The Wonderer - Robert Service

After reading about and empathising with Russell Means titanic battle with cancer, I had just come home from the hospital after visiting a life-long friend of mine. I go there fairly often. This is a man whose prostate cancer has flaired up again, but that's not why he's in the hospital. You see, he's there for his son who, severly disabled, suffered a seisure and was injured in a fall. He is in intensive care with doctors working feverishly to bring him back to consciousness. My friend keeps a daily vigil over his son, more or less ignoring his own situation.

At home, I was looking for something that my friend would enjoy reading during his long daily stays and just by chance - by total coincidence (I think), I came across this poem by Robert Service to remind us of the marvelous gifts most of us have been given for the purpose of journeying through life.

We just don't realize what we have until we see someone from whom some of these gifts have been taken. Maybe it was a lesson for me. I thought I would share it with you with the hope that you too will be able to take inventory of the gifts in your life. You can see it on Youtube at

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D335rYk2wqE

Nestor's Mailbag New Names Department

I don't know if I posted this before, but I liked it so well, I'll do it (again).

New Names Department

Dear New;

It's me, Nestor! Holy Moley, youse guys is hard to find. I betcha you play hanky-panky in the bush behind the pond. Don't play hanky-panky. Horses run away with whole hayrack while you busy fooling around. Hoy boys - then you got a big mess! Lucky for you I notice on time.

Good job I don't raise pigs no more. Now I retired I sit on my balcony and have sausage and maybe a beer, I got time to watch out for you. I could even give you some friendly advice. Don't worry, it's free - no red tape attached. I ready to help anytime.

Just between you and me, maybe you should make a couple new departments. Well you got to fix that 'Make up New Names' department somehow. Hoy boys, what a mess! They're so sneaky to make up funny names. Could be they should go to ‘Make Up Names’ university. They gonna learn something then.

You see what they done? They cancel Happy Thanksgiving. They cancel Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Easter, Ramadan - everything. Now they got one word for everything. Holy Moley I get such a surprise! They make one big word for everything - 'Happyholidaysshopatmystorecheapskate' - that's it! Where they get this from? What you gonna say to people who got to work on holidays - like store employees? They got nothing to think about except they got no holidays. They gotta put on pantyhose and war paint and a big smile. They don't want to and say to customers 'happyholidaysshopatmystorecheapskate'. Hoy boys, they get grouchy. Well you'd get grouchy too if you gotta work on your holidays. What you supposed to say to them - 'happynoholidayspoorslob'? Big mistake! Everybody talks about holidays and nobody gets holidays.

What you think about when somebody says 'Happyholidaysshopatmystorecheapskate' and you got to clean the pig barn? You think 'I got to do this stinky job and I got no holiday'. Between you and me I betcha two kopecks this is KGB from big box stores plot to hitch up 'shopatmystorecheapskate' to celebration name. How come they don't say 'Happyholidaysshopatmystorecheapskate' when you get vacation? Vacation is holiday and they don't say nothing. Hoy boys, what a mix up!

Just between you and me - it don't have to go no further - somebody got to take a big broom and clean out the New Name department. Just like my pig barn - I don't clean it out all the time, it get stinky. People got to say things right. Then everything be okey dokey. I give you example.

You go to somebody's house puffing on smelly stogie like big shot and say 'Have a cigar!'  People say 'Phoo - that stinks. We don't smoke and get outta here with that manure stick!' Holy Moley, you make big mistake! But if you go to same people's place and say, we just had a baby boy! Here, have a cigar, they understand and say congratulations. They keep the cigar to remember. They know what it means and are happy for you. How come you so surprised? You think Muslims don't have babies? You think Buddhists don't have babies? Hoy boys, everybody proud to have baby boy. How come is so hard to be happy for somebody else's special occasion?

Neighbor says to me, 'Merry Christmas'. I say thank you. Then I say to him 'Happy Hanukkah'. He say thank you. Everybody feel good. In February I say 'Happy New Year' to Chinese guy I know. He get such a surprise. How I know it's Chinese New Year? He say thank you - same to you'. Everybody feel good.

In old country they say 'Christ is born.' People look forward to have birthday party. Then church says 'putmoneyincollectionplatecheapskate!' Hoy boys, somebody always got to spoil it. Somebody always gotta stick a big fat nose in people's business. Uh-oh - you smell a rat too? Big long words again - same KGB plot. Everywhere you go - same thing.

Okay, okay. All right already! You want to say politically correct words then you got to finish the business. People should only say 'happyholidays' if you got vacation – like if you fire everybody in ‘New Names’ department. Then you could say ‘happyholidays’.

Listen, you should drop by sometime. We could sit on my balcony – maybe have some ham sausage and some beer if my boy still got some extra. I could give you lots good ideas.

‘Haveaniceday’.

Your Pal

Nestor

Nestor's Mailbag - Department of Agriculture

Department of Agriculture - Cow Department

Dear Cow;

It's me, Nestor. I hope you don't mind I call you by first name, Holy Moley - you guys got big troubles these days! I figure out maybe you could use some help. It's my pleasure, anytime. Don't worry, it's free - no red tape attached. You ask what does old pig farmer (retired) know about mad cow. Hoy boys - you gonna get huge big surprise what old pig farmers figure out. I gonna tell you little story and if you listen good, you gonna get all answers.

I learn this from my brother Stashu, cowboy (retired). Stash, he don't want to be pig farmer like me and daddy. He says it's too stinky. One day he sees a Roy Rogers movie and then he wants to be hotshot cowboy, just like him. He even gets fancy shmansy ten-gallon hat to show off. ‘Ten gallons!’, I yell at him. What kind o’ giant cows you got give ten gallons milk? Stash says hat is not for milk. You put it on head like this. I gotta admit it looks pretty good. He think I don't know so he got to explain hats are for heads and pails are for milk. I tell him thank you for information. He calls me bunyak.

Next day Stash comes to my farm on horseback. Holy Moley that Stash he goes whole hog. He sits in the saddle with ten gallon on his head, leather vest and chaps, big silver spurs on his fancy shmansy cowboy boots, just like Roy Rogers. He thinks he such a hot shot, I tell him, 'Hey Stash, I thought you said you was cowboy. How come you don't ride cow'? He yells at me, 'Smarty pants pig farmer, how come you don't ride pig'. I tell him calm down. It's just a little joke. Hoy boys, that Stashu, he don't get it half the time.

Anyways, Stash hears on radio they got mad cows in England. Hoy boys, they got big troubles. Lots o’ cows got to take a trip to abattory. So many dead cows they got to dig ditches and cover them up just in case. What, Stash yells - they bury them without even finding out? Somebody's nuts, he thinks. After couple days Stash keeps thinking about mad cows. He can't help it. He got cows - maybe they mad! After while he says, I gonna find out and steps in to cow pasture. Big mistake! Stash is thinking so hard about mad cow he forgot to put coveralls over red flannel gotchies. He find out right away quick he got a mad bull - catch him right in the trap door with big horns and help him back over fence. Now Stash can't sit in the saddle no more. He don't want to go back to check on cows just in case they mad too, so he calls vet.

Stash tells the vet to come and check. That vet, he such a joker. He scratch his whiskers like wise thinker and tell Stash bulls is easy to find out. All you got to do is wave a red flag and bulls get mad. Lady cows is much harder. You got to take them to the abattory and slice up brains to check. Now Stash get really upset. He think about all his nice cows with sliced up brains. Holy Moley, once you slice them up, you can't put them back together! What a mess! How come, he asks the vet. Vet thinks a little bit, rubs whiskers some more and tells Stash lady cows is like lady people - very sensitive. Hoy boys, now Stash is getting depressed.

Vet says only other way to find out if lady cow is mad without slicing up brains for microscope, you got to give them therapy - just like lady people. Example - you see your missus got funny look on her face and you ask nicely what's wrong sweetie. She makes a funny mouth and says 'nothing'. You still worried and ask again. No matter how many times you ask she says same thing. Even if you beg she screws up her face and tells you 'If you don't know I not gonna tell you'! You say if she not tell you she gonna have to take trip to the abattoir to get her brains sliced up, she says she don't care.

Same thing with lady cows. You don't just yell at her and say 'What's wrong Bossy'? That way you never find out. You got to say nicely 'Come lie down here on nice straw bed. We could have lovely chat'. Once she get settled you tell how interesting she is. Maybe she would tell you about her life from when she was young whippersnapper to now.  Hoy boys, you talk nice like that and soon she sing like canary. Everything come out like flood. She says first, farmer put her inside  stupid barbed wire fence - wrong side. Everybody knows grass is greener on other side. She get scratched up neck just get a little bit of good stuff. Then some hotshot feed guy bring stupid vitamins with sheep brains in. Where he go to school? Sheep brains are for people who play bagpipes. Everybody know that! Hoy boys, Missus cow she spills the beans on everything. Pretty soon she has good cry and then she calms down. She says she feels much better. She not mad anymore. She says maybe we should do this again next month just in case.

Stashu, he don't know how to deal with this – is too much for him. He such a crybaby. It's too much for him. He says to me do I want to trade some of his beautiful cows for some o’ my ugly, skinny pigs - even Steven. I say 'sorry - border is closed'. He calls me bunyak again. What a grouch!

See, now that was a nice story. You get all the cow answers you need from pig farmer (retired). I always glad to share. Ask any time. Don't worry, it's free - no red tape attached. You should drop by sometime. We could sit on my balcony - maybe have some sausage and a beer. I could give you some more advice.

Your pal,

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired)

Nestor's Mailbag - CBC

We all know there are lots of things wrong with TV. Most of us just grumble and do nothing about it. Nestor at least, has something to say - and he "says it how is it."  Well - you be the judge.

CBC

Dear C;

It's me Nestor! Ha ha, I sure got you this time! You don't know if I call you by first name or last name. I pretty cagey sometimes. Is just a little joke. But I not writing to tell funny jokes. My letter got to do with that TV.

My daughter Olga, she now CEO of pig farm since I retire. First thing she do is put TV in pig barn so she not miss soap operas. Pretty soon pigs don't like TV and get grouchy so Olga give it to me for present. She such a sweetie, our Olga - always think about mommy and daddy! She tell me is nice company for lonely old people in apartment. I tell says don't be bunyak. For people to get advice I got to actually mail letters. Huh? I never think of that before. Maybe she got a point.

"Of course, daddy!" she say. She tell me I spend whole life talking to pigs in barn and wrong end of horse in grain field. It's time I learn something new. Hoy boys she make such a big production about it - set up TV on stand, hook up cable, line up my big chair just so and gives me zapper that looks like cattle prod with lots o' buttons to turn TV on.

"Okay daddy," she tell me. "Now you all set to see the world."

I tell her I gonna watch later. Right now I too busy visit with very important CEO of pig farm. She laugh and give me big squeeze. Who needs TV when you got daughter like that?

After daughter's visit, missus goes to bed and I decide to try this new TV. I sit in big easy chair, line up my eye to screen and pick up zapper. Now I ready to see world. I sit back, push power button on zapper and wait for warm up. Holy Moley! I bet you five rubles I jump a mile high for sure! Picture come on and there is bunch o' people with no clothes on and play hanky panky! I so embarrassed I forget all about zapper and pull plug out of wall! Fast like bunny I do ten Hail Marys just in case.

Next morning smarty-pants daughter phone to see how I like my TV. I tell her thing or two in mother tongue. TV is going in dumpster. She yell at me to don't touch TV. Calm down and she gonna come over right away and fix it. When she get here she send me to kitchen so I don't see. All of a sudden daughter lets out yell and string of words in mother tongue you only hear in beer parlor. Hoy boys! Where she learn that from?  She sound just like Metro who drive gravel truck.

She comes in kitchen with big red face and tells me, "Daddy you no supposed to watch Playboy channel! You too old for that stuff! But is okay now, I fix all up. Everything hunky dory."

I tell daughter to wash out mouth with soap and then she should show me what to do. She laugh and go to washroom and pretend to wash out mouth. Soon as I learn to work buttons on zapper and get list of stations, Olga say she have to go so pigs don't miss her too much. I remind her to play Mozart on radio for pigs when nobody's in barn. They like Mozart when they by self. When somebody in barn they like polkas and happy singing. Then they know food is coming.

I still little bit nervous about turning on so I figure out is good idea to wait 'til tomorrow. I get up early morning at same time every day. After nice bacon and eggs I take glass o’ tea and line up in front of TV. This gonna be good. Now I turn on weather channel. Nice lady standing there in skinny coat says is minus thirty-four, feel like minus forty-five with wind chill. Holy Moley! Sound very cold so I go on balcony to check. Fresh air smack me in face to say 'Wake up Nestor!' I get huge big surprise. It's beautiful day and I nice and cozy. Maybe lady make joke. Oh no - no joke. She say it again. Then I figure out, she only wear skinny coat and little shoes and stand outside with no mitts.

Let me give you little friendly advice. Don't worry, it's free - no red tape attached. Ladies who stand outside and talk about weather got to be dressed nice and warm. You got to put on pure wool gotchies, like you get from Eaton's mail order - and pure wool socks too. You button up trap door on gotchies nice and tight, put on coveralls and felt boots. You put on fur cap and mittens and you all nice and cozy, just like polar bear. Then you don't got no goofy wind chill to mix up people. Same thing in summer time when is plus thirty-four. Everybody stand outside in short pants and complain about heat. Don’t complain. Even in summer heat wool gotchies and socks soak up sweat and you still nice and cozy, just like polar bear. How come nobody get it? Sure, you got to wash underwear every month or else get real stinky, but is not like old days when you got to walk five miles to wash in river.

Only reason you need weather station is to tell if storm is coming. You see that was easy. I bet you could save lots o' money if you tell people just go outside and see how they feel and don't bother with goofy wind chill that nobody understand in first place.

But couple o' things you guys got pretty good. Other day I was watching on the TV early in morning and I get such a big surprise. I turn on biography channel and Hoy boys, I bet my boots I jump a mile high! Right there on the TV I see Peter Gzowski sit and talk to some live guys. Holy Moley! He sure look good for dead guy! He got nice beard, and twinkle in eye and don't got a hose in the nose to breathe like when he sick. They must have good health care system for dead people. He look like million bucks!

You guys must have super duper hot shot agent can get dead guys to come back for do shows. How you do that anyway? Must be cost small fortune for plane ticket from heaven to CBC just to do shows. No wonder you always broke. Let me give you little bit friendly advice, just between you and me. It don't need to go no further so government find out and cut your budget again. Don't worry, it's free - no red tape attached. My grand daddy used to say if you look after kopeks, rubles look after own self. I think he right. You should listen to him. Maybe next time you fly Gzowski in to do show, you could ask my grand daddy to come too. That would be good show with two dead guys.

But I get little bit worry about labor laws for dead people. Four times in same weekend I see same show with Gzowski. What you think of that? Every time everybody say same words, move same way, everything same. Must be smart guys to do same thing over and over without making mistake. I bet you they must be tired after all that work. Maybe they wondering too if audience tired of seeing everything four times in a row. Maybe people go on strike and change channel.

Good idea would be if you only do shows one time only, but get more dead people. I bet you could get fleet discount for bringing whole planeload at same time. See, you could save more money again. Look at that. Hoy boys! You could have whole big talent pool just waiting for exciting programs. Maybe you could bring George Washington to have nice chat with politicians about telling lies. That would be good one. How 'bout you bring Moses for tour guide to take Israelis for stroll in desert? He's a natural. He been there before. And if you want to make pigs happy, you bring in Mozart to play concert with fiddle. I don't know can he play polkas, but he got lots o' talent and he could learn fast pretty quick. Look at that! You play cards right you have whole new audience.

Listen, you don't need to say thanks. I glad to give free advice. Ask anytime, I like to help. You should drop by. We could sit on my balcony and talk about TV planning. I got some nice ham sausage and my boy lives close by. He always got couple extra beers. We could do lunch.

Your pal,

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired).

Nestor's Mailbag - Olympics

Olympic Sporty Guys

Dear Olympic;

It's me, Nestor. I hope you don't mind I write you when you so busy getting ready for summer Olympic games. I know is huge big headache to get everything ready on time. Huh, look at that. I just start to write and already I got good idea, but don't worry, I not send letter until after big bash. That way you get to keep nose in own business when you need it. We could have nice chat later. Is no big deal anyway. I just got couple questions about Olympic games. Would be good idea you should explain to people about it.

 In first place, how come you got so many sick athletes playing games? Everybody always got to go to drugstore - even coaches. After competition, test show they still got disease anyway. You really think this is good idea? Let me give you little bit friendly advice. Don't worry, it's free. No red tape attached. You should try old country remedy for sick athletes. You could make nice little necklace from piece binder twine and seven juicy cloves garlic fresh from garden. Just hang around neck for seven days. You get it - seven cloves for seven days? Works like magic every time and no more drug store medicine. If athletes really sick, put one extra clove between teeth and chew nicely. Hoy boys, you get huge big surprise how fast they get healthy and strong - even smell strong! 

Other thing would be good idea for you to explain to people is what means some of these games. Example - you got whole bunch o' people throw spears in goofy spear throwing game called javelin throwing. Everybody throws far as he can to find out who is winner. What kind of game is this? You got no bull's eye. What is point of throwing far if you don't even hit side of barn? Buffalo just laugh at goofy hunter - maybe give him taste of horn in seat of pants if he not careful. That would be good game - see how fast hunter can run other way. But first you got to find out how far buffalo can run before he get tire.

Maybe that's how you figure out relay race. Hunter miss buffalo, buffalo chase him so he give spear to other guy who run some more. Hoy boys - big mistake. Buffalo knows who throw spear. He don't care about other guy who runs and gives to other guy who runs too. He gonna get hunter with bad aim. Let me give you little bit friendly advice. Don't worry, it's free - no red tape attached. Hunter who throw spear shouldn't go sit down on bench. He should go to showers right away quick before buffalo find him, for sure!

That's 'nother thing you should explain to people. Races, I mean. What kind business is races supposed to be? First everybody line up on starting line, seems to take whole hour. Everybody take off pants and stand around in underwear shaking arms and legs like going to be hot shot magic trick. Then everybody crouch down to look for four-leaf clover when guy shoots off starting gun. All guys or girls take off like they gonna beat the bullet. Okay, is good idea, but they run hundred meters and stop and look around. What they looking for - the bullet? Don't they know man with gun shoot blanks?

Oh, calm down - I just make little joke. I know they not racing against bullet. But you gotta admit whole thing looks kind o' fishy. After whole huge big production to get ready for race, they run like deer for hundred meters, then they stop. Whole audience clap. Now runners look around little bit, put pants back on, and go sit down. Holy Moley, now I get it! They got to see who gets best pair o' pants.  Just like going to church on Sunday and come home with brand new pair overshoes. Is this good idea when everybody watching? No, no - you need new pants, you got to get a job, save up money and go to store and buy. Never mind swipe other guy's pants. What is guy who lose race gonna do - go home in gotchies?

Let me give you little bit friendly advice. Don't worry - it's free - no red tape attached. Don't give guys who run relay races no more little sticks to give to 'nother guy. You give them mailbag. Tell him to run to next town and deliver mail. Hoy Boys! Canada Post get huge big surprise! I bet my big boots they jump a mile high to get such good service! Then runners can say for sure they run for Canada - just like pony express. Look at that. They don't even need hot shot Olympic Committee. Only they got to keep pants on or some ladies get all excited.

Same thing with guys who throw spears. Hoy boys, you think I out of ideas already? No way Jose! This is Nestor you talking to. You want to do something useful? Spear guys should go to places where is lots o' grouchy Canada geese. If they get lots o' geese, they could feed whole army of people who go to food banks. Feathers make nice cozy blankets for homeless people. Well okay, if you want to give prize is okay - but only for head shots. See, I told you. Is easy to have fun and games and still do something good for whole country. Is whole lot better than spend huge big pile o' cash to go overseas to take off pants. If you got to take pants off, go to bedroom and don't embarrass nobody. 

You got to use head little bit to do "value added" business. Could be whole new "Value Added Olympics" if you play cards right. Ha ha, you laugh. What does old pig farmer know about "value added" anyway? You be surprised what pig farmer knows. Some hot shot economist make up new name for how to do better business, but pig farmer already knows all about it. In depression my daddy take load of oats to grain elevator. Elevator guy says he give him ten cents a bushel - tops. Daddy says no - four-fifty a bushel.  Elevator guy laughs at him - tell him he's nuts. Daddy takes load home and drives to pig barn. Shows oats to pigs. He tells them is top grade - four-fifty a bushel. Hoy Boys, pigs are so happy they squeal like pigs! Daddy makes nice chop and feed whole business to them. After, he butchers pigs and makes nice ham sausage. He sells whole works for good price and never go back to elevator guy again. Daddy find out he can stay home, look after family if he do value added business and everything hunky dory.

Now you see - is not so hard to figure out how to have lots o' fun and games and still do good for people. You save lots o' money too. Instead of go to fancy gym for exercise, you go to pig farm - carry slop pails to trough - get strong right quick. If you want to learn run fast, take nice stroll in my brother Stachu's cow pasture. Bull is always there, ready to give you good work out. Maybe you want to think about that little bit. Hoy boys - you never believe I even got good job for think about things. Just hitch up horses to set of harrows and go clean up summer fallow on back quarter. While you're at it you could talk about whole Olympic business to wrong end of horse. Would be just like having meeting with board of directors. You feel right at home. Best part is you get free room and board and ten bucks a day.

Holy Moley! I bet you five rubles you never think of such a thing! Listen, no need to say thanks. I good Canadian. I glad to help out anytime. You should drop by sometime. We could sit on my balcony and have nice chat about more ideas. I still got good supply of ham sausage and my boy live close by. He always got some extra beer. Would be good visit.

Your Pal,

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retire)

Nestor's Mailbag - Education (special)

I've often had a thing about people who need special education. It seems that the people in charge of education have the idea that one must learn things only in a certain way. If you can't do that - too bad! Well, that's not how it is. I have the biggest respect for people like my granddaughter Morgan Epp who is a blind/deaf Intervenor. or my sister's neice who is a speech therapist, who might advise these administrative cowboys exactly where it's at. Well -enough said. Let Nestor speak for himself:

Education Minister

Dear Ed;

It's me, Nestor. Ho, ho, I bet you five rubles you never think you gonna get letter from old Nestor! Maybe you figure out I far too busy being CEO of pig farm to write to busy CEO of teachers. But I got big surprise for you. Now I retire, I got time to give you hand with big mess you make with special education. Don't worry, it's free - no red tape attached.

Hoy, boys! You got nose so deep in fancy shmansy psychology books is no wonder left hand don't know where is right hand. You don't need all that. Everything you need is already in farm chores. You just got to know how to use it. Don't forget. Everybody got special needs. Everybody need special education - even teachers, maybe even Education Minister. Let me tell you little story. You gonna get huge big surprise.   

Actually I little bit nervous telling special education secrets to big boss of teachers. Maybe I gonna have to sit in corner with dunce cap - again. But by now I too old for that. Don't worry, I didn't forget about that business. Wouldn't have been such a big stink if snot-nose little brother don't have such a big mouth. But no, he gotta go home and tell grand daddy about bunyak big brother Nestor is dunce at school. Sometimes little brothers make lots o' trouble. Hoy boys - that Stashu - give me huge big pain sometimes.

Grand daddy sit in big chair, look in my eye and curl up trigger finger to say 'come here, little bunyak'. I hang head like sad little dog and wait for big lecture in mother tongue. I not disappointed. Grand daddy tells me Kropatniks never sit in corner like dunces. How come I decide to change rules? I tell him I don't decide, teacher decide. How come, he wants to know. I tell him I forget poem I supposed to recite.

"Poem - poem?" grand daddy yell at me. Holy Moley! Now I gonna get it for sure! That Stashu - he gonna pay huge big price for shoot off mouth, for sure!

All of a sudden grand daddy get big sneaky grin on old face and says "I like poems! You stand up straight and I gonna tell you one".

I bet you five rubles I jump a mile high. Maybe I not gonna get it after all. Grand daddy tells me long poem in mother tongue. He knows whole thing off by heart. Is all about little willow who grows up to be strong big switch for dusting off seat of pants from boys who sit in dunce's stool. Whole time grand daddy is still smiling like sneaky old fox and I look around to spot willow switch.

Grand daddy ask me if I like poem. What I gonna say - no? "Oh yes, grand daddy - is very nice poem".

Now he want to know do I want to learn it. "Of course", I tell him. He says he got perfect way to learn poem so I never forget. Do I want to see? "Of course grand daddy". Hoy boys, I can't believe maybe this time is no willow switch.

Grand daddy takes me out to granary. He gives me huge big grain scoop and opens sack for me to fill. Every time I dig in to grain we say a line of poem together. Every time I empty scoop in sack we say another line. Scoop - say a line. Dump - say a line - like that. Forty bushels later we come to last verse.

Grand daddy ask if I know poem now. Hoy, boys, all I know is how heavy is forty bushels oats. I tell him no.

"Too bad", says grand daddy. "We start again". He dumps out whole forty bags of oats.

When he hears me groan, grand daddy says, "Don't be crybaby. At least I don't make you put oats in one grain at a time. This time you pay attention. Now shaddap and say out loud".

Hoy boys, you bet your big boots I pay attention! I take every word in my brain and stick him on like fly paper. When we finish I got to recite poem again. We get to verse seventeen and grand daddy dumps out one bushel bag.

"Why you do that?" I complain.

He says, "Two wrong words. Says verse again".

I say verse again and he says, "Okay, fill him up".

Same thing happen in verse twenty-two, and thirty, and thirty-eight. At least I don't have to dump out whole forty bushels. Next time I recite poem I get everything right. Now maybe I can go in house and take it easy.

Grand daddy have other idea. He makes me get book where is my poem. When he sees poem he laughs and says, "This is sissy pants poem - only four verses."

We hitch up team to wagon and I get to load up oats for hammermill to making chop. Holy Moley - eighty pounds a bag - forty bags - my back is broke - arms too! Grand daddy says, "You look little bit tire. You rest and read poem to me on way to mill". I tell him thank you.

Only problem is poem is in English and grand daddy don't understand so I got to say in mother tongue. Now he says it sounds good but don't rhyme. It's got to rhyme or is no poem. I start to think maybe would be better to dust off seat of pants with willow switch and forget about stupid poem. But I smart enough to keep trap shut or else I still got to learn poem and get pants dusted off as bonus for complaining.

We dump out everything at mill and I get grain scoop again. Scoop up grain and say a line. Dump in hopper and say a line. By time we finish I can say in English and in mother tongue - even backwards if I want. On way home grand daddy says to me, "Thank you for big help to make chop and for teaching me nice poem. Today we had special education. You learn two poems in two languages at same time as learn how to make chop for pigs - just like professional pig farmer. I learn small sissy pants poem to say in English. When I tell to grandma, she gonna think I Leo Tolstoi. That's special".

Next day I go to school and say poem just like that. Teacher very happy - tell me I do perfect. Now go sit down. I say no - I not finished yet. I say also in mother tongue - even make it rhyme. Teacher says I must be bilingual. Now he thinks I smart kid after all. After that I never sit in corner with dunce cap again.

Now you see - that's not so hard. You don't need whole bunch o' huge big words to make lessons easy for students. They don't pay attention anyway. You do that and all you get is bored kids who grow up and know nothing. No, no. You got to figure out ways for students to pay attention so they learn something from teacher and teacher learn something from student. That way everybody feels good.

Listen, you should drop by for visit sometime when you not busy with nose in psychology books. We could sit on my balcony and have some nice ham sausage. My boy lives close by and he always got couple extra beers. I could give you more ideas about special education. Maybe you could bring bunch o' special education teachers to pig farm for lesson about special education. My daughter Olga is CEO of pig farm now I retire, but she knows poem about little willow switch as good as me and grand daddy. She be very happy to give special education to teachers.

Your pal,

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retire)     

Nestor's Mailbag - Red Tape Department

Health Canada

Red Tape Department

Dear Red;

It's me, Nestor! Hoy boys, I bet my big boots you gonna be suprise to hear from me! Sorry to disturb you when you so busy trying to find cure for red tape worm epidemic. I know, I know, is huge big problem - world wide pandemic. I don't blame you for worry 'bout it. You getting nowhere fast and red tape worm getting everywhere even faster. Too much red tape!

I never thought about it 'til other day when I watch news on the TV. I line up my big chair and click on TV zapper. Holy Moley! I jump a mile high. Here is classy lady friend of mine getting off a big airplane - right there on TV! She and other nurses and doctors just arriving back from Sri Lanka. They go there to do very nice mission helping people who need it after huge big disaster. Look at that! They got lots of work right here, but when they hear about sick people who need help right away, they drop everything and go, just like that - no red tape.  Maybe you never heard 'bout such a thing in Ottawa before.

They get to Sri Lanka, roll up sleeves and say, "okay let's go! Take us to place where biggest need is."

Army says, "Shaddup and stay in stinky hot barracks. We got war business to do - no time for humanitarian aid. You want something, you talk to government."

So doctors and nurses complain to government. They come all this way for people who need medicine and treatment in a hurry, but army says no way José. Doctors and nurses dig heels in. They still want to know when they can get a move on. 

Government says, "First you need approval from Red Tape department. Fill out forms and wait."

Hoys Boys, what a mess! They even got Red Tape Department in Sri Lanka! I thought it was only available in Ottawa. Doctors and nurses ask for appointment with Minister of Red Tape to clear up business so people don't got to suffer no more. Guy tells them, "Sorry, Minister is out. Come back tomorrow maybe."

Pretty soon people get a little bit grouchy and nobody gets help because Minister is still out. They say, "Where is Minister?"

Guy says, "Out".

People say, "We know he's out. Where is out?"

Guy says, "Out to lunch."

Hoy boys, he got that right! It's just like in Ottawa - same disease. Here you got huge big bunch o' people got no food, got no clean water, got no houses, lost families, lost everything. Same time you got lots o' people like my friend fly half way 'round world to help. Lots o' people send money, clothes, medicine, and equipment. Where does everything go? Goes to Red Tape shipping and receiving, of course. Now nobody can get it 'cause Red Tape Minister is out to lunch. You see what I mean? Red tape worm is huge big problem.

Let me give you little bit friendly advice. Don't worry, it's free - no red tape attached. Ha ha, that's just a little joke. But I got sure cure for red tape worm from my grand daddy. I hear you ask what does old retired pig farmer know about cure for anything, never mind such a giant big disease. Ho, ho, I bet you five rubles you gonna get huge big surprise when you find out what old retired pig farmer knows! I gonna tell you right now. He knows cure for red tape worm is right there on pig farm. See, I told you you gonna be surprise.

In old country my grand daddy find out when spunky young boy pig wants to have smoochy date with nice fancy lady pig, he got to look good - make big impression. So wise guy grand daddy, he takes straight razor and gives him nice fancy shave, professional, just like in barbershop. Pretty soon hot shot boy pig sees he is handsome dude - looks like a million bucks. He's happy to go call on fine lady pig. But that is different story. I not gonna tell you in case kids listening. I gonna tell you 'bout special treatment for all kinds problems.

Grand daddy he got brand new idea for stiff pig bristles. He don't waste nothing - uses them to make cure for poachers catching rabbits on his land. He takes old muzzleloader, a little bit black powder, a big ball of stiff pig bristles, sneaks up on poacher, pulls trigger and gives him injection in seat of pants, right through trap door of red flannel gotchies. Poacher yells and takes off, howling like wolf who back into grouchy porcupine. No, no, this is not end of story. Just wait. I gonna tell you whole business.

Next day grandma sets table for supper, everybody sits down except my daddy. Grandma wants to know why he don't want to sit down to eat like everybody else. Daddy says he not hungry. Besides, he's too busy - got big responsibility to do lots o' chores, and runs out of house. Grandma thinks that maybe her boy got sunstroke from heat, he acting so funny. This is first time she see him want to work instead of eat. He even got long coat on, down over seat of pants.

Even next morning grandma says my daddy gotta sit down and eat breakfast. Daddy tells her he still got no time - got to hurry for school. All of a sudden he want to study hard to be good student. How 'bout that! Never happen before. Grand daddy just strokes his big handlebar moustache and smiles. He tells grandma don't worry. The boy just had immunization against poaching disease. Right now is little bit tender in immunization site, but only takes three weeks for puss and poison to push out pig bristles and then he can sit down again. Grandma says must be good medicine to make boy change his ways so much.

  Hoys boys! Is a long story my grand daddy told me. He winks at me and says it looks like pig bristles pretty good medicine for cure laziness disease too. I ask him how it works.

"Oh," says grand daddy, "like magic. Pig bristles go right into skin. Only way out is for disease in body to push out everything. Then its too late - disease falls out too. In three weeks everything comes out and everything hunky dory. Hoy Boys, makes huge big mess in trap door of gotchies!" he laughs.

So you see what you learn from old pig farmer. Right there under your nose is perfect medicine to cure lots o' things. You don't need fancy shmansy little pills or needle in arm. All you need is old muzzleloader and little bit black powder and grand daddy's pig bristle medicine. Think about it. Its all natural, organic, has short-term side effects and is non-addictive. Best of all it’s a renewable resource so you could get it anytime. I bet you five rubles you give injection to all government people, you get rid of poaching disease - no more fingers in piggy bank. Same time you clean up lazy disease so nobody got no more time for red tape. Look at that! In one shot you fix everything in whole red tape department. Everything run smooth just like wagon wheel with Black Beauty axle grease. You don’t even need booster shot. You just have to say you gonna give booster shot. All of a sudden original medicine starts to work again, just like magic.

You see - that was easy. You should drop by sometime. We could sit on my balcony and have nice visit. I got nice fresh ham sausage and my boy, he live close by. He always got couple extra beers. Maybe you could even use couple more ideas like maybe next time you give money and supplies to Auditor General Sheila Fraser. She gonna make sure where money goes.

Your pal,

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired)

Nestor's Mailbag - Dear Pope

Dear Pope

Dear Pope;

It's me, Nestor. Hoy Boy! I bet you get lots o’ letters! You such a busy guy. I feel bad make you read 'nother one. So don't have no hard feelings for short letter. I not getting even for you not show up at my pig farm for snack after work when you was close by. Aha - maybe you forgot about that already or maybe was just mix up. We make such a nice bonfire and lots o’ munchies. Everybody wait 'til you concert over. We even save some beer and sausage for you. You miss such a good time. Just what you need to relax after day of heavy-duty speeches and waving to people. When you not show up, fire go out and we all go to asleep. Too much Di Boje I guess.

Oh now you remember! That's right, we invite you to little party just for you to have little bit good time. Everybody needs that once in a while. Hey, I seen you on the TV and looks like you could use a little bit fun now and then. You should try it.

Well I know priests not supposed to fool around and do hanky panky. But you not priest no more anyways. You are Pope - the boss – the CEO! You call the shots. What could hurt for you to go out and have little bit fun once in a while? I don't mean you got to do hanky panky. Just go do little jiggy jig dance listen to nice music and have good time. But I maybe you got a hard time to get a date. You notice that?

But let me give you a little bit advice, just between friends. Don’t worry, it’s free – no red tape attached. It don't need to go no further. You should wear pants more. Maybe even suit and tie would be nice. They got on sale in catalogue. You all the time put on fancy-shmansy nightshirts when you go out. They don't do a thing for you. You keep wearing them and ladies might get wrong idea. And that nightcap you insist to put on you head, what's that about? You should get nice Fedora. Then you look sharp, like zoot –suiter. What does bald guy need a nightcap for anyway? Well, that’s my advice to you. I know you didn't ask but what the hay. It's least I can do. 

But I not writing just to make fashion statement, in case you was wondering. It’s just little bit extra advice for you. No, no, real reason I write is to ask you question been bothering me. Maybe you don't know answer right away, but you got connections - you could find out and let me know. What I was wondering was if they got smoking section in heaven. I bet you get that a lot so maybe you already know answer and don't have to ask nobody.

It never even cross my mind before, but everybody keep nagging about it. Smoking no good for you they say. ‘Daddy,’ says Olga, ‘you stop that crummy habit – is bad for you.’ Even missus keeps nagging, ‘Phoo! That stinks!’ What I gonna do? I been smoking now for sixty years and people say if I keep it up I maybe gonna get sick so I should stop. I know they mean well but why they not tell me that sixty years ago?

They even got all kinds new smoking facts - scientific, they say. Even government is in on act. They say second hand smoke is bad for people and environment. So they ban smoking in public places. Well, you know me. I don't want to make trouble for nobody, so I don't smoke in public places no more. I don't even like to smoke in places where I going to be my own self. Trouble is, I still like to smoke. So you see my problem.

Well, if they got a smoking section in heaven, I'd sure like to go there. Some of my buddies is there already and I like to visit with them, you know, maybe have some sausage and a beer - and a smoke. But I not want to start off on wrong foot and smoke where I not supposed to. It wouldn't be right. So if they got no smoking section I got to decide am I going to quit like everybody is nagging me about or go stay in that other place you talk about sometimes, just for smoke. Hoy boys, is a heavy load to carry making huge big decisions. Maybe next time you come by you can tell me.

Now, you see - we had such a nice chat and you wasn't even here. Imagine how much fun you have if you drop by for visit. You like it here. You feel right at home. We got nice balcony, just like your place – well maybe not so fancy, but pretty cozy. You could go out there same as in your palace and wave to neighbors across the courtyard, no problem.

I even got old zoot suit you could wear - dark blue - with pin stripes - and a vest too. Real classy. Hoy boy! I bet you turn lots of ladies' heads in that suit. No really, you should come. You don't even got to phone. We always got extra sausage in freezer. And my boy he live close by. He always got a few extra beers around. We could have blast.

Your pal,

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired)

   

Nestor's Mailbag - Dear Canada

Well, it's Canada Day, and I couldn't help but remember Nestor's embarrassement about his effort to show his allegiance. So I thought I'd share it with you today. Here it is:

Dear Canada

Dear Canada;

It’s me, Nestor! Hoys Boys, I so embarrass early first thing in morning I don’t know should I sit down, stand up, or hide face in corner. Sun is just peeking up from under sleeping blanket when I take my coffee and little bit ham sausage on balcony for think about what to do today. Well I know I not going to do things no more – I retire – but is old habit I pick up and hard to break. Even still is nice to plan for do nothing whole day. Besides, is Canada day today. Whole country having birthday party.

Now I look up from comfy balcony chair – just like pope – and look across courtyard at other buildings. Holy Moley, I bet my big boots I jump a mile high! Lots o’ people got big Canadian flag in windows and draped over balcony – just like huge big birthday card. Hoy Boys! What a good idea! How come I never think of that? I gotta admit, sometimes city slickers not so dumb after all.

All of a sudden I get great idea myself. Maybe I got no flag so I gonna make one for sure! Quiet as a little mouse I sneak in bedroom where missus still sleeping. She so cute, purr like tiny little kitten on pillow. I find brand new pair red wool gotchies and brand new white bed sheet and tippee toe out so wife not wake up. I know I got no business in sewing basket, but I look anyway for safety pins and take whole shebang to balcony. Hoy Boys – is hard job to figure out how to make maple leaf from pair o’ gotchies. Is one part short until I remember trap door. Look at that. Trap door is good for lots o’ things. By time I all finished, tongue is all twisted from concentrating, fingers full o’ holes from safety pins, but whole thing looks pretty good, I figure out. Not so bad for old pig farmer.

Holy Moley, if I not still on hands and knees, I bet you for sure I be fall down right away quick. Right behind me cute little purring kitten turn into ferocious big tiger – roar like lion – in mother tongue! Missus lets out string o’ words, some I never even know what mean. What I think I doing showing underwear to neighbors on balcony? What people going to think of bunyak pig farmer? They gonna laugh us right out of neighborhood! Hoy Boys, I so shocked I don’t know what to say for minute. I never thought o’ that.

Finally I get tongue back and I say, ”Hey listen sweetie, calm down. I make birthday card for Canada.” Hoy Boys, big mistake! She give me ‘nother blast.

Now I got to dig heels in little bit. I tell her, “Listen here sweetie, I CEO of balcony. If I wanna say ‘Happy Birthday Canada’, I gonna do it”.

Missus shoots right back. “Maybe you CEO, but don’t forget who is Chairman of Board. Now shaddap and give me gotchies”.  

Just then our Olga – she now CEO of pig farm since I retire, walks in door and wonders what is all squawking about. Missus tells her I make jackass of self and show her what I make. She says she gonna throw in Dumpster.

Daughter says, “no, no mommy, don’t throw away! Is very important to say ‘Happy Birthday Canada’. Look, I brought present”! She open big Eaton’s shopping bag and haul out huge big flag bought from store. Holy Moley I get such a big surprise! Is beautiful flag.

Missus like it too. She says, “here Mr. CEO, go hang up proper birthday card – and do it straight”.

Daughter tells mommy, “Give me daddy’s flag. I got good place for it. I hang it up in barn. Pigs will be so happy, they gonna squeal like pigs – maybe even sing ‘Oh Canada’. They see daddy’s gotchies, then they know who is Chairman of Board in barn. See, everything is hunky dory”.

Look at that! I don’t know how it happened. Missus comes and gives me little squeeze. She says I cutest little bunyak. Daughter says she gotta go show flag to pigs in barn.

Let me give you little bit friendly advice. Don’t worry, it’s free – no red tape attached. When it comes to ladies, just shaddap and do what they say. Somehow by magic, everything work out – every time.

You should drop by sometime. We could have some sausage and maybe I ask my boy who live close by if he got some extra beer. We could have nice visit. Just don’t ask for lady advice.            

Your pal,

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retire)

Queen Victoria's Birthday

It looks like I'm going to be rummaging around in Nestor's mailbag some more. I actually found one of his little missives that is aimed at the idea behind this May long weekend. As usual, he calls a spade a spade and sets it right, according to his own self. Here it is:

Monarchist League

Dear League;

It’s me, Nestor! How ‘bout that? It’s Queenie’s birthday again. Hoy boys, she gonna be hundred eighty-six years old – only been dead for hundred-four. That’s what I writing about. Gonna be lots o’ noise and banging drums and firecrackers. You think Queenie gonna ‘preciate that? She old and tired. I bet you five rubles you stick head in Queenie’s tomb, she not gonna say thank you for party. Maybe she tell you, ‘We not amuse’ and slam door in face. No, no, we gotta have respect for Elders.

Let me give you little bit friendly advice. Don’t worry, it’s free – no red tape attached. You should have birthday party for new Queen. Well, she not so new, but at least she still breathing. She got hands full with spoiled brat kids and could use a break. Would be good to write nice letter to pay respects to old Queenie, send flowers to new Queenie and nice big cake for spoiled brat kids. Well, you know what they say, ‘Let them eat cake!’ After that you forget about whole business, go to lake and have own party, firecrackers and everything.

You see, was easy to take care of all royal business including royal sayings. You still pay respect and don’t wake up Queen Victoria no more and still have same long weekend. Everything gonna be hunky dory.

No need to say thank you for advice. I glad to share. I got lots o’ ideas for snot nose royal grandchildren too. You should drop by my balcony for some nice ham sausage and a glass tea. Way up high on balcony - we call that high tea. That’s just little royal joke.

Your pal,

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retire)

Nestor's Mailbag - Letter to the Finance Minister (and everybody else)

Every time I get invited over to my friend Nestor Kropatnik's place, I get suspicious. You remember Nestor Kropatnik - PF (Retire) who is forever writing letters and giving free advice - like it or not. Sure enough, we're sitting on his balcony enjoying some fine ham sausage and a cold beer, when out comes his pencil and paper. He's got another HUGE BIG idea about how to get rid of the deficit, balance the budget, and put Canada back in the black. But this idea is so "HUGE BIG" that he has to tell everybody but he can't write that many letters. He butters me up by saying I'm a smart guy. I can figure it out.

He hands me anothr beer and another slab of ham sausauge on a slice of his wife's delicious home-made rye bread, smiles like a kid in a candy store and says, "We gonna do it together! I gonna say what I gonna say and you gonna write down just like I said it!"

Well, with an idea this "HUGE BIG", I can't resist. I pick up paper and pencil, look him straight in the eye and holler, "Shoot"!

Nestor doesn't miss a beat. "Like this," he says, all business:

To Finance Minister


Cc: Trade and Commerce Department

Cc: Justice Department

Cc: Corrections Department

Cc: Prime Minister of Quebec

Cc: Indian Affairs Department

Cc: Foreign Affairs Department



Dear Finance;

It’s me Nestor! Hoy boys, I so excited I don’t know who to write to ‘bout this huge big idea, so I gonna Cc everybody, just in case. “Cc” is secret code word for “carbon copy”. Everybody got to hear ‘bout this so I just say “Cc” an’ everybody get all heads together an’ pay attention to old Nestor. Pretty slick, you got to admit.

Other day I learn bran’ new word. Is called “outsourcing”. Holey Moley! Is huge big important word! How come I never hear ‘bout it before? Oh I know. Is also secret code word means “saving money”. Oho! Now I know why you never use it! Government got a rule about using swear words. Spending money is good government word, but don’t talk about saving money.

Out of other side of mouth government flap gums about balancing budget, cutting deficit ‘til cows come home. They even make huge big meeting with all countries called G – 20. I don’t know what G – 20 is code word for, but must be good because they spend about a billion bucks for party. They talk about cutting deficit, but nobody say how. They don’t even say when. Is just like climb in bathtub with clothes on. Only get clean outside. Inside still stinky like before bath.

Let me give you some friendly advice. Don’t worry, it’s free – no red tape attached. I glad to share. If you want to do something, you got to know how to do, otherwise, is just so much hot air. What does old pig farmer know about cutting deficit, balance budget, outsourcing you ask? I bet my big boots you gonna get huge surprise what old pig farmer can tell you.

Everybody already know about “outsourcing” – except maybe government and labor unions. Canadian clothes made in China, Taiwan, even India. Canadian toys, TV’s, computers – all made in China. Even sacred Indian Dream Catchers made in China. Everything too expensive to make here so businesses got to “outsource” orders to make cheaper, faster an’ better. Oops – now businesses saving lots o’money, and we saving money too. Look at that! Maybe government should think about “outsourcing”. I get so excited I got to look around for something government can “outsource” too. I don’t got to look very far.

Justice Department got huge big problem with too many prisoners an’ not enough prisons. Cost taxpayers thirty billion bucks a year – an’ pretty soon gonna cost fifty billion. Holey Moley, my taxes never gonna go down!

Now put on you thinking cap. What you think you can do ‘bout this? In case you fall asleep while thinking, I gonna tell you what you can do. Hoy Boys! I bet my big boots you gonna get huge big surprise! You “outsource” whole prison system to poor countries who need extra cash money. I bet you five rubles is going to be cheaper. At same time you help poor countries so you not spend so much on foreign aid. Save money – two times on same project. You see – everybody win!

Prime Minister from Quebec give me even bedder idea. He got brainstorm to sell more asbestos to Indians. No, no, not those Indians – they already corner market on diabetes. They got no room for cancer. I mean Indians in India. They buy that stuff by ton and install with bare hands. Not healthy.

So you make a deal to send all Canadian prisoners over in big airplane for install asbestos. You get better price for supplied and installed and Indians got more time to do computer software and electronics. That kind business got special secret code word you never heard before. Is called “value added”. They use in retail store. You buy suit and clerk say now you need nice tie to match. Then you need brand new shoes. First thing you know you bought whole outfit. That’s value added.

If prisoners run out of work, they got jails in India too. They take all kind stuff nobody else want – Canadian prisoners an’ maybe even defense lawyers.

Oho, you say. Prison guards gonna be upset! No, no, I think of everything. Prison guards get train for construction work and turn old prisons in to nice condominiums – upscale. You make a bundle! Look at that! First thing you know deficit gone and you got surplus on hands again!

You see, old pig farmer still know a thing or two ‘bout how to run a business. You should drop by sometime. We could have some my nice “value added” ham sausage an’ my boy, he live close by. He always got extra beer or two in fridge. I could give you more ideas. Don’t worry, it’s free – no red tape attached. I always glad to share.

Your pal,

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retire)

 

A different kind of same - old, same - old

Talking eBooks?

Give an old geyser a computer and some new software and you never know what will happen next. Well - I've been thinking about this for a while. I love audio books if they are well done. In fact, I like making them. They bring a new sense of drama to the story that can't be achieved by the printed word alone.It's quite an adventure to make an audio book. It forces the narrator's focus right into the story and before he knows it, he's caught up in the adventure. You should hear the abuse my poor microphone has to put up with as I yell at it in some of Winnetou's escapades, and the next moment I whisper that the Kiowa are sneaking up on him. It's quite hilarious even to me since I seem to have a third ear that can listen to what I sound like.

And I'm not the only one who has thought about this. A number of book publishers want to do this sort of thing, but can't figure out how to justify the man hours needed to put out a credible product. So they try to use all this fancy technology of text to voice, thinking that they've produced an audio book. Well, I don't want to be unkind, but until they find a way to put a human heart and spirit into such technology, they might as well save themselves the trouble.

Having said all that, I've finall figured out how to post some of the shorter things on Youtube, and that's what I did. These are two of the Wisakadjak stories I've posted before, but you might find them interesting in this format. To hear/see them click on the following links:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3LrSdxZL8Kw

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

I would really like to hear comments from my friends, especially overseas. You can email me directly at vepp@mts.net

Honest to God and Other Whoppers - Heavenly Intervention

I was rattling around in my brain-attic again, trying to remember what I'd done with mywill, when I stumbled across something I had completely forgotten about. I enjoyed it so much, I completely forgot about my original intention and decided to post it here. It's a little bit irreverend, but what else would you expect from me? Here goes:

Heavenly Intervention

The dimly lit boardroom was silent, absolutely still, even though twenty-seven gloomy figures ringed the long, gleaming ironwood table, thirteen on either side, and one more at the end. Three places stood empty – one at either side of the head, and the head itself. It seemed nobody was even breathing.

Suddenly the room brightened as the great oak doors swung open. A blast from Gabriel’s horn pierced the air, sending shudders reverberating through the assembled room.

“For cryin’ out loud, Gabe! Can’t you for once blow that piece of tin at a respectable volume? You’re supposed to announce my arrival, not blow my head off!”

“Sorry boss,” said Gabriel. “That’s the volume ‘shock and awe’ calls for.”

“Well, until this mess is cleared up, we don’t need any more ‘awe’. Just keep it down to ‘shock’ volume.”

“Gottcha.” A more subdued trumpet blast followed.

The figure entering the boardroom should really be described in two parts. From the neck down he was the quintessential old fashioned executive; blue serge, three piece suit complete with a red carnation in the lapel over a fine silk, powder blue shirt and red ascot, right down to the finely crafted Italian leather shoes. From the neck up he presented an entirely different picture.

Most prominent was the big raw steak he was holding over his right eye. Protruding from his nostrils were blood-soaked wads of cotton batting. Even his snowy white, cropped beard was spotted with dribbles of blood from his nose. He was a mess, a pathetic sight to behold!

Still, he strode into the room like a man on a mission, his left eye, the only one you could see, glaring with determination. The stack of papers in his left hand literally slammed down on the table as he took his place. Keeping his one good eye on the assembled counsel, he felt around for the gavel and grasping it, gave it a Tiger Woods type of swing directly onto the table. The resultant crash was like a mighty thunderclap that reverberated around the room, shaking everything within it. ‘Hm – not bad’ he thought and did it again. He had more wrist action in his left hand than he’d thought - something to remember in future.

The archangel Michael brought a silver dish to put the steak on. “I’ll put it in the fridge to keep it cold for you. Holy shit! You collected one hell of a shiner! You must have run into Frank O’Connell’s cane again. Why don’t you just send him straight to hell and be done with him?”

“Hey! Watch your language, snotnose!” That voice echoed from somewhere near the ceiling, from some invisible female body.

“Bloody hell,” said Kuldip, the Indian sub – angel. “Does that woman never sleep?”

“I heard that!” said the voice.

God opened the ledger in front of him, squinting with his good eye until he came upon the name of Francis Michael O’Connell. “Eight hundred and fifty three times so far I’ve sent him to hell. Eight hundred and fifty three times he’s turned up back here within twenty minutes, waving that big cane of his and telling me what’s wrong with the churches – that they’re only a bunch of corporations looking for market share and virgin boys and girls. Apparently he tells Satan the same thing so the devil doesn’t want anything to do with him either. Satan has even gone to the trouble of building a high-powered ejection seat to shoot him back here the very second he shows up. It’s like playing ping-pong. But it wasn’t him this time,” God said, rolling his eyes upwards to the source of the voice, “It was her.”

“Uh-oh,” said St. Peter. “Somebody’s been talking to her? Do we have a mole hiding in here somewhere?”

“Naw,” God replied. “She’s been talking to those other brats of hers down there.”

“Where? In hell?”

“No, I meant on earth. What we’re dealing with here is one of those tight-knit Irish families. They’re usually squabbling amongst themselves but just let an outsider intervene and that bunch is tighter’n a bull’s ass in fly time! ‘You fight me; you fight my gang’ kind of attitude. I should have seen it coming. And now they got that other bunch involved – the O’Tooles. That’s Frank Junior’s wife Erin’s family. They’re about as ornery as the O’Connells.

“I heard that and I don’t appreciate it!” said the voice.

God chose to ignore her. “Let’s get down to the problem and figure out a way to fix it,” he said. “First I want a run down on what led to this disaster. Where, by the way, is the Grim Reaper?”

St. Peter said, “You don’t want to know!”

“Oh yes I do! Now out with it!”

“It’s not my fault Lord,” St Peter whimpered. “I was just going by the book.”

“Well, what then? I haven’t got all day. Actually I have if I want to, but that’s a moot point”

St. Peter punched in a few numbers on his keyboard.

‘C’mon, c’mon, let’s get with the program!”

The whole wall to God’s right lit up like a giant computer screen. St. Peter googled “Calgary” and the skyline appeared; dimly at first, and then sharpened to a clear picture. Finding the Foothills hospital, he ‘left–clicked’ his mouse on it until he was in the ICU. Frank Junior’s bed was empty. Maybe it would still all work out, God thought. Maybe the young O’Connell was on his way after all. Maybe all that ruckus was just a tempest in a teapot after all and they’d all be able to get back to work. St. Peter was about to scan the morgue when the surveillance camera caught a slight movement by the hospital room window. A man was standing there attached to a rolling cart of various bags of intravenous medications, looking out of the window. It was Frank Junior. Well, thought St. Peter, there goes that mission.

Panning back to the young O’Connell’s bed one more time, St. Peter noticed a strange, translucent sort of a figure lying on it. What was that? It hadn’t been there a minute ago. It was a sort of a man. It was a man! It was the Grim Reaper for God’s sake, or at least what was left of him!

“There,” said St. Peter. “There’s your Grim Reaper.”

“Oh - - my - - God!” they all said, almost in unison.

“Hah!” grated the female voice.

“Jesus Christ!” Bellowed God.

“I heard that!” the female voice scolded. “Watch your mouth!”

“I’m just calling my son, or did you forget I had one?”

“Oh.”

A side door opened in the boardroom. “Hey dad, how’s it goin’?”

“Son, I need you to help me out here. I got a big crisis and I can’t get that O’Connell woman off my back. Go do something with her. Tell her a parable or something.”

“It’s no use dad. The only one she’ll listen to is mom.”

“Well then, get your mother to have tea with her. Do something!”

“I’m on it!” Jesus left.

“Now maybe we can get down to business. I don’t know how much higher my stress meter can go. Pete, I want an explanation, and I want it now!”

St. Peter opened his own ledger, flipped the pages until he came to the ‘O’s’. “Ah, there it is,” he muttered. “Hm.”

His finger went down the page. “Yep, I thought so. Here it is right here. Frank O’Connell - ‘Suspicion of trying to get classified information’. That’s a misdemeanor under most circumstances, but far more serious when an interior designer commits it. You remember that he’s got an interior design degree don’t you? Well, you know how pushy those types are. Well, he can’t do that! There’s only one place where that knowledge can be authorized and that’s right up here. No, we’re in the clear. We only did what was called for.”

“What in blazes are you talking about?” asked God. “What information is so precious that it’s got to be classified?” He leaned his head on the heel of his hand, “Ouch!” he exclaimed, remembering his shiner too late.

St. Peter continued. “A couple of years ago he decided to go back to school and learn about the effects of aging through light and color.”

He looked up at God, expecting an acknowledgement of the problem. God only stared at him blankly. “Light and color – light and color – don’t you remember?”

“Refresh my memory,” said God disdainfully.

St. Peter sighed wearily, turned to the Old Testament to read. “‘And in the beginning God created man in his own image. In his own image created he him.’ Sounds like somebody could have used a few grammar lessons too when that was written.”

“Don’t be funny,” God said. “That’s how people used to talk. Get to the point.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming to it. Remember when you caught Adam and Eve screwing around in the Garden of Eden and booted them out because they had found carnal knowledge?”

“Oh yeah, I remember. I was some pissed off – them sneaking around behind my back, hiding behind all those lovely colored leaves an flowers.”

God’s eyes instinctively rolled upwards, waiting for another blast from Maggie O’Connell, the clan matriarch. It didn’t come. Maybe Mary had got to her. Why oh why couldn’t she be more like Mary - demure, refined and civil? Heaven would be so much more heavenly. “Go on,” he instructed St. Peter.

“Right then and there you classified knowledge of aging through light and color. To quote you directly, you said unto them ‘Ye may have gained carnal knowledge even though I forbade it, but I’m buggered if anybody – note I said anybody, will ever have knowledge of aging through light and color in any place other than in heaven. That knowledge is hereby classified – by God!’ – your exact words.”

“So then,” wondered God, “it all seems perfectly normal. Where did things go so wrong?”

Upstairs, in a quaint little tearoom, Mary sat delicately poised in the finely upholstered chair, teacup suspended in mid air. Her eyes were the size of saucers and her mouth agape. “You did what to God?” she sputtered.

“I hit him in the bridge of the nose with my fist.” Maggie said defensively. She quickly added, “I didn’t mean to do it that hard. It was instinctive when I heard he was bringing our Franky up here. I just wanted to cuff him on the ear like I do to my old man when he gets out of line, but I was really angry and I guess my fist was closed. Besides, he moved so I missed his ear and caught him on the nose.”

“My dear, it’s very lucky that you’re still up here. By rights, you should have been banished by now.”

“Oh, there’s no chance of that. Who would keep my husband in line otherwise?”

“Well, there’s that. But what was all that ruckus about in the first place? You know that immortality isn’t an option down there on earth. That only works up here.”

“Oh, I know,” said Maggie, “but it wasn’t his turn!” She was getting worked up again. “It’s too hard to have to bury your children. If anyone knows that, you must. Look what happened to your kid.”

Mary’s face saddened. After all these years she still felt the pain. “But Maggie,” she said, refocusing her mind. “You’re not burying your child. You’re already up here. One would think you’d be happy to see him.”

“Of course I would. I can’t wait! But you don’t understand either. See, back down on earth there’s a huge age difference between Junior and his siblings. He’s almost young enough that each of them could be his parent, and they’re very possessive about him – always were. You see what I mean? They tend to get real pissy about his wellbeing.”

“Yes that would be very sad for all of them,” Mary agreed. “I see what you mean. Heartbreaking, and that’s not even taking his wife into account.”

“In fact it was Erin who first let me know about it, sort of.” Nellie smiled that mischievous smile of hers, like the cat that had just swallowed the canary.

“What exactly does that mean Maggie?”

“Actually, she was talking to God, and I just happened to be within earshot. That of course, is when I smacked him one. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but it’s too late now. Besides, it’s all turning out the way it should, so I guess it was justified.”

“But what about the Grim Reaper? I know you had something to do with that!”

A broad grin crept over Nellie’s face. “Insurance,” she said. “I was desperate. Everyone was so worried and depressed I had to do something, and it all came together like clockwork. Everyone was leaving to go back to their own homes in a terrible state. Nora and her daughter Mabel – that’s my granddaughter had taken Nora’s sister to the airport in fact. In the meantime the Grim Reaper had to wait until later to gather Junior up so he thought he’d pick up Mrs. Wildon in Red Deer and come back for Franky later.”

“You mean it was that close? It was to be that night?”

“Yep. It was a pivotal moment. I had to think of something real quick and the ingredients were all there. On the one hand you’ve got the Grim Reaper being a Sunday driver on his big shiny Harley, and on the other you’ve got Mabel who suffers from chronic heavy foot. All I had to do was to arrange a little ‘meeting’.”

“And –?” Asked Mary.

“I just kind of, sort of finessed the off ramp sign on the road just enough to make her think she was headed back to the hospital. I fixed it as soon as she got on the Red Deer highway so it wouldn’t effect anyone else.”

“You didn’t!” exclaimed Mary.

“I did. And then I just waited. You know there’s miles and miles of highway where you just can’t turn around. Of course, the more anxious Mabel got, the heavier her foot became. Old Grim never had a chance! The wind suction from the speed of the car bounced him and his big Harley off the road, right through the first barbed wire fence. The Harley flipped end for end, and he flew over the second one, landing at the feet of a great Hereford bull. The rest is history, as they say.”

Maggie paused to sip her tea, giving a little nod of satisfaction to emphasize her accomplishment.

“Oh my!” Mary fairly stammered. The women are all right I hope. That was a dangerous maneuver.”

“Oh, not at all. Perhaps you’ve been up here for too long to remember how these things work, and you’ve never seen how fast today’s vehicles will go. But old Grim was invisible, so they didn’t even know it happened. By the time the bull got through with him, I figured it would be quite a while before he’ll venture out to mess with one of my brood without permission again.”

Mary put down her empty cup and rose gracefully from her seat. She had so much charm and grace about her, Maggie thought. “I must go Maggie. It was a lovely visit. I learned so much. Perhaps we should get together again soon.”

“Oh, I’d like that,” Maggie smiled. Imagine – Mary, mother of Jesus had learned something from her! Maggie too wanted to learn more from this long-suffering, gracious woman.

“Yes,” Mary said. “Perhaps you can give me some lessons with that cuff in the ear tactic. I have a few issues with Joseph that need attending to.”

Maggie smiled. Maybe they weren’t so different after all.

Down in the boardroom St. Peter was saying, “It’s all in the details – the order of things, you know – cause and effect. What was that ‘old what’s his name’ figured out? ‘For every action there is a direct and opposite reaction’. See, you never restricted -.”

“Oh stop with your Goddam long winded explanations! I don’t -.”

“I heard that!” she was back.

“Just declassify the light and color shit! Let the kid do what he wants, and give me my steak! I’ve had it!”

God took the cold piece of meat, slapped it over his eye and stood up to leave. “- and do something about the Grim Reaper before we get too far behind.”

With renewed energy, now that the issue was resolved, Gabriel blew an enthusiastic blast out of his horn. God jumped back at the unexpected sound. He slowly removed the steak from his eye, looked at it a moment to make a deliberate decision, and then rammed it down the mouth of Gabriel’s horn. “Aw shaddap” he muttered and stomped unceremoniously out of the room.

Honest to God and Other Whoppers - A Story About a Storyteller

A story about a Storyteller

The far-flung regions my readers have come from  to share in my stories strains the imagination. What a marvelous invention electronic technology is! It got me thinking about storytelling in all its various forms over time, so I thought I would share my thoughts with you.

The Storyteller and The Global Village

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I discovered the far-flung places from which people have come to read my stories! I say a warm welcome to readers from the Netherlands, Mexico, Japan, China, Columbia, Chile, Australia, Chile, Moldova, Norway, the Czech Republic, Denmark, Peru, the United Kingdom, France, Slovenia Germany, Russia, New Zealand, United States, and Canada. What greater reward can there be for a storyteller than to be surrounded by such a diverse audience gathered around the campfire? It’s intoxicating!

In a time long ago, before the advent of all the electronic gadgetry that allows for long distance communication, the Storyteller’s stage was perhaps the village theatre, or the town square. Before that, it was perhaps the village or clan campfire. Whatever the stage or the setting, there was always a Storyteller and there was always an audience, be it large or small. But throughout our evolution, regardless of the “stage” or venue, there has always been a Storyteller to feed the insatiable appetite of his or her audience. Just as the Story Stone did to the young boy in the village, something in the make-up of the human spirit draws us irresistibly toward yet another story.

And so the whole business of storytelling keeps evolving. The storyteller has kept pace with technology in the method of delivering his stories to make the most of new vehicles such as the printed word and so on. That enlarged the audience quite a lot, making it possible for great numbers of people to buy books and newspapers to read stories. But what it did at the same time was to silence the voice of the storyteller, turning him or her into a faceless entity with a monotone voice that could only be animated by the imagination of the reader. It also meant that one no longer needed to remember the stories as they did before, because they were always available to re-read at any time. Our collective memories became shorter and clouded. Something was gained and something was lost.

With the development of cinematic theatre, the movie business exploded on to the scene, creating a whole new kind of storyteller who disappeared behind the visual effects of the big silver screen. The characters in the stories had different shapes and faces. The storyteller’s words they spoke were no longer his but rather those of them that spoke them. Even the scenery appeared to be real. Nothing was left to the imagination. One only had to sit down in a theatre seat and absorb what was being presented. There was no room for imagination. What you saw is what you got, whether you were in Chicago, Berlin, Moscow, Tokyo, or anywhere in the world, and it was the same no matter where it was seen. But it didn’t account for cultural differences. How is it possible for someone in say, South Africa to interpret the story in the same way as his counterpart in Nome Alaska? Do you see the problem? The story itself is universal as all stories are, but now they can only be told in one way; can only be understood by some, and completely misunderstood by others. The viewer’s imagination is barred from the story. He can no longer interpret it in terms of his own understanding. Added to that, he cannot even hear the story unless he has access to a theatre where it is being shown. Again, something is gained, and something is lost.

And now, through the amazing technology of the electronic age, storytelling has again come full circle. The listener may sit in comfort in front of his/her computer or eBook reader anywhere in the world and interpret the words written there, painting a canvas in the mind of the beholder according to his or her understanding, and thus understand the universal meaning of the story itself.

Even better than that, the technology of audio books makes it possible to hear the voice of the storyteller. He has found his voice once more and can dance through the fertile imagination of the listener, weaving his spells and casting just the right mood in each of our minds. It becomes a one on one, uniquely personal experience for the listener to interpret according to his or her understanding, regardless of cultural background or geographic location. It is truly marvelous!

So the light shines again on the story itself. Be it idle entertainment or profound truth, it now resides in the heart of the listener. It his or her own story, it his or her own truth; and so the story belongs to everyone. The circle is complete.