Hemingway and Doves

 

I made this Hemingway image back in the fall.  Yes the quote about hunting men is creepy indeed.  I did enjoy his novels though.

Onto hunting...

When I was a kid I lived in a forest, so I hunted.  My buddy French used to bring his .410 shotgun out on some of his visits.  We'd have to sneak it past my mother, and we'd head out deep into the woods. There was an old abandoned house, and barn out there, and they were full of doves, and pigeons.  We'd also see the occasional rabbit, or partridge. 

One day French started popping a few rounds off, and he was nailing doves, and pigeons.  One fell really close to his feet.  He picked it up and spun it around by the head the body fell to the ground, and he tossed the head into some weeds.  French picked it up and deftly pulled out the two breasts.  He started a fire, and had me repeat the procedure a few more times.  French used an old cast iron pan to fry up about a dozen little dove breasts.  He had also brought what we called Lebanese Bread (sort of like pita bread).  We stuffed the bread full and had a nice hot meal.  I looked over a French, and he said: "damn I was hungry".

We Got You

For many years a group of us would travel south from Canada and visit Stowe Vermont.  We'd try to go there in the early fall on the Canadian Thanksgiving Long Weekend/Columbus Day.  The autumn leaves would be out and the trails would be open.  One year we had hiked all day and were really hungry.  We walked into a restaurant, and it was packed.  The hostess said: "We can squeeze you in upstairs".  French agreed, and off we went.  We thanked her and she responded "No problem. It is a squeezy squeezy night".    Years later we still say this funny phrase if we go into a busy restaurant or bar.

The best part was that the upstairs was actually a small private room.  It was perfect.  The waitress said: "Are you Canadian?"  We acknowledged that we were.  She then said: "We got you".  A few minutes later she came back with a table d'hote menu with Canadian Thanksgiving.  We agreed right away, and she promptly brought out a full turkey dinner.  It was magnificent.  We stayed until closing and put a good dent in their keg.  

We kept this tradition up for a few more years.  The place changed owners (actually a couple of times), but we still love to reminisce about that wonderful "squeezy squeezy night".

Dought

 

The township dump where my friend Bruce works is only open one or twice a week (depending on the season).  He loves nothing more than wandering around and sorting through the modern debris on his days off.  I've told this story before, but he often takes bits and pieces and creates art with it.  The one piece that really made me laugh was the giant teddy bear sitting in a lawn chair wearing a sombrero. He'd occasionally add to his little art installation and make it more elaborate as the summer wore on.  I drove by once and saw several BMW and Mercedes cars parked by the dump taking photos with Bruce's hilarious creation.  I guess it was perfect for selfies.

This past winter someone dropped off a a huge sign.  It was around 9 or ten feet long, and maybe five feet high.  It just had the word DOUBT printed on it.  I can't imagine why?  It sat up against the dump fence for a while.  Then one day Bruce took a role of black duct tape and tore off some strips and taped over the UBT.  He threw me the tape and said "there fixed that 'effin thing". 

Avril

 

Someone asked me the other day about my first job.  They were very impressed with my answer: ranch hand.  This was really not such a cool job.  I spent most of my time with a wheelbarrow and a shovel.   I was fifteen and making $100 a week. I thought I was rich.  

French worked there as well and that is where he met April.  He'd get to work early and clean up her horse's stall, and wait around to speak (flirt) with her.  French mostly stuck to two key jokes.  He'd call her Avril and tell everyone that she was French like him...she wasn't.  We'd double over laughing when someone would try to start a conversation with her in French.  She'd give us all a dirty look and ride off.   The second joke was he'd call her April May June.  She actually laughed at the one!

A while back we saw this photo online.  It was a pic of a barrel racer.  She'd just won at a local rodeo. The girl looked familiar, but I couldn't place her.  French said: "That is April's daughter".  Spitting image, and her mother's horsemanship skills to boot.  

Hope

It has been a long year...or so.  My mental health has been up, and really really down over this time.  Amazingly, my friend Rose has stayed positive throughout.  It is hard to fathom how she does it.   Rose and her husband Bruce Fish live in the middle of nowhere.  He operates the township dump, and works for the county doing minor road maintenance, driving the garbage truck, and plowing snow every winter.   They may be the happiest couple I know.

It'll be pouring cold rain, and she'll be helping Bruce sort recycling with a smile on her face.   I've asked her many times: "what's the secret?"  Rose has two standard answers.  Sometimes she'll just say "hope".  Her other answer is the poetic phrase "on eagles wings". 

Last summer we had a rare visit from a bald eagle out at the lake.  Rose smiled bigger than usual when it landed just across the narrows, then took off and flew right over us later in the day.

Holly the Temple Dog

This is Holly the Pug.   She left us in 2017 after 14 years as the Temple Dog.   One early morning we were out in the backyard and I couldn't see her as she'd wandered off into the forest.  I saw something coming out of the underbrush that was about pug sized.  It was waddling along.  I took a swig of coffee, and mid-sip I saw the tall black and white tail.  I did a legit spit take, and looked for Holly.  Out she came from the forest walking parallel to the skunk!  Thankfully she honed in on me and kept walking slowly, and calmly.  The skunk didn't seem to mind at all and veered off to the compost bin.  I rushed Holly in the backdoor.

It was a funny scene.  Growing up my German Shepherd got grazed by skunk spray, and my current dog (a Dutch Sheepdog/Schapendoes) got sprayed in the face two years ago.   That was a lot less funny.

Well Rooted

One day during the January lockdown Rose was doing a little craft time with the kids.  She handed out some black construction paper, some white water colour paint and some straws.  The kids used the straws to blow the paint around the paper.  They were having the best time.

Soon the adults were doing it as well.  Bruce Fish blew some ones that looked like spindly birch trees.  French used a lot more paint and ended up making one that looked like skull shaped tree.  Rose was not impressed, but he "liked his scary ass skull painting".  He kept it up on his fridge for a while.

We decided to create digital version, and French printed up a Black Hoodie with his art on it.  I called it Well Rooted to be poetic...maybe I should have stuck with scary ass skull.

Guard Your Heart

I've been hanging out all year with my little bubble.  This has certainly helped me get to know Rose a lot better.  I drop in and see her and Bruce Fish at least once a week.  They've done well, all things considered, with this damn pandemic.  Bruce spent the winter plowing snow for the county, and they open the dump on weekends, and every second Wednesday for recycling.  

Rose likes to run a little Bible Study on Sundays.  Bruce gets a nice campfire burning, and Rose reads the Bible, and asks us a few questions.  We read all of Luke, and Romans this winter.  French and I usually bring out the guitars for a "bit a worship"...if it isn't to cold!

She heads inside around noon to feed her kids, and French pulls out a few cold beers.  Rose disapproves, but ignores us for the most part.  When she leaves she always says "Guard your Heart" and taps her chest.  It is her version of "stay safe".  We decided to make her a shirt with her little expression on it.  Bruce told us that this phrase is from Proverbs 4:23, so we added that to the design.  Rose never wears sleeves in the summer so we got her an xs tank top, and a crewneck for cool nights by the fire. Bruce was so pleased to give it to her.  He said: "Here yah go.  Yer a good woman, and we love you".  

Working out.

Every morning Smitty's feet would hit the ground.  He'd walk out to the garage.  Lights would flip on; radio too.  He'd  swing in under the weights on the bench press.  Do a few reps.  Throw a few punches into the duct taped heavy bag.  Quickly jog back inside to grab a big mug of black coffee, maybe with a shot of rye if he wasn't driving truck that day.  Then he'd hit the bag a bit more, and knock out a few push-ups and some dumbbell sets.  

I asked Smitty how often he worked out.  He replied "every effing day bud, every effing day".  

When it is really cold he pops on a little space heater, and works out in an old Newfoundland sweater.  He's 97 this year, and I heard his music coming out of the garage, and even a few thuds from the heavy bag on my way to work this morning.

Van Life

An old VW Van rolled into my driveway, it sputtered, stalled, and coasted the final bit.  I could hear an emergency break engage and out jumped French.  He said, "Shit I think I need a new fuel pump". He called Sweaty to see if he could source one.  Sweaty always says "he knows a guy" for every situation.  

French had traded an 80 hp Evinrude for his "new" van.  He'd picked up the outboard engine at an estate sale, but had never found the right boat for it.  So now he'd embraced "Van Life".  His plan was to drive it down through Windsor into Detroit, then Cincinnati for a Reds game, and then visit some bourbon distilleries in Kentucky.  He'd really gotten into Buffalo Trace Bourbon; can't say I blame him.

Bruce Fish always calls French's van "Charlie Brown" because of the stripe.  The paint job was a bit rough, but we got the fuel pump changed...and some varied electrical issues fixed as well.  It was in my yard for a few months.    #VanLife

Hot Tub Beers

We got another big dump of snow last night.  The weather report called for 2 cm ...bullshit...more like 10 plus.  Too much for this cowboy.  I just got the snow blower put away, and I heard a rumble coming down the street.  A huge plow was coming down the cul de sac.  It was of course sweeping half of the snow bank into the newly cleaned driveways.  I put my coat back out, and grabbed the shovel.

I had just started hacking away at the new pile, and French pulled up and honked his horn.  He turned down the AC/DC...a bit and rolled down the window.  He held up a case of Beau's Lug Tread Lager.  Sweaty was in the passenger seat and he held up a few more and started singing "It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock 'n' roll" at the top of his voice.  They never said a word, and just drove off.  

French has a hot tub.  He fires it up and grabs some: "Hot Tub Beers".  He buys the Lugtreads in the perfect 600ml size.  I got working at the massive pile of snow blocking my driveway.  Time to crank the tunes, and crack a couple of cold ones, in the hot tub...or License to Chill as Sweaty calls it.

Ranching

 

When I was 15 I got my first real job.  French, Sweaty and I got a summer job on a Horse Ranch.  We made $100 a week.  I thought I'd hit the big time.  I also thought I'd get to meet, and hang-out with all of the girls that boarded their horses at the ranch.  Turns out they weren't too interested in the guys that did all the shovelling...not at all.  French and I did the bulk of the stall shovelling and Sweaty would wheelbarrow it out behind the barn.  One day the boss had us paint the fences with creosote.  Every black splatter of paint burned in the hot summer sun.  Soon I missed shovelling horse shit in the barn.  We only got a bit of a break when there were riding contests.  We'd spend the day setting up the course and directing traffic.  

A few years ago we hadn't heard from French in a few months.  He finally answered our texts to let us know he'd been in Wyoming working at a Dude Ranch.  French spent a season herding cattle, and taking tourists on trail rides on the weekends.  He said that "it was a hellavuh a lot better than our first ranching gig".  Yeah wide open skies, fresh air, and beautiful mountains on the horizon.  Plus he got to keep these sweet Ely Cattleman shirts!  

Now I know why French loves that line from the movie Rushmore: "I ain't even here right now; I'm in Cheyenne Wyoming".  We made this idea into a poster.

He has it hanging above his snowblower in the garage.

Big Sur

 

French was the one who introduced me to Jack Kerouac.  He "made" me read On the Road, and Dharma Bums in senior year.  He had a copy of Big Sur as well.  French started it, but said "fuck this...I'll read it when I get to Big Sur".  

Many years later he finally did it.  The year before Covid locked us all down he drove his van down from B.C. to California.  On the way he bought a bottle of Highland Park 18 year old Scotch.  It was an expensive dram, but it was smooth sipping as he read through the novel.  

The novel takes place over 10 days, but French is a speedy reader.  He read the novel over a weekend sitting close enough to hear, but not see the Ocean.  

I asked him about the trip.  "Shoulda just read that goddamn book in High School! Reading Kerouac in one's teens, versus one's forties is...a different experience.  The scenery and the the Scotch were top shelf, yah top shelf".

stop praying

"Stop praying for me.  Freaks me the fuck out."

These were the rarest of words for French to say to Rose.  His harsh tone revealed how he felt.  Rose had told him that she'd been praying for him to get a new job.  Within a week after saying this to him he'd gotten three different job offers.  This spooked him to be sure, and he'd actually not followed up on any of them; even though he hated his current position. 

French had avoided Rose for well over a month, but he showed up tonight for Sunday Dinner (a standing offer).  After dinner he said: "Sorry Rose.  You can go back to praying for me.  Just nothing specific okay?"  Rose smiled and nodded to French, and poured him a small glass of Bowmore.

10 year plan

French's grandfather, Smitty, got snowed in last weekend.  A shear pin broke on his snow blower.  We pulled it out and the three of us changed the oil, replaced the pin and the spark plug as well.  Smitty fired it up and plowed out his double wide driveway while we shovelled his frontlane and porch.

Afterwards he brewed us up some strong coffee with a solid dash of Canadian rye.  Smitty started talking about his 10 year plan: new perennials, staining his deck, new roof on his shed, and some new outdoor lighting for starters.  Smitty also wanted to "get back over to Dublin at some point".   He had a Lonely Planet: Ireland travel guide on his kitchen table.

Smitty, more or less, shooed us out after our coffee was done.  He said: "Thanks lads.  I'm off to bowling. Gonna beat that goddamned Scotty Macfarlane today".

I asked French how old Smitty was.  French said "bout 96...give or take".

Regrets

Bruce Fish rolled up in his truck.  Jumped out of his cab and said: "you boys got any regrets?"

French and I were trying to get the water going at the cottage.  He grabbed a cold Old Style Pilsner from the cooler and said: "yah just one.  You lads better grab a cold one."  He tipped his hat back, smiled and told this little tale:

Remember when we were at the fair when we were just lads?  That old guy came up and said: "you all look like you need an adventure.  Well head out past that big broken tree at the end of the park.  Behind it there is a gap in the fence.  Head out straight as an arrow about 50 yards or so. There is a case a beer buried under some long grass.  It is yours if yah want it."  That old fella just wandered away, and we hit the midway.

Well shit.  "Why'd we never go looking for it?  That is my regret."

Bruce laughed and said: "fuck that'd be some skunky beer if its still there."

Fiat Lux

   

 Fiat Lux is a prety odd greeting, but my old buddy Bruce Fish always calls (more like yells) that out to me when he sees me.  He'll often add "let there be light".  I've come to really appreciate it.  I drove into the county dump that he runs last week, and I couldn't see him.  I finally heard him rumbling around behind a huge recylcing bin.  He yelled out a truly hearty "fiat lux" then emerged from between two dumpsters.  He said "come see this shit",  and walked over to a picnic table.
 
     Bruce had a sun shade contraption that he'd rigged up over the table and a few choice items that he'd saved from the heap.  There was a microwave, two radios, and a broken guitar.  I'm pretty sure he'll be able to fix them all.  He showed me a small park bench he was working on; it looked great.  Someone had brought it in on the weekend, and tossed into the pit.  He'd pulled it out, sanded it down, repainted the metal, and stained the wood.  "Damn Bruce - this is fine work".  He told me that he'd used paint, stain, and even brushes that people had thrown away.
   
     He had a few drinks in a cooler that his wife Rose packed.  So we chatted for a bit about his other projects, and about his family.  We finished the drinks, and I sorted out my own reclyclying. I came back to close the back hatch of my van, and the newly refurbished park bench was loaded up.  I looked at Bruce and he said: "I did that for you brother".
   
     He smiled and ran off to deal with a big pick-up truck loaded with cottage trash.  I heard him yell "fiat lux" again as I drove off.

Smitty II

Smitty had a big list of jobs, so he asked us to pitch in for the day.  French and I launched into Smitty's list: smashing up an old concrete deck, pulling nails out of some wood he wanted to burn, and repainting his garden shed.  It was quite something to see a 90+ year old man taking a few swings with the sledge hammer.   I've also never seen a man paint to precisely.  Smitty didn't waste a drop.

After the work was done he said: "The place doesn't look half bad eh boys?"   He grilled us up some homemade burgers and we sat around a little campfire.  We had a few beers and swapped a few more tales.

When he got dark he said, "You boys wanna see something?"  Smitty took us down a path out back of his place.  We walked for about five minutes to his "gunge pile".  He dumped some of his non-compostable food in a pit under a huge white pine.  Smitty shone his flashlight up into the branches. There were seven pairs of eyes up in the tree.

French said: "Damn thats alotta racoons!"

Smitty said: "No wait.  Check this out."  He shone his flashlight up even higher.  There were one more pair of eyes...bigger eyes.  Smitty explained: "That there is a fisher, smaller cousin of the wolverine; those racoons are goners."

Smitty

French and I went to see his grandfather this week.  I haven't seen him for at least a decade or so, but he looks pretty much the same.  I guessed that he was 80, but he is actually in his nineties.

I introduced myself, but he said: "Ah hell I know who yah are."  He told me to call him Smitty.  He'd slept in, so he was running a bit late.  Smitty told us: "To shoot a bit a shit.  While I do my exercises." French told him a couple of funny stories from out on the road.  Smitty chuckled along and completed the same routine that he'd done for over 60 years:

1.  Stretches and Lunges...just a few.  Limber up.
2.  50 push ups
3.  25 sit ups
4.  100 squats
5.  10-15 minute headstand

I asked him if this regiment was the key to his longevity?  Smitty laughed and said: "Ask me again in a few years."

He went over to his kitchen sink.  It was full of ice cubes.   Smitty reached down to the bottom and pulled out three beers, and said: "Ok I'm all warmed up time to get the day started."

the bacon sizzled

I got French a job for the week subbing in for me; as I'm down with bronchitis.  He was happy to have a steady day job for a solid week.  When French can't get work teaching he'll head out on the road doing some long haul trucking.  He especially likes to do this in the winter, as most of the trips take him deep south..."outta the cold".

He had a bit of an adventure last week.  French missed a turn off for a truck stop, and kept driving looking for another one instead of doubling back.  He was two hours over on the logbook so he pulled off on the road in an old parking lot of a burned out motel.  French locked up and wandered into the woods, and made a little campfire.  He always brings along his little travel guitar (a Taylor Baby).  French sat around the fire and played and sang a few songs.

There was a steady breeze so the sound of his music travelled pretty far.  He said some old fella showed up after an hour or so.  He'd heard the music and had seen the light of the campfire from his porch.  He didn't come empty handed.  This old guy had brought a cast iron frying pan, a pound of bacon, and some bread.  He asked French if he could listen to some tunes in return for breakfast.  French said: "that'd be a damn fine trade".

So the bacon sizzled and French kept playing.

After he told me the story I said "pretty good night eh?"

French replied: "yah pretty good, but the plumbing sucked."