Larry Gibbons
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Don’t Do Pennies

12/6/2015

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Last month, while we were in Kingston, I spent plenty of time walking the streets. Which meant I ran into panhandlers. Who, I think, some people refer to as leeches, bums, free-loaders, but not hard-working-taxpayers nor the aspiring middle-class.
        "Most of them look
         as though their bodies were boneless.

         Every animal
         has its own defense:
         theirs is plasticity.

         Kick them in the face
         and nothing breaks.
         It’s as if your boot
         sank in wet dough."

                                       Aldon Nowlan, The Shack Dwellers
They usually have no need to tell me their story. Because I’m digging into my pocket to pull out a coin before they even begin explaining why they are where they are.
Like one fella, who was sitting in a wheelchair. He told me he needed money for a new wheelchair. But I’d already pulled out a toonie, solely for him, so he didn’t have to waste his breath. Air could be expensive someday.

Later on, I ran into a woman panhandler, to whom I’d given some money earlier. She asked for more. I declined, and mentioned I’d given my money to the man in the wheelchair. Who, I explained, needed the money to buy a new wheelchair.

“Wheelchair, my ass,” she’d said. “He’ll use the money to buy more lotto tickets.”

Once, in Halifax, a panhandler asked me for money. He also wanted my coat. He didn’t get the coat, but I did empty my pocket into his outstretched paw.
He looked at the mess of change, and do you know what he said?

“I don’t do pennies.”
Picture
But last Thanksgiving, when we were in Kingston, I saw a man at the front door of our hotel. The man was wearing what I call criss-cross clothes. Plaids and stripes. Lines gone wild.
The man was tearing through the hotel’s garbage pail and it was Thanksgiving, for St. Peter’s sake. So, I pulled a fiver out of my pocket and gave it to him.

He was shocked.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Well, thanks.”

And that was that, until a few days later, when I was sitting on a bench in front of the hotel, waiting for a cab. The same man walked by, wearing the same clothes and besides looking poor, he looked intelligent. I figured he knew where the chuck wagon was and was going to be having his hand out for some more money from this money bag. But he didn’t, damn it, so I stood up, caught up with him and offered him another fiver.

He was nearly speechless and gladly took the money. Maybe he was beginning to wonder about me.

Finally, I saw him a few days later. And seeing I was on a roll, and also because I would be leaving the city soon, I offered him more money.

“No thanks. I used the money you gave me to buy some groceries.”

I was dumbfounded, happy, slightly embarrassed and more respectful. He then told me he used to teach at Oxford and things hadn’t worked out too well for him. What did I know?

It reminded me of another time I ran into a fella who asked for money. I gave him some as he told me his wife was in the hospital and he was broke. “Sure, sure,” some folks would say.

A month or so later, I ran into him again. I automatically reached into my pocket and pulled out some change.  I was dumbfounded, embarrassed and surprised again. He refused the money. Things were working out for him.

You never know, do you?

Picture
This  photo shows a moose hanging out near our laneway. It's  tricky getting a moose to pose nicely for a picture!
***
Lots of people want Buster stories, it seems. Yea verily, they have demanded it. And there are so many, I don’t know where to begin. He never lets us take him for granted. All you have to do is look at the photo of us sitting on the couch to see what I’m getting at. There we are, huddled together. Sue and I looking borderline senile, weary and bedraggled. Buster looking alert, intelligent, in control and ready to go. A real firecracker.
Family and dog
Buster and Family
Buster is a Christmas gift that keeps on giving. Giving orders that is. Of course, he can’t talk, so he has to use woof, woofs and highly complicated body language and facial expressions to get us to do what he wants. He also nips and tugs.

We have already completed another session of his training program. His being-let-outside-so-he-can-have-a-treat-when-he-comes-inside scheme. Where’s our diploma? And it’s pretty damn ingrained in us. He barks to go out. We let him out. It should be noted that each command comes with a different kind of woof. Then he barks to come in and we let him in. Good doggie. Good doggie.

He proudly, and I repeat proudly, tail in the air and walking right smart, prances to the stool by the counter, where his treat stash is kept, puts his front feet on the stool like a trained seal with a ball and waits until one of us serves him. Note the trained seal fallacy.

And in case you don’t think his training techniques are rock solid, well, let me tell you this little story about how well it has gone for Buster.

One day he came into the house and instead of going to the treat stash, he went to the window, to see what he could see with his little canine eyes.
Dog on couch
What now?
Well, that dumbfounded Sue. She was lost. Note, it could have been me, because both of us are trained, but it was Sue this time. Lucky Sue. As I said, she was dumbfounded, perplexed, lost as to what to do. Things weren’t right.

So, what did she do? She went to the goodie stash, pulled out a biscuit and delivered it to Buster. Wow! Where will his training stop? It’s not like she expected a tip.

Buster is relentless in his training. Sometimes, his techniques are so subtle, we don’t even know we are being conditioned.
dog and beer bottles
Is this how Buster deals with the stress of controlling us?
A few weeks ago, Buster came in from outside. Sounds pretty normal and innocent. We all go inside and outside from time to time, but apparently, Buster was revising and expanding his conditioning order of events.

Buster would speak his usual woof-woof-go-outside bark. We’d immediately get our asses in gear, go to the door and tie him out. But this time he wouldn’t leave the deck. Instead he’d sit on the porch and give his let-me-in woof. So, we’d wind our asses up once more and open the door. This began happening more often than could be considered just coincidence.

We became suspicious. Because we’re smart too, damn it, but my god, his plan is absolutely brilliant. Scary, really.

You see, Buster sees us as his buddies and a breed of dog. I don’t want to know what kind I am and what kind Sue is. And call me paranoid, if you want, but I think what he’s up to, what he has on his overflowing bucket list, is a dream of training us to share his doggie world with him.

Because, as soon as one of us went outside, he’d stop barking. Then he’d step off the deck while suspiciously looking behind him to make sure one of us was staying outside. If Sue or I complied then he was just fine, thank you.

But my paranoia hasn’t stopped at this point, nor do I think has his training. Because, can’t you see it? Can’t you? Us at the pet shop buying a second long chain and collar. A chain for Buster and one for Sue or me.

What’s next? Buster and one of us on our knees, well at least us down on our knees, eating from a doggie bowl. Buster’s stainless steel and ours yellow plastic.

Having doggie sharing time. Peeing on rocks, trees and car tires. Rolling in the grass. Rubbing our faces in dead leaves. Sniffing places. What a lovely time we’d be having. Romping and rolling to the sounds of the universe.

Then when he’d decided, I repeat, when he’d decided that it was time to go in, he would bark. Whichever one of us was on Buster duty would slide down the pole, march, or preferably run right smartly to the door and remove the chains from us before we’d enter the house. Buster’s feet on the stool and us serving the canine god.


Could it end up that someday, he’d be tying Sue and me out? Master Buster our caregiver?

***
       "God I love my master
        Of all the dogs I have the best master
        What a great master
        Yes I can get on the bed
        Yes I can have
        A bite of her brownie
        Oh no it’s a Pot brownie
        Oh No it’s a Pot brownie
        Oh god I am so high
        She is starting to look very weird to me
        So much skin so much open skin on her so bald all over
        I want to smell her mmmmmmaster mmmmmmaster
        She’s laughing at me quit laughing at me
        Now she’s barfing now who is laughing
        Har Har Har Master oh no now I’m barfing
        She thinks there was LSD in the brownie—-"
                                 Lynda Barry,  “I love my master I love my master”
Humes Falls Hike
HIKING GROUP AT HUMES FALLS. LOTS OF AVID HIKERS AROUND HERE
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Neighbourhood Watch

10/3/2015

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For some reason, I feel blog thirty-five has some kind of significance. A finality of sorts. I’m just not sure what it might be.

A wandering friend of mine once gave me a blog warning. He said, “Be careful you don’t write yourself out.” I know writers who have stopped writing their blogs altogether, or cut back to the point where their blogs are almost non-existent. I wonder if one reason is because they wrote themselves out.

One thing for sure, we’re bombarded with words. Words, words, words. Often treating them as if they have almost no value.  So, with this little blog disclaimer, I plod on in the Land of Blog and present you with blog thirty-six. In which I try to write something interesting without depleting my creative urge.

In his book, ‘The World is Sound’, Joachim-Ernst Berendt included a quote from Sukie Colgrave discussing Confucious as follows: “...while words contain genuine meaning which reflect certain absolute truths in the universe, most people have lost contact with these truths and so use language to suit their own convenience. This led, he felt, to lax thinking, erroneous judgements, confused actions and finally to the wrong people acquiring access to political power.”  
***
Bible
And first up to bat is this. Last week, I finished reading the whole Bible from the front page to the back page and everything in between. I will admit, however, that I did occasionally skip a begat or two, but for the most part I read the Bible from Genesis to Revelations. And I read plenty that wasn’t preached about in my church. I also found verses that would back up almost any Christian denomination and I discovered ones that would make proselytizers turn red in the face.

It should be noted that I was brought up in a strict, Bible believing family. The Bible was the word of God, and it was the final word. And, even now, I receive greeting cards from family members with Bible verses included, no extra charge. I believe, yes, I believe, they are submitted to help me find the road that the sender is presently following.

“Wait up, you guys.”

“Well then, hurry up, Larry. We told you to pick up the Cole's Notes on the Bible. How many times have we told you this?”

Now they tell me they told me. But hey, I kept wanting to stop and inspect all the interesting sights and sounds along the side of the road.

“Hey, what about all those roads we keep passing? Where do they go?”

“Read chapter and verse, Larry. It’s all in the notes you don’t have. Ignore them, Larry. Stay on the main highway where it’s safe.”

Ah, let the folks toss away. They probably do it because they really care, but it can be a tad irritating from time to time. I have a feeling that most of the verse tossers have read lots of the Bible, but I bet you that very few have read it from the front page to the back. Maybe one reason is because they’re afraid they might see more than they want to see.


Picture
***
A few days ago, we went to Sydney. Our first stop was a used bookstore we frequent on the main street. It’s called, ED’S BOOKS AND MORE and it’s owned by this fella who, strangely enough, is called Ed. Ed loves books and misses nothing. I know this because of what happened last week.

We walked into his book store. Ed said, “Hi Larry, I have something to show you.”

I was impressed he’d remembered my name. He held a book in his hand. It looked like some kind of yearbook.

“I have a school yearbook here and I think you might be in it.”

I glanced at the book and then at him. I said, “It wouldn’t be me. I went to high school in Kingston, Ontario.”

He opened the book and showed me a picture. There I was. Dark short hair, thick black glasses, and looking like I was straight out of a Stephen King movie.  He had somehow got hold of a 1968 Loyalist High School yearbook. Boy, did he floor me! Ed then gave me the book as a gift.

So, as a gift back to him, I’ve mentioned his bookstore, and I’m mentioning his toll-free phone number, which is: 1-855-264-2665, his not toll-free phone number, which is: (902)564-2665 and his email address, which is: edsbooksandmore@eastlink.ca and his address, which is: 446 Charlotte Street, Sydney, NS. and a picture of Ed and his store. Oh, his store is also on facebook.
Picture
That night, I went through the book. Looked at all the class pictures. The memories rushed at me like a herd of radicalized terrorists.

Because, you see, nineteen-sixty-eight was the worst year of my life. Bar none. No death, divorce, firing, injury, bad relationship or life decision can or ever will compete with nineteen-sixty-eight. He is the winner. Hands down. The year of the big bottle of nerve medicine sitting on the kitchen table. The religious skirmishes breaking out like revivalistic measles.

Well, I have to admit, there were two female students amongst the class pictures who could have made that year a hell of a lot better. And, there was my grade one sweetheart. Yes, it started that early.

It was awfully nice of Ed to take the time to keep it for me. That’s Cape Breton for you.

***
A brief note.  Grinder, my snow blower, needs a new ticker. The motor is dead.

The mechanic made a funny comment, if you can find it comical when your almost brand new snow blower has a dead motor.  He said, “There were a whole lot of pieces in your motor that wanted out.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself. He should write a blog.

I have just dug out two pairs of snowshoes from our tool shed.
snow shovelling
My New Snow Blower
***
Picture
Let me see now. I think, with regard to Buster, that I left you with an image of Sue standing on the middle of an icy Gold Brook Road, with her telephone cord make-shift dog leash dangling in the air like an empty fishing line, while Buster hoofed it after a large snow plough monster.

But Buster is a Buster. No more appropriate name for him could be had and he makes us laugh a lot. Sue told me that Buster is the funniest dog she has ever owned. I think I have competition.

He also is a bit of a pain in the ass from time to time. For one thing he might be putting a bit of a strain on our relationship with the neighbours. They have a big dog and many cats. Their dog likes to wander down to our driveway and drop off unstamped, brown wrapped mail. He also likes to paint our hub caps and snow banks a peculiar yellow colour.

Yesterday, Buster spotted the big dog standing on the road, watching us return from our early morning pre-Buster’s-breakfast forced march.

Up to this point I had been able to keep Buster from heading down to the neighbour’s house. Not this time. Not with the big dog staring at us. So, Buster took off. I was worried that there might be a clash. But instead, the big dog ran to his porch. He then barked at Buster.

The neighbour came out and began to yell at Buster while she reeled her dog into the house.

While all this was going on, I was stupidly standing by my lonesome shouting, “Buster, come here!”

I was hollering at Buster, the neighbour woman was hollering at Buster and her dog was barking at Buster. Buster was oblivious. Totally.

But you know, I think all Buster wanted to do was play and sing and dance with the big German shepherd dog.

However, after the woman had got her dog into the house and then hollered at Buster some more, Buster finally did comply, like the good dog he is.  But, before he complied, he lifted his leg and whizzed on our neighbour’s porch railing. Then he came to me. But he came to me with the name Buster and a Buster he was.

All the way home I would periodically shout, “That was bad. Bad boy, Buster.”

Buster, who was now in no mood to dilly-dally, because he knew he had a well-earned breakfast waiting for him at the homestead, would, every time I rebuked him, turn around, and with furious growls, make play charges at me.

It went on like that until we got home. Then I told Sue the story of big, bad Buster while Sue prepared a nice breakfast for Buster. Who enjoyed his tasty breakfast.

Meanwhile, I searched our forty-five-foot trailer for my other slipper.

Buster is Buster.


Snowy Trees
Winter Beauty Along Our Path
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