Me and the Kid and Firrecrackers

     One of our "Over-the-hill" mentioned to me the other day - did I remember when we as kids used to have wars with "Cannon Balls", shooting them into each others yards from across the street? "Cannon Balls" of course are/were firecrackers that would shoot balls of colored fire out to explode into a ball of sparks in time delay fashion. Well, who could forget that? How the world ever escaped being set afire at our hands I'll never know.

     Well, that got me to thinking about fire crackers. Seems that my generation isn't the only one to be obsessed by firecrackers - or more accurately, pyrotechnics. Here - let me tell you about it.

Me and the Kid

And Firecrackers

The kid says to me, "Can we go get some lady fingers?" he says.

          "Have a peanut butter sandwich," I says. I thought he was talking about cookies.

          It took him a minute to figure out where my mind was at. Then he got it. "No, not cookies." He eyes me kind of funny. "Firecrackers! They're called lady fingers!"

          "What?" I wanted to know. "They still make those things?"

          The kid was surprised. He never figured I even knew about ladyfingers. "Yeah," he says, "They're cool."

          About this time my mind leaves the conversation. It drifts back, way back to a time when I remember two or three boys, maybe eleven - twelve years old have got their heads together to think up something to do. Not that there isn't always something to do, but if you've done it before it loses it's edge. No, you've got to invent something new.

          The time I'm talking about is just after WW II. Our heads were still full of airplanes and battleships and tanks and blowing everything to smithereens. Of course our experience with death and destruction came mainly from the movies, so we had kind of a different perspective on things.

Blowing up bombers or sinking destroyers had everything to do with pyrotechnics and nothing to do the loss of human life as far as we were concerned. And we could blow things up with the best of them.

          Boys of that age are endowed with some extraordinary talents. It must be in the genes. Firstly, every last one of them is a demolition expert. That's a given. Next, most know how to build stuff – after a fashion. Well, you can't destroy something unless you build it first. The other necessary ingredient is the usual over abundance of imagination born into every boy. You stir all that in a mixing pot and voila! There’s a whole stew of fun and adventure.

          Up to now, most of our model building had been centered on model airplanes. Every model of fighter and bomber ever built in the real world could be had at St. John's hobby shop. We'd spend hours with balsa wood, glue, colored tissue paper and airplane dope on these things only to have them crash on their maiden flight. Then we'd patch them up and do it all over again.

          Well, normally that was good enough to keep us occupied between other adventures during the year. But given all our special talents, come Queen Victoria's birthday when there were fireworks all over the place, that just didn't cut it. Maybe the fireworks were good enough for the old folks and two-year-olds, but after you’d seen it once it was just plain boring. What a waste!

Even lighting these little ladyfingers and throwing them at the girls wasn't all that much of a sport because they always told their mothers on us. That was more trouble than it was worth. No, we had bigger fish to fry.

          We soon figured out how to build a big destroyer ship from left over balsa wood and paper and airplane dope. We could make it go too with a rubber band and propeller from one of our wrecked model planes.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Before the days of paved roads and curbs and sewers and all, there were ditches on all the streets to drain rain and spring run-off water. We had all kinds of uses for those ditches, one being to sail destroyer ships in.

          Where was I? Oh yeah - ladyfingers. They used to come in little packages with the wicks all braided together by one long wick. That meant you could string them out in a long line and you'd have them popping off one after the other like machine-gun fire until you ran out of ladyfingers. Either that or you could pull them out one by one, light the wick and throw them at somebody. The thing was that they were small - couldn't do much damage by themselves. They were only about three-quarters of an inch long and about the thickness of a fat pencil lead. There was maybe fifty in a single pack.

         

          So what we did was load the inside of our self-designed destroyer with ladyfingers. When everything was in place, we’d wind up the propeller attached to several loops of rubber band. The wick was kind of short so you had to hold the thing in the water while somebody struck a match. If you didn't let go soon enough, you could wind up with about two hundred ladyfingers going off in your face. Of course, that was part of the challenge.

          When she blew, it was just like in the movies - even better! There was a rapid-fire set of explosions that lasted half way past the neighbor's place before she sunk. That was the best piece of demolition we'd ever pulled off! We've been talking about it ever since.

          I wouldn't have told you about all this except that's what I told the kid.

          "Cool," he says.

          A while later he says, "Can I invite my friend over? He's got a whole bunch of ladyfingers."

          I figure, why not? We don't have any model boats to blow up mind, but we ought to be able to find something. Besides, if I'm there to supervise, what can go wrong?

"Okay," I tell him.

          So the friend's dad drives him over - says he'll pick him up about four. Soon as he's gone the boys want to get at blowing things up.

Nothing else is on their destructive little minds. Well, like I said, you've got to build something before you can blow it up, and I'm racking my brain.

          "How many ladyfingers you got?" I ask the friend.

          He hauls a whole fist full out of his pocket and shows them to me.

          "Holy Hannah!" I yell. "Those are no ladyfingers! They're Block- busters!" They're at least two inches long and as fat as a whole pencil. I know what those things can do! They can blow a Campbell's soup can twelve feet in the air if you set them right.

          "No," say the boys both together and show me the package. They're ladyfingers all right. “What can we blow up?"

          Old shingles and stones from the gravel driveway on a piece of tin, you name it and we blew it up. It was one of those magic afternoons you reminisce about. Only this time I was old enough to have some common sense about safety precautions. Still, it took me right back to my boyhood. I wouldn't trade that afternoon for all the rice in China. All too soon four o'clock rolls around and the dad shows up to collect his boy and the kid heads for the television. Me - I climb on the lawn tractor and mow the grass, all smug and self-satisfied.

          About six-thirty or so I'm outside doing something I can't remember what when a cruiser car comes slinking down our driveway. The Mountie pokes his head out the window and how dee do's himself. I do the same back. He tells me the neighbors called to say they heard some shooting in the afternoon that sounded like it came from here.

          “No kiddin’,” I said, trying to think how I’d answer him without telling a big whopper.

          Well, you just can't go around lying now can you? What sort of example would that set? You've got to tell the truth and that's all there is to it. So I said I hadn't heard any shooting, which was the truth. Heck we don't even have any guns. I could have said it was just the boys and me setting off some firecrackers, but I didn't know if that was legal, so I didn't.

          But I felt I owed the cop something more so I offered that I'd just finished cutting the grass - about three acres of it. When that lawn tractor is going, you can't hear a thing so I couldn't rightly tell. That was the truth too. But I asked had they checked on that road behind us? It's kind of lovers' lane of sorts where anything can happen. The Mountie allowed that he might, and left. I haven't seen him since.

          Of course when I got inside, everybody wanted to know what was up. They were kind of excited to see a cruiser car at our place. I told them they were here because they had a complaint about shooting going on around here.

          The kid's eyes bugged right out of his head. "What did you tell them?" You could see he was already imagining himself in handcuffs and being hauled off in a cruiser car.

          "I told them the truth," I said casually. "I told them I didn't hear any shooting going on here this afternoon." Then I added, "You got to tell the truth, especially to the cops. Otherwise you'll get in big trouble."

          "Cool." Says the kid.

            I never got chewed out for that one neither. I guess I still got what it takes.

If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp.  Introducing "TruthSeeker" 

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Earth Child and the Dream Cloud

Cynicism, ridicule, derision, hardship; these are the sticks and stones thrown in the path of fulfilling one's dreams. If we succumb to them, all we are left with is pain and dejection. This little parable is meant to illustrate that.While the story comes out of my imagination, people like Terry Fox, Rick Hansen, even the Famous People Players will tell you it's true. I hope you enjoy the story and take it to heart.

Earth Child and the Dream Cloud

Earth Child was running, running, running. But he could not run fast enough to escape Wind. Wind was everywhere, blasting sand and dirt, tree branches and even dead grass blades at Earth Child. They hurt! Oh how they hurt as they pierced him. The driving sand lashed his eyes so he could not see. Soon he became lost in the storm. The dead grass blades whipped his face and hands. It stung horribly. And the twigs and branches that pelted his body cut him and broke his bones.

Still Earth Child ran, blindly staggering this way and that, stumbling, falling, picking himself up and running again. He tried desperately to escape Wind. But Wind would not let him out of his grasp. He swirled and whirled around Earth Child, changing directions at will, forming little eddies to pick up more debris to hurl relentlessly at Earth Child. He was indeed an ill wind that blew evil upon the boy.

Even so, Earth Child kept running. He had to get away from Wind. It was too painful. But he was tiring and could not outrun Wind. His legs grew weak and began to tremble. Blindly, he ran into something very hard that knocked him down. He did not know what it was and did not care. Dazed, he slowly tried to raise himself from the ground. But Wind was howling and screaming around his ears, throwing even more bits and pieces of debris at Earth Child. It was hard, hard, very hard but he knew he must try.

With all his might Earth Child heaved himself upright against Wind’s mighty blast. He rubbed his eyes to get the sand out of them and see where he was going. But the blood on his hands from the cuts he had received blinded him even more. And the salty tears smeared over his hands, getting into the wounds and stinging them.

It was too much! It was just too much for Earth Child. He was exhausted, had nothing left to fight off the evil Wind. With trembling legs and a desperate heart he began to sink back down to the ground. Wind blew even harder, making sure to finish Earth Child off once and for all. Now he would be lost forever and that was what Wind was all about.

Earth Child’s fall seemed to take a long time, as though it was in slow motion. Part way down the stinging and pain began to ease. He was conscious of a soft touch enveloping him, holding him close. Wind’s screams became quieter, more distant. Still he was sinking down, slowly, being laid to rest on a soft blanket that wrapped around him and nestled close around his whole body. It was warm, and quiet, and comforting. Here Earth Child felt safe from Wind and soon he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

And Earth Child began to dream. The most beautiful dream unfolded in his sleep. He could see himself clearly, walking through the forest and coming eventually to a large clearing by the lake.

Even though a storm was still blowing over the water and spilling on to the shore, it did not touch him. When he looked down he noticed a wispy vapor covering his whole body. The storm raging all around him could not penetrate the delicate soft blanket. The debris it churned up fell useless and spent at Earth Child’s feet and he walked freely through it as though it didn’t exist.

How strange this was, and how comforting. Curious, Earth Child began examining the vapor around him more closely. Splashes of brilliant color wove their way through the milky substance, dancing and undulating in the sun’s rays. They intertwined through one another in dazzling patterns like a magical prism, changing again and again into different displays within the mist surrounding them.

Earth Child did not know what to make of this. Each burst of color was new, yet it looked familiar. Had he seen it before – somewhere?  He looked closer and realized it wasn’t what he saw that was familiar, but rather what he felt when the colors sprang forth. For as long as he could remember Earth Child had dreamed of being a peacemaker among his people, perhaps even among nations. The very thought of it had colored his world, so good was the feeling. Now those colors were all around him, trapped in this soft misty cloud blanketing him.

Still in his dream, Earth Child came to realize that this was his Dream Cloud. This was what sheltered him from all the harshness in the world around him.

As long as he kept it and his life’s dreams close, anything that Wind blew at him fell harmlessly at his feet. It was only when he forgot about his dreams that Dream Cloud moved away. Then he was exposed and vulnerable. Yes, this was his Dream Cloud.

Earth Child awoke from his deep sleep. It was calm all around him. He discovered that he had blindly run in to an old tree stump when he had fallen. Before he got to his feet he examined his body and the scars and bruises on it. To his surprise they were starting to heal. It must be Dream Cloud. He realized that so long as he did not let go of his life’s dreams, the hurts and bruises he received in following them would heal and nothing could destroy his spirit.

Earth Child rose from the ground and began to walk back to his home, hugging his dreams close. There was a faint, bright aura around him. He thought to himself, perhaps if he had a Dream Cloud of his own, others must have them too, if only they knew about them. Perhaps he would help others find them. Maybe then the world would be a more gentle, peaceful place. Maybe that was a good way to be a peacemaker.

Somewhere in the eastern sky a burst of light flashed and streaked downward. Most who saw it would think it was a comet or a shooting star. Earth Child knew better.    

  

Me and the Wife and Fertilizer

After a long and harmonious marriage, one tends to take for granted the ability to read and interpret one's partner's thoughts. It's a little like ESP. You feel what the other is thinking deep in your bones. Generally that's true, but every once in a while the male radar stops functioning. He becomes instantly lost beyond redemption and has absolutely no idea how it happened. Well, let me give you a for instance:


Me and the Wife and Fertilizer

The other day I heard my wife muttering away in Dutch, “Dit gat kaput, en dat gat kaput! “ She doesn’t generally revert back to her mother tongue unless there is something particularly exciting, beautiful or most often, disgusting to catch her attention. I hadn’t noticed any of the above.

“What?” I asked from behind my newspaper.

“Oh, that host on morning television was just making a joke about his aging father coming to visit. Something about the old guy creaking and groaning around the house like a rusty old hinge.”

“Oh.” Obviously the morning man had touched a nerve. At least it wasn’t me.

“Well,” she said, ”young people seem to think we’re so old. They don’t believe it will ever happen to them. At that age people still figure they’re invincible. I know that’s how I felt, even in my thirties and forties. Back then I thought that my mother was really old. She was barely in her seventies at the time. And look at me now.” She rubbed arthritic her arm for emphasis, as if the guy on the other side of the TV screen would pay attention and take a lesson from it.

Obviously, the whole business either went right over his head, or he didn’t care one way or the other because he announced that they had to break for commercials and he’d be right back. So much for that, I thought.

Well, I felt duty bound to step in here with some words of wisdom. I don’t know exactly what point I was trying to make when I told the wife that the new pope was eight years older than I was and he was taking on a whole new career. I was probably trying to reassure her that people can be useful at any age. We old timers are likely tougher and have more stamina than any of these young whippersnappers anyway.

“ No, no,” she returned. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Rats, I’d missed the point again!

“No, I was thinking about life’s ironies,” she continued wistfully. “First, babies are born and they’re so beautiful. Then they grow and grow into adults. Finally they start on the downhill slope and slowly everything starts to wear out until it all falls apart. The last blow as they age, is that they lose their minds and become like infants again. The only difference is that now instead of being tiny and beautiful, they’re just plain ugly. That’s the final insult.”

Ah vanity, only a woman would think of such things.

“Fertilizer,” I said. It was obviously not the most profound choice of replies.

“What in the world,” she gave me that disdainful, long suffering look of someone burdened with having to put up with conversations totally beneath her intelligence, “has fertilizer got to do with anything?”

“The cycle of life,” I explained philosophically. “A tiny seed sprouts out of the ground and grows into the most beautiful flower.” With the way my wife loves flowers, I thought this would be a perfect analogy.

“It blooms and blossoms into glorious color,” I continued eloquently, certain that I was tuned in to her train of thought, “producing and nurturing its seeds until they are ready to be taken by the wind to stand on their own.”

I was really getting into it now. “As a final act of love and kindness for its offspring, the flower sacrifices its own beauty, withers, dies and rots in the ground to fertilize and feed its young.”

For good measure I threw in, “it’s like martyrdom for the good of creation. Thus the cycle continues.”

The blank stare I got hinted that we were perhaps not in the same conversation, or the same planet, for that matter.

Finally the light in my brain went on. “You’re unhappy with your hair color again, aren’t you?” I suggested.

“Oh, shut up,” she explained.

Well at least it wasn’t Dutch.

If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp.  Introducing "TruthSeeker" 

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When I wrote this story, I was thinking of Clara Hughes and her incredible 5,000 meter speed skating race in the 2006 Winter Olympics. Still 200 meters away from the finish line she had burned up the last of the energy her body had to offer. There was absolutely nothing left! But somehow she reached down deep within her spirit to deliver her to victory. Crossing the finish line, Clara collapsed on the ice, unconscious.

Her senses slowly returned and she realized that she was alive. SHE WAS ALIVE! Even after her body had made the ultimate sacrifice and left her, her indomitable inner spirit had answered the call for help and carried her through to her goal.

The gold medal she won in this extraordinary race paled in comparison to the exhilaration of total 'aliveness' that washed over her. She literally beamed as she stood on the podium with Cindy Klassen, and her completeness radiated from her like an infectious beacon, sweeping the others up in her celebration.

Clara used to train at Sargent Park in Winnipeg in the early days. That was where I had last strapped on a pair of speed skates - about the time when Clara first came into this world. So I can't help but feel a certain kinship with her, although she doesn't know me from Adam.

So what started out to be a story about speed skating isn't about that at all. It's about unconquerable power of the spirit that lies within every one of us, if only we call upon it. It gives me goosebumps when I think about it.

I guess I've written another parable. Here it is.

Call the Wind

He wouldn’t even have noticed the old couple occupying the wood bench next to the track except for the old geyser's outlandish get-up. Even now he blocked them out of his mind. He needed to focus on what was probably the most important preparation before tomorrow’s big event. Everyone had his own way of mentally preparing for the race and, unorthodox as it was, this was Ethan's way.

That was the hard won deal he had made with Coach - no prying eyes, no controlled exercises or stopwatches, and no Coach. The last day before the race had to be his and his alone. After that he would be ready for whatever Coach told him. Coach didn’t like it one bit. The painstaking regimen to bring the young athlete to peak at race time could all be wiped out in one reckless day, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was the only way he could get Ethan to race for his club. The kid was a rising star and there was no way that Coach would lose him over a disagreement, so he grudgingly gave in.

Now it was just before dawn. At the only outdoor skating oval in town Ethan stood alone in the biting winter air, ignoring the old pair on the bench. He knew his strategy was risky. One fall on the less than perfect ice, one small injury and it could all be over before it even began. Nevertheless, he needed to perform the ritual to tighten every nerve in his body taut as a drawn bowstring, something like pulling back the hammer on the starting pistol.

When it fired to signal the start of the race Ethan would catapult from the starting line as though he himself was the missile. Raw nerves and hair-trigger reaction gave him his remarkable speed. The training he'd undergone under the supervision of Coach would hopefully provide the stamina.

One slow lap around the track to check for foreign objects on the ice was all he allowed himself for insurance. The ritual was always the same. Standing at an old faded starting line, Ethan closed his eyes. He forced his mind back to that day in the mountains three years ago. Slowly the terrifying imagery returned. Little by little his memory of the muted avalanche roar began to seep in to his consciousness. The old panic pangs knotted his stomach, bunched his muscles and drew his body into an involuntary crouch. Conjuring up the deafening roar of that approaching mountain of snow, Ethan exploded out of the starting line flailing his arms propel himself beyond the reach of the thundering avalanche with his imaginary ski poles, and driving his powerful legs over the track before him. Just as the combination of exhilaration and fear had given him the strength and speed to cheat the killer descending on him that day, so the resurrection of its memory now awakened his senses and unleashed the power he possessed.

Ethan would keep up this breakneck pace as long as his muscles and his lungs held out. He could only hope they would last for the whole ten thousand meters.

He would push it to the point of total fatigue and then go home to a long, luxurious hot bath and sleep until race time tomorrow. By then the muscles would have recovered enough to be fresh and taught as today. His mind would be cleared of everything but the race.

Right now though, he didn’t need any distractions. There was a lot at stake. It was a national championship and Ethan had never competed in anything more than five thousand. Still, he couldn’t help a sideways glance at the two shadowy figures at the side of the oval. They were two old people wrapped in buffalo robes.

The old man had pushed the woman’s wheelchair to the rickety old bench at the side of the track and seated himself beside her. Even in the dim lamplight Ethan caught a glimpse of the three-colored knitted skullcap pulled tightly over the man’s head. Red, white and blue stripes ran vertically down it, even to the long earflaps. Ethan pulled his focus back to his undertaking, looking straight ahead and digging his skates in even harder.

The next lap around the track found Ethan reluctantly stealing another sideways glance. The man had disappeared, leaving the woman alone under her buffalo robe. He shook his head as though to rid himself of the distraction. The smallest things could throw him off in the days leading up to a big race. He had to keep his mind on business and shut everything else out. ‘Avalanche’, he kept repeating with every stroke of his blades, ‘avalanche’.

By the fifteenth lap Ethan’s legs started to burn. Until now they had propelled him forward easily with mighty piston strokes, pumping acceleration at the corners and gliding in long easy strokes on the straight-aways. He was beginning to labor. The icy air seared his lungs like a thousand hot knives with every gasp. With ten laps to go he was fading too soon. Ethan renewed his resolve. He knew he’d outpaced himself but he didn’t care. The idea was to drive body and soul to the point of failure. He would finish the ten thousand meters at his absolute maximum speed, or collapse in the effort. Tomorrow would be the day to take a more measured pace.

The rip, rip, rip of the sharp long blades cutting into the ice gave a certain sense of raw power. It was the indescribable sound of mastery over the frozen track, commanding it to yield to the steady piston-like strokes of Ethan’s powerful legs. They sounded as strong as ever, stronger, according to the increasing sound. After a few minutes, Ethan sensed something was not right.

On instinct he swung his head around, expecting to see his phantom avalanche. There, right behind him was the old man, striding stroke for stroke like some apparition of the red baron on skates with the earflaps on his skullcap flying in the wind. The now baggy wool tights belied the power in the old man’s legs that generated long smooth strokes in time with Ethan’s own.

The sudden shock of this vision brought on a new adrenaline rush as Ethan leaned in to the corner, his right arm swinging for momentum, bending him forward for more thrust. His knees burned in protest and the powerful thigh muscles began to tremble. He was close to collapse. Air – he needed air to feed his struggling body.

Without looking back, he knew the old man was gaining on him. Ethan was confused. Was fatigue clouding his mind or was he really seeing the impossible ancient figure overtaking him? He labored on even more determinedly.

In perfect sync, the old man had gained enough to pull up beside Ethan. He must take some awful long strides. And where did this spindly cartoon character get that kind of strength anyway? It wasn’t human. Well it wouldn’t be for long anyway. The man seemed to be gasping for breath. Any minute now he’d keel over – just what Ethan needed. But then he realized that it wasn’t gasping the old man was doing. He was saying something in a raspy long breath. It sounded like he was saying ‘wiiiiiind’ in a hoarse whine.

“You’re runnin’ out of oxygen sonny”, the old man rasped. “You’ll never finish that way”.

Ethan was shocked at the calm easy voice. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t answer. The man was right. Every muscle in his body was screaming for air.

“It’s all right there for the asking. You just got to ask”. The man was no longer gasping, but breathing and speaking normally. “Just call the wind. He’ll fill your lungs and you’ll skate forever – like this”. He sucked in a long breath in concert with his blade stroke, forming a deep rasping word that sounded like he was saying ‘wind’. On the next stroke he exhaled, repeating the same sound. “Do it”, he said to Ethan.

With his lungs about ready to burst and his legs failing, there was nothing else to do but try. For the length of each stroke he emulated the old one, first inhaling the word ‘wind’ and on the next stroke, exhaling it.

“Keep doing it”, said the old man and lengthened his stride, pulling away.

He needed such intense concentration to co-ordinate his breathing with his stride that Ethan didn’t notice the man and the woman in the wheelchair leave the track. He actually finished the forty laps and at the end, was skating easier, re-energized by the breathing regimen. It was true. He felt he could skate forever. Now when he wanted to thank the man, he was nowhere to be found. He’d simply vanished, leaving only wheelchair tracks in the snow.

Ethan turned in to the clubhouse to change and head for home. He never said a word about his bizarre encounter to anyone. No one would believe him anyway, especially Coach. He hardly believed it himself and there was no use getting into arguments about tactics the day before such a big event.

Still, when he bent down from the podium to receive his gold medal, Ethan’s thoughts went to the strange old man in his outlandish clothing. Had they not met, this wouldn’t be happening. He tried in vain to spot him among the crowd of spectators. This medal belonged as much to him as to Ethan.

It wasn’t until after all the presentations and the attendant hoopla were over that Coach got Ethan in a quiet corner. “Just what did you think you were doing out there?” he exploded. “With all that moaning, I thought you were going to die right there on the track! I nearly sent the medics out there after you. You scared the pants off me and everybody else out there”!

Ethan couldn’t think of a logical response. “I was calling the wind”, he said simply. It was the truth.

“Calling the wind? Calling the wind?” Coach was incredulous. “Who do you suddenly think you are, Earl Jensen”?

“Nope. Who’s Earl Jensen”?

“It doesn’t matter” Coach shot back. “The point is, we laid out a strict regimen for you to follow. That’s how you got to where you are today. If you expect me to continue coaching you, we’ll have no more of that crap”!

“Who’s Earl Jensen”?

“Just the fastest skater that ever strapped on a pair of racing skates, that’s who.

But he kind of went off his nut after his wife was paralyzed in a freak accident. Before that she could skate nearly as good as him. After she was laid up in her wheelchair he used to go flying around the ice faster than ever, howling like a banshee. Folks used to say he was skating for the both of them and howling to the wind to get her legs back.”

“So what’s wrong with that?” Ethan said out loud. “He was still flying wasn’t he”? On the inside he was getting an eerie feeling.

“Well”, said Coach, “people started to get afraid of him so he wasn’t invited to competitions anymore. The old coot even put special treads on his wife’s wheelchair. He would skate around the track pushing her in the chair until the club stopped him from doing it”.

“That doesn’t seem so crazy, Coach. Makes perfect sense to me. Whatever happened to them”?

“Well, she died in ’38, and Earl didn’t last much longer after that. Without his lady and with not being able to race anymore, I guess life just wasn’t worth it. He just sort of petered out. It’s a shame, really.”

“You got a picture of this Earl Johnson”?

“Jensen”, Coach corrected. “Hey! What’s going on in that head of yours? I don’t like it one bit. I’m your coach and I’m the one who tells you what to think. You might have done well in this race but your not nearly ready for the worlds yet. You've got a week off before we start again. You’d better have all that crap out of your head by then if you want to skate for me.”

Ethan had heard enough. “Have a nice life”, he said quietly and turned on his heel. Coach needed him more than he needed Coach. He’d come around in a day or two, but for now Ethan left the man with his mouth open, unable to speak.

Instead of going home, Ethan headed for the old clubhouse. It was late and no one was there. He threw his skates over the chain link fence and scrambled over after them. He stripped down to his tights and jersey and laced up. As he stepped on to the oval, he looked up. “This one’s for you Earl”, he said out loud as he started to stride on the ice.

‘Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind –Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind’, Ethan chanted in rhythm to his strides. Longer, ever longer grew his powerful strokes, pumping his legs through the corners like hydraulic pistons. ‘Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind –Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind’, gaining incredible speed on the straightaway, he was flying. Ethan knew he could skate forever if he wanted to.

Call The Wind

Canada Day

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired)

Before I tell you about Nestor’s Canada Day celebrations, let me first introduce you to my unique and special friend. You probably know someone just like him. The son of immigrant parents, Nestor has been grounded in the morals and ethics of the old country and applied it single-mindedly to his proud Canadian-ness.
You would never suspect that people like Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired) even exist, much less have a professional title attached to their names. Much like the military designations such as Rear Admiral (Retired) or Brigadier General (Retired), Nestor wears his title of ‘Pig Farmer (Retired)’ with a good deal of pride and justification.
Coming from a long line of pig farmers, Nestor was born to the profession. By the time he was eight years old he had more or less mastered all there was to know about pig farming and everything attendant to it. By the age of sixteen it was second nature to him. To paraphrase Wayne Gretzky commenting on countless hours of practice on the ice, if you had to think about it you wouldn't be able to do it right - something like that.
It was the way the Kropatniks operated. First you were born and then you learned things until they were second nature to you. After that, you just did what you knew how to do. It was a very simple formula. You knew what you did and you did what you knew. At the same time you automatically knew who and what you were too. There was never any question about who or what Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired) was.
Whenever he had to sign his name to something Nestor would always write the letters PF after it. He never hesitated to explain the designation to the curious either. But the icing on the cake was when he was finally able to add the word ‘(Retired)’ in brackets to his name. It was like scraping the mixing bowl after the cake was in the oven. Now, in the comfort of his balcony chair in the cozy apartment he and his wife had retired to, Nestor finally had the time to ask all the questions and give all the advice he'd been too busy to in his active years.
It all made sense too, if you understand a thing or two about pig farming. The work is long and hard. It's lonely too. Day after day is spent working with the animals, feeding and cleaning barns, preparing chop for feed, plowing and cultivating crops for grain to make the feed - well, you get the idea.
Pigs don't necessarily make good conversationalists, and staring at the wrong end of a horse in the endless hours of fieldwork isn't all that inspiring either. Nestor's mind, active as it was had plenty of time figure many things out during these long lonely hours while his body toiled and he seems to have saved it all up in his mental silo. It all just sat there like a giant compost heap, slowly fermenting and maturing into rich, fertile wisdom. Now, with time on his hands, Nestor can ambush his unsuspecting victims with these little gems of wisdom whenever the spirit moves him, and move him it does.
Never one to leave things undone, Nestor now spends his days writing to all the people that he feels need his advice and suggestions, or occasional questions. He doesn't discriminate either. His advice is freely given to everyone, whether they like it or not. It's the least he can do, he says. So he writes letters to whomever he thinks need his advice.
There is only one tiny technicality. Nestor speaks with a little bit of a European accent. He writes that way too. While he is as good at giving advice as he is at pig farming, Nestor has really never mastered the art of spelling in the English language. It's the only thing that bothers him just a little. Grammar is fine, according to him. Well, he’s been listening to himself talk all his life and he’s used to it. But writing and spelling is a different matter. His hands are not used to holding what he would call ‘sissy pants pen’ and he is a little hesitant. But as usual, Nestor has the perfect solution. In the logical fashion that is his style, Nestor never actually mails any of the letters. Once he's written them his duty is done, but as you'll notice, he always invites the subjects of his sage advice to drop in for some of his endless supply of sausage and his son's beer. If they don't show up, well that's their loss. He, Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired), has fulfilled his obligations.
Well, that more or less sums up Nestor Kropatnik. Now let me tell you about his thoughts on Canada Day. You might notice that he never knows the proper government department to write to, but he doesn’t care either. If he wants to write about Canada, he addresses his letter to Canada. It would eventually get to the right place (if he were to mail it that is). 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)

If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp.  Introducing "TruthSeeker" 

http://worldwidesunshine.com/eMerchantPro/pc/Truthseeker-Ebook-279p657.htm

 

Canada Day

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired)

Before I tell you about Nestor’s Canada Day celebrations, let me first introduce you to my unique and special friend. You probably know someone just like him. The son of immigrant parents, Nestor has been grounded in the morals and ethics of the old country and applied it single-mindedly to his proud Canadian-ness.
You would never suspect that people like Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired) even exist, much less have a professional title attached to their names. Much like the military designations such as Rear Admiral (Retired) or Brigadier General (Retired), Nestor wears his title of ‘Pig Farmer (Retired)’ with a good deal of pride and justification.
Coming from a long line of pig farmers, Nestor was born to the profession. By the time he was eight years old he had more or less mastered all there was to know about pig farming and everything attendant to it. By the age of sixteen it was second nature to him. To paraphrase Wayne Gretzky commenting on countless hours of practice on the ice, if you had to think about it you wouldn't be able to do it right - something like that.
It was the way the Kropatniks operated. First you were born and then you learned things until they were second nature to you. After that, you just did what you knew how to do. It was a very simple formula. You knew what you did and you did what you knew. At the same time you automatically knew who and what you were too. There was never any question about who or what Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired) was.
Whenever he had to sign his name to something Nestor would always write the letters PF after it. He never hesitated to explain the designation to the curious either. But the icing on the cake was when he was finally able to add the word ‘(Retired)’ in brackets to his name. It was like scraping the mixing bowl after the cake was in the oven. Now, in the comfort of his balcony chair in the cozy apartment he and his wife had retired to, Nestor finally had the time to ask all the questions and give all the advice he'd been too busy to in his active years.
It all made sense too, if you understand a thing or two about pig farming. The work is long and hard. It's lonely too. Day after day is spent working with the animals, feeding and cleaning barns, preparing chop for feed, plowing and cultivating crops for grain to make the feed - well, you get the idea.
Pigs don't necessarily make good conversationalists, and staring at the wrong end of a horse in the endless hours of fieldwork isn't all that inspiring either. Nestor's mind, active as it was had plenty of time figure many things out during these long lonely hours while his body toiled and he seems to have saved it all up in his mental silo. It all just sat there like a giant compost heap, slowly fermenting and maturing into rich, fertile wisdom. Now, with time on his hands, Nestor can ambush his unsuspecting victims with these little gems of wisdom whenever the spirit moves him, and move him it does.
Never one to leave things undone, Nestor now spends his days writing to all the people that he feels need his advice and suggestions, or occasional questions. He doesn't discriminate either. His advice is freely given to everyone, whether they like it or not. It's the least he can do, he says. So he writes letters to whomever he thinks need his advice.
There is only one tiny technicality. Nestor speaks with a little bit of a European accent. He writes that way too. While he is as good at giving advice as he is at pig farming, Nestor has really never mastered the art of spelling in the English language. It's the only thing that bothers him just a little. Grammar is fine, according to him. Well, he’s been listening to himself talk all his life and he’s used to it. But writing and spelling is a different matter. His hands are not used to holding what he would call ‘sissy pants pen’ and he is a little hesitant. But as usual, Nestor has the perfect solution. In the logical fashion that is his style, Nestor never actually mails any of the letters. Once he's written them his duty is done, but as you'll notice, he always invites the subjects of his sage advice to drop in for some of his endless supply of sausage and his son's beer. If they don't show up, well that's their loss. He, Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired), has fulfilled his obligations.
Well, that more or less sums up Nestor Kropatnik. Now let me tell you about his thoughts on Canada Day. You might notice that he never knows the proper government department to write to, but he doesn’t care either. If he wants to write about Canada, he addresses his letter to Canada. It would eventually get to the right place (if he were to mail it that is). 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)

If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp.  Introducing "TruthSeeker" 

http://worldwidesunshine.com/eMerchantPro/pc/Truthseeker-Ebook-279p657.htm