomer!

The meeting went very well, and, I had been allowed the honour of giving a presentation; # 10 from the C&L manual, "Inspire your Audience". As my topic I’d chosen ‘Overcoming Nervousness’, and I’ll attach the speech itself below. A young lady named Cynthia gave a presentation on the ambiguous etiquette dictating when and where it is appropriate for men and women to wear hats, and how the rules are different for each gender. Les, a geologist, gave a presentation on the pros and cons of living in a city swept up in a boom, and, while the pros were clearly evident, he gave an entertaining overview of the subsequent cons. All this while the ‘booming’ continued above the United Church building where the Pace Setters set their heady pace. I too managed to squeeze my message into 9minutes and 8 seconds, and it seemed to go over very well; mind you, the Pace Setters are a great audience, receptive to my words, and very forgiving of my customary blunders.

It was the trip home which made the evening really unique. The Deerfoot Trail, the main artery connecting the north of the city with the south, was partially closed for reparations, but, usually the traffic at 9:30 is such that it allows easy travel in spite of the closure. I had been tired when I went there, from a 15 hour drive the previous couple of days, due to a spontaneous trip to Saskatoon in Saskatchewan. I have to rise at 3:00 am on weekdays in order to best keep all the literate Calgarians happy, and I was worried that I might sleep through my alarm, but, I figured that if I was home by 10:00 pm, I could be asleep by 10:30, and stood a good chance of being up, but lacking energy, in time to do the paper work.

But it rained on my Parade! Quite a parade it was too, with yours truly surrounded by six lanes of bumper to bumper 18 wheelers, and various diverse motorists. It was safe though, as traffic seldom reached, and never breached 5km per hour. At first I thought it was an accident, for I have seen the Deerfoot Trail really clogged late at night by just such; but no, that night traffic patterns all over the city were disrupted by such things as police cars floating away into the night. In places the water was 4 to 6 feet deep! It was, according to the papers, a 75 year record rainfall, and, don’t quote me on this, but I heard 70mm of rain, most of which arriving in three to four hours.

It took me over an hour and a half to get home, and, subsequently, it was well past 12:00 before I trod the land of Nod. Needless to say, neither rain nor snow nor dark of ....well, you know what I mean, the papers got delivered! When I returned at about 8:00 pm my bed was like an oversized magnet, and I clung to it like iron filings till well after noon. I have grown accustomed not to find any registered complaints when I pick up my papers, but this morning there were two! Now, that’s not too bad, as I have managed to look at the invoices of other deliverers, and many of them get lots of complaints, but I was just getting used to not receiving any. Both complaints pertained to the delivery of wet newspapers! Can you imagine? In a record rainfall? It’s clear to me now; if I’m to succeed in this entrepreneurial adventure, I have only to learn how to walk on water, and between rain drops!

Actually I have been enjoying my paper route; my legs like the work out, and the only thing I find difficult about it is the necessity of going to bed before the sun goes down! However, it’s been fun while it lasted, and I’m going to miss it when I have to, eventually, give it up.
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Make Yourself Easy!

Easy is a slippery word; we speak of ‘people of easy virtue’ and don’t necessarily mean it in a complimentary way. When I use ‘easy’ I mean it more in the sense that a sergeant means when he says, "At ease!" i.e., drop the formality. More specifically I mean it in the sense of, "Make yourself easy", the title of an old Folk song I love, by which the singer meant, "Make yourself comfortable; you’re amongst friends.

Many of you, like myself, are a little uneasy when you are before an audience. Tonight I want to tell you a little about a book I was given by my friend Gary. He knew that I was attending Toastmasters, and thought it might help. It was called, "Public Speaking for Stutterers". If you felt nervous when you gave your Icebreaker, can you imagine how much worse you might have felt if you had a speech impediment?

The author claimed that many people, when faced with an audience, felt exactly as if they had just been parachuted into the midst of a herd of rhinoceroses. They don’t make eye contact, they don’t move, they want to make themselves as small and unnoticeable as possible, perhaps they even hide behind something; after all, you don’t want to draw the attention of the rhinos. I hope that you never have a herd of rhinos as an audience, but the instincts involved are much the same; how can a speaker get past those instincts?

Some have suggested that you picture the members of your audience sitting in their under wear; that wouldn’t work for me, I can’t imagine anything that would make me more uncomfortable than addressing a room of semi-naked people. Instead, I fantasize about each individual in my audience, and tonight I’m going to share my fantasies with you. Don’t worry, I’m a farm boy from Creemore, Ontario, and my fantasies are simple ones; I’m going to picture each and every one of you in my favourite place in the world, my living room at 56 Helena St. Wasaga Beach. It won’t just be those of us here this evening; no, my wife Julie will be there too, laughing, talking, and serving coffee and tea.

When you are host in your own home you move freely, you smile, when you speak to a guest of course you look them in the eye, and you wouldn’t dream of hiding from them. The author described the best speaking performance he’d ever seen. It was Danny Kaye, and the event was his fair well tour; Mr Kaye simply walked on stage, made a few opening remarks, then walked to the edge of the platform, sat down, dangling his feet, and, for two hours held that audience in the palm of his hand. It was an unorthodox delivery, but each of the 1000 people in that audience felt that they were at home with Danny Kaye. He made them feel that way by being perfectly at ease himself.

Emotions are funny things; they telegraph! Have you ever watched a group of horses grazing? Everything is peaceful, but suddenly one horse rises its’ head in alarm, and suddenly every horse in the herd has its’ head raised. A speaker is like that first horse; if he is nervous the audience will sense the fact, and they will be nervous too! Years ago I explained that phenomena to a group of 50 novice speakers, and, worse still, I made liars out of each of them, that’s something I’ll never do again. "If I, as a speaker were nervous, would you feel nervous? Can I have a show of hands? Not one hand went up, but, oddly enough, all fifty, suddenly acted like I was a Rhinoceros! They fidgeted, they wouldn’t meet my eye, they looked extremely uncomfortable! It was time to switch topics!

"OK" I admitted, "I’ve obviously misjudged my audience, it’s time to move on to the door prize, and every one of us has won an all expenses paid trip to the Bahamas." However, because of the club finances it will have to be a charter flight, on Toastmasters on "Flights of Fancy." Limos will take us to the airport and when we get there we’ll be taken to a private waiting room with two hostesses to make us comfortable. The hostess explains that, because we are Toastmasters, normal security will be dismissed. We have a couple of hours to socialize, and the pilots will drop in to be introduced to us. Because there are so many of us there will be two planes, hence two pilots.

Everything is going splendidly, when the first pilot arrives; I can’t believe it, it’s Clark Gable! He walks in with that warm, cockeyed smile, and his silk scarf thrown loosely around his neck. Immediately he begins working the room, joking with each man, flirting with every woman. After 15 minutes of this the second pilot arrives; this time it’s Don Knotts. As he comes through the door he slips on the silk scarf that dangles from his pocket. His briefcase flies open and all his papers and charts cascade across the floor. Clearly flustered he gets down on hands and knees gathering them up in his arms. Finally, having not said hello to anyone, he places the whole mess on the table and rearranges the briefcase snapping it shut on the end of his tie. Thus hobbled he makes a hasty exit!

The hostess announces that, as there are no tickets, we can choose whichever pilot and plane we’d prefer to fly on. The pilots, she explains, have flown similar miles, both with impeccable safety records, now, who wants to fly with Clark Gable? Who with Don Knotts?
As a Speaker you must utilize the three secrets of Toastmasters success; Preparation, Preparation, Preparation, and then the other three, Practice, Practice, Practice. But, once prepared and rehearsed, you are the Pilot, and the audience your passengers. Their fate is in your hands and their comfort your responsibility. You can only make them comfortable if you are comfortable first. Make yourself easy!

Too Much Testosterone and Then ....Bhang!

It is a beautiful day in the Trailer Park, sunny, warm and you can almost smell the testosterone wafting in the air. In one corner of the park I’d noticed an old Nova SS, all done up nicely, perhaps ready for a paintjob; yesterday afternoon it took its first tentative spring tour around the Park. Today, though, the owner is cruising up and down; getting ready to take it into town for the evening. Everywhere men are out polishing their trucks, and, here and there, the odd young man is tuning up his Harley; it’s Saturday. It’s odd that I never see any excitement around this place; no real noise, no arguments, never a party, just, occasionally, a couple neighbours having a beer together. This weekend I notice two teenage girls strolling persistently, looking, but they never seem to find any excitement, and seem to resolve themselves to the situation; however, they don’t cease their stroll: after all, it’s attention.

I’m afraid that my old, two wheel drive, bench seat, roll up the windows yourself Ford 150 would have to hang its hood in shame here. This certainly is more of a truck culture than I’m used to. It takes at least a heavy duty 250 to participate in this game, and, if you have any flair or sense of style at all, it must be diesel, four wheel drive, with all the bells and whistles. I’ve never seen so many jeeps with snorkels coming up level with the tops of their cabs; the fellas here work and play hard.

I like to watch my neighbour across the street but one. He has a diesel, four wheel drive, 250 with every option except a reasonable price; I bought a house twenty some years ago that I’m sure cost less, and wasn’t nearly as ruggedly pretty. The owner is probably 7 – 10 years older than me; he’s a detail man, and never is one overlooked. He lives in a huge ‘Golden Eagle’ 5er that is so long he can’t park in front of it; instead, to avoid overlapping on the road, he must back in on a 45 degree angle, letting the box of the truck slide beneath the extended nose of the fiver.

Even then the situation is hardly satisfactory; it makes it too awkward to get everything just so.
I watch him arrive home from work and am amazed that it must take him more than twenty minutes to get from the truck to his Trailer. He has a place for everything, and everything must be in its exact place. First is the matter of stowing his work boots; there are several ‘gear’ boxes in the back of the truck, and one is just for the boot exchange. Upon his arrival, he pulls out his street shoes, inspects them, replaces his work boots with them, then inspects the work boots carefully prior to putting them into their place in the back of the truck. Every little task receives his complete undivided attention; total concentration to detail, it’s as though he’s oblivious to the world around him.

This is just the beginning of his ritual; he must be 6 feet tall, weighing about 280 and carrying each pound well; with confidence! Completely bald, he wears an old ball cap that is so well worn that it fits his head like a second skin, and, except for those times he’s caught up in his routine, and unconsciously removes it to run a hand across his scalp, I never see him without it. Now he gives the mighty Ford a complete visual inspection, walking around it slowly, taking his time; bending occasionally to closer scrutinize. That complete, he now starts going through all his cargo boxes, checking, arranging, rearranging; this process can take five or ten minutes! Finally, everything in its proper place, he gets out a tire gauge, and checks the air pressure in each tire, and replaces each valve cap making sure that they are good and snug!

I’d buy a used truck off this guy! Finally, everything checked to his satisfaction, he backs it into position at 45 degrees to the trailer. All through this chain of non-events he seems completely unconscious of the world around him, focused entirely on his own little world; a lonely world perhaps, but an orderly one. Finally, everything locked up, he pauses for a final few seconds; one last look before retiring to his trailer. As he disappears I can picture the word "Alpha" tattooed on each shoulder, and perhaps etched right across his brow!

Late Saturday afternoon, while slaving away at my barbeque, I watch the quickening migration from the Park. The Chevy Nova is among the first to go, its tailpipes shuddering to the throb of its high performance motor. Then the trucks begin leaving, slow and deliberate, with that throttle responsive, mellow but authoritative, low diesel growl. Intermittently a motorcycle departs, assaulting the ears with that distinctive barking flatulence characteristic of Harleys, the sound rising to a crescendo after they lean onto the highway. I suppose that’s why everything is so well behaved here; the testosterone is allowed to build pressure here, but is taken into town for dispersal.

By 7:00 pm the place is desolate, and I take my customary saunter down the rows; the two young ladies I mentioned earlier are still strolling aimlessly. A couple boys are playing catch with a lacrosse ball and sticks, but they seem to be becoming bored with the game. As I come around the final corner of my lap I pass the campsite of two young men I’ve talked to before. They are just finishing their own late barbeque and invite me in for a beer. I explain that, unless I’m up at three in the morning, there are going to be about 170 otherwise well read Calgarians, with nothing to read over their morning coffee. "However," I suggest, "if you’re going to sit by your fire for a while I could get myself a cup of tea and join you." They seem agreeable to the possibility, so, halfway down the row to my RoadTrek I walk. I’m drinking ‘Earl Grey’ this evening, in celebration of my hard won paper route!

When I return the two young fellows from Northern Alberta have been joined by a young man, in the 26 – 28 age range, who introduces himself as... well, sometimes what’s heard in the Trailer Park should remain in the Trailer Park, or, if it is to meander into civilized territory, it should travel under an assumed name. He’s about 6 feet tall with a lean lanky build and when he walks, he walks with just a trace of a confident swagger; he talks low and slow, each word carefully chosen, and measured against the thought it represents before utterance. He is from small town Manitoba, and says that he’s been here about four months now; I’ll assume that his name was August Wade. Our hosts for the evening are a little younger, 24 or 25 maybe, and we make sort of a strange grouping, the three younger men drinking beer, and myself, a little more antiquated, drinking tea out of a travel mug. The mug was a gift from Julie and Allison prior to my leaving Ontario; it’s black, and well insulated, which is great on the road, but leads to a lot of burnt lips around a campfire.

August is offered another beer and, while accepting it, reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out three or four misshapen cigarettes and offers them around. Our hosts seem familiar with the ritual and accept in a casual manner. I, too, am familiar, but my familiarity is about twenty years out of date, so I demur, citing once again my 4:00 am date with my destiny. Soon the three are lit up, and getting more ‘lit up’ with each passing inhalation.

Personally I have nothing against the "Gallows Grass", and enjoyed its effect in my misspent youth. My first experience with it was at about the age of fourteen, and nothing was smoked, and I certainly didn’t get high; no, I got into deep doo-doo. A friend from Toronto, Thayer Cummings, had presented me with a bag of seeds in the fall, and suggested that I might find some place to give them light and sustenance in the spring. Peer pressure is a relentless force and I accepted the package, but I don’t honestly recall ever having any intention of planting them. I couldn’t plant them on our farm; it was a clear working hundred acres, and my Father’s devotion to it meant that not one square inch of it was ever overlooked. Even then I realized that there are some things you just don’t do to neighbours!

My Father had been in the 2nd Great War, and, after that, ten years on the Toronto Police Force. When he’d first joined, the sergeant ushered all the new recruits into a room and explained to them, in no uncertain terms, that the ‘Cops’, (and ‘Cops’ was never a derogatory term; it stands for "Constable on Patrol"), were the toughest gang in the city, and, if they hoped to fit in, they’d best measure up, right from the start! He walked a beat for three or four years and then had chosen to apply for a position in the motorcycle division. For the remainder of his years on the Force he would ride a motorcycle twelve months of each year in all weather; in winter, for stability, the bikes were fitted with sidecars, making them harder to steer, but raising their stability to an acceptable level. It was the old style Harley, with the foot operated clutch, and the infamous "suicide shift" on the left side, operated by hand; I’ll leave the reason for that particular nick-name to your imagination.

He’d never had anything to do with motorcycles until he was overseas, and had spent a winter held back at Arnum in Holland waiting for spring, and the construction of a bridge, to continue advancing. Inactive soldiers, Canadian or otherwise, find all kinds of ways to get themselves into trouble; in Holland there were lots of small fast motorcycles, but no gas for the civilians who owned them; the Canadian army had more gas than they knew what to do with. Ingenious soldiers helped deplete both excesses; they’d commandeer a Dutch bike, then commandeer the gas required to ride it. In many ways it is reminiscent of Steve McQueen in, "The Great Escape", and, all too often, the end result was the same. The Germans joked that, "While the Canadians might be problematic in battle, all you had to do was to give them each a motorcycle, and the problem would take care of itself!"

Too many soldiers were getting into trouble in one form or another, so the Brass decided that they had to initiate Training Programs, to keep the troops occupied in a more meaningful way. It was at that point, one groggy Monday morning at roll call, that my Father heard that, for some inexplicable reason, his signature had been added to the list for the army "Rough Rider" motorcycle course. It was an advanced course, for individuals with bike experience; my Father had never been within 10 feet of a bike! Before beginning though, the instructor took them down to the military cemetery and showed the trainees the markers of all the Canadians who had died in Holland through motorcycle misadventure. For the next two months, at night, with blacked out headlamps, in whatever winter weather Holland could provide they rode cross country, through fields, farmyards and fencerows.

While on the force Father dealt with a wide variety of crime, but his experience with drugs was limited to the arrest of a few Heroin addicts; as he explained it, "They were always businessmen because no one else had the right combination of pressure, time, money and opportunity to develop the addiction." At that point, in the late forties, few people had heard of, or were bothered by, Gallows Grass, but, for the rest of his life my Father would associate any illegal drug use with heroin addiction. That is why, as the sixties developed, he was concerned about North American kids and their preoccupation with marijuana. No, our Family farm was not the place I’d have ever considered planting those seeds; but I don’t recall thinking of planting them at all, I just stashed them inside an old flashlight in my night table, and forgot about them!
My mother was never a fanatical housekeeper; when your services are regularly required to drive a tractor, nurse sick live stock, raise a quarter acre garden and chase four rambunctious kids, sometimes the dusting falls to the wayside. That is why, one afternoon, returning from high school, I was devastated to find that Mother had ‘dusted’ the inside of my second best flashlight! My parents had no idea what marijuana seeds looked like, but they knew their son well enough to realize that a flashlight would be an unlikely first choice as to where he might store his delphinium seeds. Later in my teens, when my Father wanted me to go into the family business, I said "OK, but, of the 200 acres, I want one acre to cultivate myself, and, "I promised him", I’ll make more money from my one acre crop than the rest of the fields put together!" He knew what I meant then, and laughed, but, at fourteen it was no laughing matter; I had some ‘splaining’ to do.

In later years things were different; I recall one neighbour, Ernie Lines, a great fellow who had a house in Rosedale, and a hobby farm just down the road, regaling us with his astonishment at finding plants spread all over his farm! "It’s my daughters and their damned boyfriends," Ernie fumed, "they go out shooting ground hogs, and leave their roaches spread wherever they drop them!" Later still I recall a local fruit and vegetable stand where, in season, you could get the freshest just picked tomatoes, a dozen ears of the sweetest ‘peaches and cream’ corn, string beans that literally melted in your mouth, and, if you asked politely and appeared respectable, an ounce of the most righteous bhang for a young buck! Local parents enthused that, in a time of drugs, alcohol, and free love, there they were, the pride of Creemore youth, lined up on a Friday evening at the local fruit stand, getting ready for a corn roast!

Then, over twenty years ago, I gave it up! You might say that I decided to ‘turn my life around’ but the truth is a little less dramatic than that; call it more the pressure of a first mortgage, a wife who didn’t mind my using it, but wasn’t interested herself, and, most pressing of all, the faint promise becoming a father, in spite of several prior disappointments, and an awareness of the subsequent responsibilities. My daughter is over nineteen now and has caused me occasional pain, but perpetual pride! I feel no loss at all for a decision made over twenty years ago; but, it does make me realize just how out of touch with the modern Canadian world her old man really is!

Just how out of touch am I? Well, I went shopping two years two years ago for a present for my bride. The occasion was that of an anniversary and, though I really detest shopping, I knew that I had to go the extra mile. I was returning, flushed with success, to my home on Helena St., and as I rounded the last corner, I was surprised to see flashing lights about half way down the block. Helena St. is only one block long; my house is mid-block! "An ambulance!?" I questioned, but, as I drew closer, I saw that it was Police cars; not at my house, but at my neighbours house, next door but one to the east of mine. They’d lived there a couple of years at that point always kids in their yard, and a pair of German Sheppard’s that occasionally drove my bride to distraction by escaping the yard and wandering about the neighbourhood, but otherwise they seemed to keep to themselves.

I’d run into the Lady of the household just once, actually it was her that ran into me! Julie and I had just picked up the mail at the West end of our block, and were preparing to turn left onto Helena St., when a car, it’s tires locked from excessive braking, came sliding into the intersection, and collided with my front bumper at about two miles an hour. She was pretty agitated, and seemed indignant that I’d had the lack of foresight as to be sitting in the middle of the intersection just as she was tearing through it. I let the words wash over my head while she cooled off a little, then, as politely as I could, pointed out that she’d overshot her stop sign by a good 30 feet. Good neighbour that I am, I also informed her that cars steer much better on slippery roads if you keep your foot off the brakes.

I dismissed the dent in my bumper because, "It’s a ten year old truck, and the dent is hardly noticeable." She was most concerned about the damage she had laid upon her own vehicle, and a little concerned about remuneration for myself. "You can buy me a coffee some time neighbour" I teased as I said goodbye. The next morning I found a $10.00 Tim Hortens coupon and a thank you note on the dash of my truck. I never really talked to her again after that, and didn’t give much thought to the young couple. Not, that is, until returning from shopping; "Three cop cars?!," I pondered, "That’s too bad, such a nice young couple. It must have been quite the domestic dust up to warrant such attention." My Bride was late returning that evening, I suspect she was shopping also, and got home about two hours after myself; "Why," she enquired, "are the police next door?" It must have been quite a domestic!

It wasn’t till four days later that I learned the truth of the matter when the Wasaga Sun came out. The headline on the front page read, "Grow-op busted on Helena St." My chin bounced off my sternum! "Six pounds of prepared marijuana, several plants, an ounce of cocaine, magic mushrooms, and, I believe, some ecstasy tablets!" "No wonder they don’t socialize," thought I, "They couldn’t possibly find the time!" The irony of the situation was most evident by the fact that they lived right next door to our recently retired Chief of the Wassaga Beach OPP! Backing on their property is the home of my pal, Wayne, also a long time member of the Wasaga force, who retired the same day the Chief did! When I ran into Wayne a couple days later he was quite bitter about the matter; "The worst thing about it," he told me, "is that, years ago, they would have been ashamed of themselves, and would have moved someplace else! "Now-a-days," he continued, "they don’t have any shame; they’ll just go right on living there!" As it turned out, Wayne was right, and, the worst thing about the matter is that since we talked that day, I don’t think that Wayne has gotten any satisfaction at all out of his lovely rear deck!

All those things and more wandered across my mind while I sipped my Earl Grey and watched August and the boys enjoy each other’s company, but the conversation was lagging just a little, and, as I watched Mr. Wade roll a couple more I couldn’t help but ask a question. He rolled faster than a log at a lumberjack contest, and I almost hated to interrupt the process, but went ahead in spite of that, "You go through a lot of that stuff! You must have brought a hay bale sized baggie with you from Manitoba?" "No!" came his laconic response, "I get it out here; there’s no scarcity." "Did you know a lot of people out here before you made the venture?" I asked, for I’ve been here now nearly two months, and, though I’ve asked a lot of questions, I haven’t met anyone I could imagine posing that particular question to! "No," was his reply, "You just go down to 13th Ave. and 8th St.; you can find anything you want there." When he mentioned the address I realized that I’d read about it in the paper; a street preacher there had been arrested for broadcasting his message through a megaphone. He was evangelizing to the drug crowd, and, there were several testimonials to his success with several people who had been addicts prior to attending his street services.

According to the paper, he’d been threatened by several dealers who were not happy about him converting some of their best customers. Because of this harassment he’d had one of the members of his ‘church’ record the meetings on a camcorder, and in the process, several times, recorded a well known crack dealer doing business as usual. His question was, "Why do the Calgary police bother a preacher trying to do some good for the community, and ignore the overt drug dealing that goes on at that intersection 24/7? I don’t recall anyone addressing his question, but the charges were thrown out of court; if memory serves there was mention of possible ‘excessive use of force’ on the part of the Calgary police, who claimed that he ‘resisted arrest’, but at the trial the video supplied by his congregation plainly showed that he went along without a struggle. I guess that the lesson to be learned here is, that if you come to Calgary, do whatever drugs you wish ....but, be quiet about it! They’re not fond of loudmouths here ....that does not bode well for yours truly!

August went on to elaborate, "It’s right beside a university and a rapid transit line, so there is quite a mix of students, working poor, and riff-raff, the only way to sort them out, because it’s quite crowded, is to wait till a train departs; most of those left at the intersection are there for business of one sort or another." "A fairly rough crowd," he went on, "mostly young, and many of them appearing as ‘after’ pictures for a lecture on the dangers of hard chemical abuse." "But how," I queried, "would you approach people like those?" I can’t picture myself in those circumstances; at least not while being comfortable about it!

"I didn’t approach anyone," he drawled, "I just leaned against a wall, about twenty feet from the scruffiest looking cluster there, looked around and waited; I didn’t have to wait long either. In a couple minutes a guy about 18 separated from the group and wandered to a spot about 5 feet in front of me. He didn’t make eye contact, just said, while gazing upon the pedestrian traffic, eyes never pausing, "What are you looking for?" "I said, "Just a little weed bro.", and immediately his arm raised in some sort of ‘High sign’. All of a sudden I was surrounded by a milling group of about eight or nine young men; I thought, for a second that I was being swarmed! But I quickly realized that all the eyes were directed outwards; what they were doing was blocking a possible transaction from public view ....still, I knew I had to keep my cool because this was a situation where an unexpected ‘hitch’ would prove a bad thing."

August paused for a moment, I suspect reliving the scene, then he went on, "Suddenly, from my left, a young fellow cut through the crowd to my elbow. He had a hankie tied about his head, and a cock-eyed ball cap at a 45 degree angle, arching up. Later, when I thought about it, and recalled the others I’d seen, similarly attired, I realized that it was probably symbolic, in a streetwise sort of way. "How much do you want Bro," the young guy asked. August said that he’d requested a quarter ounce; perhaps an ounce if it was available. "Then," he said, "the unthinkable happened!" The guy looked me straight in the eye, his gaze not wavering, and asked, "Are you a cop?" I had to think fast, and replied, "No! But I often wish that I was a cop; they don’t have to buy their weed ....they confiscate it!"

"The answer must have satisfied him," August continued, "he said," "I have five points I’ll give you for $50.00. Do you want it?" "I did," said August, and as I pulled my money out of my jeans the kid in the hat said, "Quick and fast Bro! Quick and fast!" and as I gave him the money he pressed five little 1 gram bags into my palm. Immediately he was gone, and the crowd began to disperse, one guy, perhaps 16, lingered, and said, "I have two points you can have for $20.00 ....do you want it?" August said, "I’d wanted a quarter ounce, so I took it! It gave me a lean seven grams."

I didn’t ask Mr. Wade about the quality of the product ....from the looks of the three of them I could only assume that it was good indeed. August has a shock of red hair, the shade you might associate with a quick and fiery temper, and I notice his pronounced ‘Adam’s Apple’ bob vigorously as he tilted back his can of ‘Black Label’. To myself I wondered how much that ‘Apple’ might have bobbed through his described transaction. It was now well past 8:30, getting dark, and I had to excuse myself; I do, after all, have the weight of a paper route pressing down upon these narrow shoulders. The fellows continued chatting as I wandered back to the RoadTrek, and made my preparations for a quick departure at 4:30 in the morning.

Later, as I drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help thinking about all the things had August told me. Before the Sandman made his stop I realized that perhaps 20 years of abstinence was a good thing ...and should be continued. My natural timidity leads me to avoid that type of circumstance; I have too much respect for the hygienic state of my underwear to place myself in any similar circumstances willingly. But, you will be relieved to learn that I passed the test; I now have my own paper route! Also, as indicated above, I’m starting to make friends out here! That conversation took place last Saturday night, and, up till now I’ve had little time to type about it. It’s been a busy week, and tomorrow is Saturday once again, and I get to sleep in till 4:30, (during the week I have to rise at 3:00 am!)

James ("You mess wit’ me and you B. messin’ wit’ the whole Trailer Park!) Mackay