A Big Broken Heart

My dog, Jasper, is gone.  I miss him.  At only five years old, he should have been in the prime of his life.  That all changed two years ago when we discovered that he had congestive heart failure.  I don't believe dogs know that they are sick, certainly not in the same way that we humans do.  What is clear, is that Jasper understood that he was slowing down.  Over the last few months, he began to lag further and further behind on his walks.  A few week ago, he sent me a silent message when, for the first time, he chose to remain on the deck and watch me and his recently adopted canine sister, Ruby, trek off into the woods.  I kept looking behind to see if his black bear like figure would come lumbering through the trees and I stopped way more than normal to throw a stick for Ruby, but we remained alone.

Jasper's heart failed him.  It's somewhat ironic that everyone who came to know him found a place for him in their hearts.  Gentle and patient, he was one in a million.  When he arrived in our lives from the pound it was his first birthday.  Neighbourhood kids, who were previously leery of dogs, found a friend in Jasper and a new understanding that dogs can be trustworthy.  This despite the fact that Jasper was twice the size of these kids.

Jasper lived at our house but he really belonged to the neighbourhood.  It was not uncommon for him to make occasional visits to the homes of many of our rural neighbours.  Lynda and I would often learn of such visits after the fact and often by accident.  I think the neighbours were afraid that we'd tie Jasper on and they'd miss the chance to share him.  We'd learn that Jasper routine went to visit for a half hour or so, have a treat or two and to curl up on their kitchen floors.  Then, on his own, he'd ask to be let out and then head back home or on to say hello to another friend.

Jasper loved rocks, probably more than just about anything else.  He learned that from a few years of palling around with my brother's golden retriever, Jack, who passed away earlier this year.  Jasper took what he learned from Jack and went bigger.  Bigger in a sense that Jasper's preferred rocks were boulders.  Many of the ones he carried in his mouth on walks or lovingly licked were as big as his gigantic head.  Only a dog of extreme intelligence would select a treat that was so plentiful and inexpensive.

As much as he loved rocks, Jasper hated moose.  Just the mere mention of the word was enough to send him into a fit.  I think his disdain for Bullwinkle and friends was more of a learned thing than it was instinctual.  Jasper hadn't been with us very long when he encountered a young moose in the back yard.  He ran up to investigate.  His instincts told him to approach from behind, as surely such a big dog would have huge teeth.  Mr. Moose was not impressed by Jasper's stealth nor worried enough to run back into the woods.  What he did do was unleash a rear legged kick that literally grazed the side of Jasper's head.  As I watched, speechless, Jasper bolted back the way he came, tail between his legs, and ran right into the secure confines of his dog house.  Since that day, Jasper has had one on one discussions with many moose.  He never again got close to those long hind legs.  I guess he realized that they pack quite a bite.

Last Saturday, Jasper was with me in the yard as I was burning some brush.  He was noticeably frail, but he still had enough energy to ask that I throw a smallish rock a few times for him to retrieve.  When I finished up that afternoon, Jasper was nowhere to be seen, which is not unusual.  I became worried when he didn't come home that night, as that never happened before.  Lynda and I searched the surrounding woods, but to no avail.  I awoke early Sunday morning and still no sign of him.  It was a brutal weather day, with cold rain being driven by strong winds off the ocean.  I looked out the window and could not hold back the tears.  I asked out loud to no one, "Jasper, where are you?".  A few minutes later I was putting on my rain clothes when mom called up from downstairs.  Jasper was at her door.  Lynda and I ran down to find one very wet and sickly dog.  We hugged him, dried him, and hugged him some more.  I even managed to give him his heart medication, although for the first time he fought me as I tried to do so.  Lynda and I tried to get him to eat, but he wouldn't.  We tried to get him to lie down on his bed, but he wouldn't.  Jasper asked to go outside.  He stood in front of the house for a few minutes, with Lynda keeping watch.  Suddenly, he was gone.  We haven't seen him since.  I am so thankful for those few extra minutes he gave us on Sunday morning.  For whatever reason, I no longer worried about him after that.

Jasper died as he lived - with grace and dignity.  I had planned to take him to the vet on Monday, Christmas Eve, for a final needle.  I'm not sure if I could have gone through with it.  Jasper spared me from having to make that decision.  From what I have read, it is not unusual for some dogs to go away to die.  They see themselves as being a burden to the pack.  As they no longer contribute to the pack, they realize that the best thing is to go away.

Lynda and I continue to search for Jasper.  We know he is dead, but we just would like to know where he chose to go.  I believe I will eventually find his last resting place.  It's sure to be by the biggest rock he could find.

------------

Update: June, 2013:

My last story was about my dog, Jasper, and how we suspected he had gone off to die.  We last saw Jasper on December 23rd.  Well, about a month ago, Jasper's skeletal remains were found in the woods very close to our house.  It was comforting to know he was nearby during his last hours and minutes and that he could probably see and hear those who loved him most.  I buried him not far from where he was found.  His grave is adorned with many of the very same rocks that we used to play fetch with him.  Of all of the pets we've owned, Jasper is the only one buried on our property (unless you count the many goldfish that are somewhere in our septic field).  We have Ruby now.  She actually came to us from the pound last September.  She's a wonderful dog and has fit into our family quite nicely.  We have discovered that Avery is very often distracted by Ruby's cuteness.  Sure Ruby is great, but I will always have a soft spot for Jasper, the big guy.

Blowing the Whistle on the WMC

I had one of those stereotypical useless husband type days on Monday.  That's what Lynda would call them anyway.  I just kept losing things.  I would have lost my head if it wasn't screwed on.  I had been doing so well too.  Lynda had been out of town since last Wednesday - she went to Montreal to watch Kendall at a swim meet - and I had managed to keep the dogs alive, get Avery to school every day, and most importantly, I hadn't dirtied the house up too much. That was Lynda's last command... I mean wish, before she left for the airport.

Okay, I have to confess that I had to call in reinforcements.  I summoned Nanny West to provide logistical and moral support during the time that her daughter would be away.  Meanwhile, if Nanny was to do a few loads of laundry, wash a scattered dish here or there, or whip up a miracle or two in the kitchen, then who was I to complain?  I'm just the father of her two beautiful granddaughters and the man who has given over half of his life to making her daughter's life so blissful.  Nanny didn't have to help out (but I knew she would).

I'll get back to the gist of this story in a moment.  I began to tell you about how I had lost a few things on Monday.  Before I do, I need to tell you about one other thing that went missing on Saturday......Nanny.  I was nice enough to give her the evening off, so she could go line dancing, and I never saw her again.  What's up with that?!  Sure, we had a few flurries, but it was just a measly 15 centimetres.  Nanny said she is afraid to drive down to our house when it snows because there are so many hills, cliffs, an ocean, no street lights, and poor ploughing.  What a wimp!  Our house is situated on the side of a mountain and has a long, steep driveway, but when I designed it, I specifically added a "Nanny Only" parking area at the bottom.  Suddenly, when she finally has a chance to use it, she opts to stay out in town.  Some gratitude!  I even ended up having to shovel the step myself.  Nanny, you are fired!  At least until the next time Lynda leaves town.

Wives and mothers seem to have built in homing devices, along with some type of special radar.  I'm certain of that.  That's the only way to explain how it is that Lynda knows exactly where it is that me and the kids have left our stuff.  Keys, hats, boots, wallets, Ipods, smart phones, and school bags all find their way to that place called "Idonno".  Lynda will always ask us where we left whatever it is that is missing and our answer is always "Idonno".  Armed only with that information, Lynda meanders to some strategic place in the house and always finds our missing item.  My mom possesses the same mystic ability.  I'm beginning to wonder if it's a conspiracy of sorts, that wives and mothers learn to maintain a strategic hold over husbands and kids by hiding this stuff and becoming the only ones who can find it.

It's all beginning to make sense to me now.  So, on Monday, when I couldn't find my coach's whistle for the power skating session I was teaching and when my Amex card never made its way back into my wallet after a trip to Costco, it had to be Lynda who hid them.  Hmmmm......my theory has a glitch.  Lynda was in Montreal, happily speeding through the shops of the city on a quest to find the bargain of a lifetime.  Unlike me, I'm pretty sure she had a good idea exactly where her credit card was.

Perhaps I need to take my theory a little bit further.  Sure, Lynda had a perfect alibi, but what if she had a partner in crime?  Nanny.....it had to be her.  She had to be the woman who hid my whistle and credit card..  That explains why she flew the coop on Saturday.  Line dancing and fearing for her life were just clever cover stories.  They thought they could fool me by diverting any suspicion from Lynda.  I'm on to both of you.

It all makes sense to me now.  Wives and mothers of the world are one big syndicate, working in consort to keep all children and men (who are just big children, after all) under their influence.   They figure as long as we need them to find our things, they'll be the ones to dictate when, where and how things get done.

Very clever, but the jig's up.  It's time for the children of the world, big and small, to unite against the WMC (Wives and Mothers Coalition).  I must spread the word.  I have to let my buddies know so that we can win our independence.  No longer will hockey skates go missing just before Saturday night shinny.  The TV clicker won't disappear on football Sunday's, only to reappear just in time for the Sunday night tear jerker.  Men must take their rightful place as the dominant sex.

Damn! I can't find my smart phone.  I can't call the guys because all of their contact info is in that phone. If Lynda thinks I'm going to stoop low and bow down to her by asking where my smart phone is, she has another thing coming.  I'll fool her.  I'll play it cool.  I'm not even going to pretend that I've lost my smart phone.  I'll get the last laugh...I'll do the manly thing.....I'm going to play dumb.

Exposed

Here's a news flash - I'm not so private.  Lynda says I must get a perverse enjoyment from exposing myself for all to see.  If that's what I do, then at least I keep the exposing to words only.  I'm not sure the world is ready for a pictorial centerfold spread of anything I have to offer.  Those particular privates are best served by remaining as such.

I wasn't always so public.  Actually, I was quite the opposite.  Lynda was the first person I felt I could truly open up to and I only met her when I was in my mid 20's.  Growing up, the members of my family were doers, not talkers.  Mom and dad worked and did whatever it was grown ups were supposed to do.  It was a mystery to us kids.  My brothers, sister and I played sports, got in scraps with one another and other kids, teased one another incessantly, went to school and worked our part-time jobs.  We weren't big on discussing feelings.  I had no idea that many families do that sometimes or that it's a normal and healthy activity.  There was something different in my relationship with Lynda.  I felt that no matter what I told her, she would still feel the same about me.  Perhaps it was because Lynda exposed herself to me (chuckle).  I mean that purely in the sense that she shared her innermost secrets with me.  It was my first real relationship.  One based on trust and understanding.  Thankfully, Lynda oozes understanding.

My career in the RCMP and the events that ultimately lead to me leaving the Force were the catalysts for this blog.  I discovered that not only is writing therapeutic, but sharing some of the painful lessons I experienced is something that I really need to do.  Giving too much of myself to the RCMP, questioning the choices of my superiors, fed up with the unhealthy competition between the RCMP and the RNC, and enduring bad decisions by several Provincial Court judges on cases of mine, all came together to create a personal fire storm.  Hell, may be a better descriptor.

I didn't handle it well.  Lynda was with me for the ride.  These events unfolded over months, perhaps even years, and I was always able to talk to her.  It helped, but I now know I needed so much more.  Most life partners aren't equipped to fix such things, especially when one's dilemma is caused by things outside of the relationship.

Looking back now, given that the fog has lifted, it was a surreal ride.  I'm a very average person.  I would guess that most of you aren't so different from me.  If depression can put its unforgiving claws into my hide, then why not you?  I experienced all of the typical symptoms leading up to the point where I crashed and burned.  I was as oblivious as a newborn baby.  My job as a narcotics officer became difficult, so I just worked longer hours to try and get ahead of it.  When exercise became difficult, I stopped playing hockey and going to the gym.  Lynda and the kids, instead of being the lights of my life, became dark figures who demanded more of me than I was willing to offer.  I just wanted to be left alone.  I was tired, so tired.

The day finally came.  I drove the ten minutes to work one morning in late March of 2008, just as I had for years.  I sat in my car in the multi-tiered parking lot that overlooks the cold, brown brick of the RCMP headquarters building.  I couldn't get out of the car.  My mind and body finally had had enough.  For the first time in a long time they acted as one.  Body and mind were in self preservation mode.  I had gone to the edge of the precipice, but I would not fall.  Some aren't so fortunate.

I've been working my way back into life. There have been bumps along the way.  I've had my share of sleepless nights, tears, long walks, morbid thoughts, what ifs, endless questioning of why me, and wondering where the heck do I go from here.  The good has finally supplanted the bad.  Time has a way of righting what's wrong.  Time, a better understanding of life and a better understanding of myself.

Two days ago I was sitting with my psychologist, who has been with me since that day I froze in the parking lot.  Second only to Lynda in knowing who I am, he said something that I've been thinking about ever since.  I've been searching for a job and have had a difficult time in finding something that fits. If you've followed my stories over the past two years, you are well aware of my foray into jobs at Costco (10 days) and the provincial government (4 weeks).  I'm not a quitter by nature, but I just had to get out of those jobs.  Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that they both have parking lots.  I'll run that one by my shrink.

I digress.  What my psychologist said is that I need to find a job that gives me something in return.  That thing is not money, it's not opportunity, nor is it status.  The things I need are to feel good about myself, to feel appreciated and to believe I'm helping.  Perhaps I've always had those needs.  A career as a police officer seemed to address them quite nicely, but we all know how that story ended.  I'll keep searching.

Meanwhile, I'll continue to coach chess, hockey and basketball and to teach power skating.  I'll tinker around at my friend's garage, look after the houses of my neighbours, plough driveways when the snow falls, and be a best friend to my dogs.  I'll carry on with chauffeuring my kids and their friends to swim club, basketball practices, curling, outings to the mall and to wherever else they need to go.

Writing this story has been an enjoyable way to spend my Sunday morning.  My life may not be so private, but it's good.  I can think of worse ways I could have chosen to expose myself, particularly when it's November in Newfoundland.  If I ever choose to take that route, at least I'll have an excuse for the shrinkage.....it's cold out.  Just ask Lynda, she's got my back.

Saturday Morning Musings

I dropped Kendall at swimming just before 6 and I'm hanging out at McDonalds until she's done at 9. She's swimming 5 k today. That's 5000 meters or 500,000 centimeters. Wicked! Next week, I'll just drop her at the harbour in St. John's and she can swim back to Outer Cove.

After all these years, I'm still never 100% certain if it's Mc or Mac. I certainly don't wish to upset the Irish or the Scotts. Another thing..McD's is repositioning itself as a coffee house to compete with Starbucks. It has all of these fancy coffees (and the prices to match) and Wifi. It even has comfy chairs and fireplaces. It seems they forgot one important thing...electrical outlets. How's a guy to spend anytime at the "office" when his computer is dead and can't be recharged.

Congrats to me on the arrival last evening of my niece, Charlotte (no middle name yet) Nixon. Jan and baby are doing fine. I told her I'd stand in for Bill at the delivery if he couldn't make it. Turns out he was there. Good thing too. I couldn't find my old catcher's mitt.

The elderly gents, who hog the comfy chairs here every morning, are talking about a shootout that took place last night. After 15 years of living in the Toronto area its a conversation I heard many times. The difference between is that these townies are talking about the Ice Caps game going into overtime and not bullets flying up in the Jane-Finch corridor.

I'll call Bill soon to see if he needs any help today. I suspect Jan and Charlotte won't come home until tomorrow or Monday. With Maggie, 5 years old, and James, 3, Bill will have his hands full. Three kids! Bill is no spring chicken either. (Jan is still young. She hasn't yet reached cougar status.) W hat a tangled web Bill has weaved for himself. With Charlotte's arrival, my advice to him is to leave Jan alone. If he gets those urges, he should do the manly thing and spin his own web.

The Moment of Silence

The Moment of Silence

by Avery Nixon

The Moment of Silence,

the time on Remembrance Day

when we imagine the soldiers,

how the soldiers fought for us,

how they sacrificed themselves

The ear-pitching sound of a gun rings in our ears

As a soldier gets colder and colder, his family still loves him

as if he was still here

We hear the weeping of children

when they find out one of their family members has passed away,

In the moment of silence

In the two minutes, we are in war

We feel the warm hearts,

fighting just to help us.

How the sound of the cannon can kill many.

How blood slowly touches the ground,

as a man falls

How we feel the man's soul helping us in our hearts to win

In the moment of silence

we feel the tears of a veteran's mother rush down her face

sadly on to the ground, she finds out her daughter has been killed

We hear the screams of the children

as they hear the cannon fire

We hear the wives beg for mercy,

In the moment of silence

How we hear the cheer of victory from the Canadian's in our ears,

we smile

In the moment of silence.

The two minutes break, we remember the soldiers

we remember our freedom,

We thank the soldiers for it,

In the moment of silence.

About the author

Avery Nixon is 10 years old and a grade 5 student at St. Francis of Assisi, Outer Cove, NL.   What is presented here is an exact reproduction of her work.  The editor of this blog, her dad, has made no changes, nor can he take any credit.  The pupil has far surpassed her mentor.

Tongue in Cheek

Kids are like sponges.  They'll soak up the good, as well as the not so good.  My 10 year old daughter, Avery, and I were invited to an Ice Caps hockey game last Sunday.  The Caps are our AHL team and it's the hottest ticket in town.  Our hosts were Gerry Mayo and his daughter, Laura.  Ave and Laura have been buddies since they first meet in daycare.  They were two and oh so cute back then.  Shucks, they had just barely graduated from being rug rats.  Now, don't get me wrong, they are and will always be precious.  It's just that, as they have gotten older, their cuteness has manifested itself in a different way.

One of the shticks at the hockey games is for live video of some fans to be broadcast on the huge score clock that hangs over center ice.  Laura was extremely excited about this prospect and pretty soon, her enthusiasm spread to Avery.  At each break in the action on the ice, these two joined all of the other kids in the crowd as they danced and clapped to the music.  All in the hope that their antics would catch the eye of the seemingly invisible cameraman.  With all of the want-to-be big screen stars doing the exact same thing, it's difficult to stand out in a crowd.  Avery and Laura were having fun, so I didn't bother to tell them that uniqueness is the key to being noticed.  It certainly worked for a then unknown Pamela Anderson, when the cameraman zoomed in on her ...... eyes (yeah, it was her eyes) as she sat amongst thousands at a football game in Vancouver.

Being the goof that I am, I couldn't help but whisper (I thought I whispered) to Gerry that if we end up on the big screen then I'm going to lay a big kiss right on his lips.  To his credit, Gerry never flinched.  His reply was cute and succinct, exactly what I have come to expect from my good buddy.  To my proposal, Gerry said "Okay, just no tongue please."  We chuckled like ten year old girls.

Being the bigger goof that I am, I figured I'd include the kids in the jocularity of the moment.  I suggested to them that if they were to get on the big screen, then they should give each other a big kiss.   Avery didn't flinch, she looked at Laura and said "Okay, but no tongue please."

Kids are like sponges.  The next time Gerry and I take the kids anywhere, we better make sure some of that sponge is stuck in their ears.


My inspiration for this story
Gerry, you finally made it into my blog.  You have to be careful what you wish for!  It's not that you're not a great friend or I don't love you like a brother.  It's more that I was waiting for you to do something interesting.  The time the four of us went out to a nice restaurant and you got the phone call that the fire department was at your house because your sitters, who happened to be your folks, almost burnt your house down because they put the electric kettle on the stove, just didn't cut it.  Neither did the time you microwaved your wallet.  You almost made it when your assistance to your friend, Paul, resulted in his 5th wheel trailer flattening his new truck.  Sure all of those incidents are somewhat interesting, but are they really good enough?  I assuredly would have to glamour them up so they meet the standard that my stories are known for.

Oh, Gerry.  It's a good thing you have a friend like me to make your life more interesting.  Excuse me?! What's that you say?  I just happen to know what you are thinking at the very moment you are reading this.  And no.... I will not do that!  I will not kiss your arse!  Even if I do, I ain't giving you any tongue.

Learning a Losing Lesson

The theme of the day is "losing".  Some things, like the spare tire I'm presently sporting or a dead end job, are actually okay to lose.  Many years ago, losing a girlfriend or two,or three also turned out to be a good thing for me because that lead to finding the one true love of my life.....hockey.  (Just kidding, Lynda.  You know you're a first line center and the best back-checker on this team.  I hope I never find out just how good your backhand is though!)  Annoying people are often put in their place by being told to "Get Lost".  I'm not sure that it's even possible for someone to get lost on purpose, but at least the message is loud and clear.

For the most part, losing is not something that we see as a positive.  Losing a game, a bet, teeth or your sense of self are all things we'd prefer not to experience.  Unfortunately, losing is as inevitable as breathing.  The annoying thing about losing is that it usually comes about because of something that we failed to do.  It is a constant reminder that we are not perfect and that is hard to swallow for anyone with a Stephen Harper sized ego.  Politics aside..... it was only yesterday that I experienced my most recent loss.  I was teaching power skating and left the rink without the two clip boards that I use to outline the drills to the kids.  I recently joked with my assistant hockey coach that I should take bets on how long before I lose them.  I'm glad I was only joking because I think Jim Yee was ready to bet his house that I'd lose them within the week.  I would have lost that bet.

Perhaps my hockey boards are not lost in the true sense of the word.  I do know where I left them.  I even have my name and cell phone number written on both of them.  I called the rink this morning and the manager was going to have a look and call me back.  I haven't heard from him.  Perhaps he lost my number?

On Sunday, myself and my friend Perry went to a party for the football pool we are in.  The NFL season is half over, so what better excuse is needed to get together to celebrate.  It is a large pool, as it has over 150 entrants.  One person is way ahead of the pack, so the rest of us are losing!  Regardless, it was a fantastic time.  Jason and Sully, as well as the gang at Blue on Water Restaurant (note - this is a shameless plug), put on quite the afternoon of entertainment.  Several games on the TV's, lots of meat to eat, and free booze.  I sure felt like a winner.

As it turned out, there were a few things lost during the frenzy that was the football pool party.  Despite the food and drinks being free, I lost all of the money that I had in my wallet.  Okay....I sort of lost the money.  Well, I didn't really lose it at all.  I actually bought things, not that I needed those extra drinks and the food.  I got caught up in the moment and the only thing I really lost was my senses.  Like my hockey clipboards, I know where my money was last seen.  Unlike my boards, I'm not hopeful that I'll be reacquainted with those dollar bills any time soon.  Maybe if I had written my cell phone number on them?

Writing your name and contact number on things you own is a tried and true method of getting lost items returned to you.  I can remember Lynda doing it for all of our kids' clothing when they were young.  I do believe she still does it, even though they are almost teenagers.  You can bet on kids losing just about anything they own.  It must be a function of not having to pay for most things with their own money.  Well, it turns out that my pool partying buddy, Perry, has a lot in common with my kids.  On Monday morning, he realized that he was wearing a coat when he left home on Sunday but didn't arrive home with it.  He has had no luck tracking it down.  It seems that certain details of where we were after leaving Blue On Water are sketchy.  In other words, these memories have been lost.  I told Perry not to eat so much meat.

In any event, Perry's coat has taught him a valuable lesson.  His wife is busy attaching tags to all of his clothes so they will all now have his name and phone number on them.  I'm also wondering if his wife, Susan, blames me for all the bad things that happened to her husband on Sunday?  Sure, he lost some money.  He lost his coat.  He lost parts of his memory (from the meat, remember).  At least I made sure he didn't lose his way home.  I don't want to lose Perry as a friend, so I have a great idea for Susan that will surely make her forgive me.  Make Perry get a tattoo and have it read - If found, call Susan.  Some guys are just too good to lose.

Drive Only in One Direction

I had a near death experience just the other day.  It happened while I was chauffeuring my daughter, Kendall, and four of her friends from their school to the swimming pool.  The fog was so thick that I could barely see the lines on the road.  I found myself really having to concentrate, which is not something I'm used to doing while behind the wheel.  I'm just being honest.

Surely, any of you who has been driving for a while has had those occasions when you end up at your destination but can't recall having passed the buildings and other landmarks along the way.  It's like our minds switch to a different gear and go on cruise control.  I must say though, that the best cure for the epidemic and dangers of associated mindless driving is texting.  I'm not admitting to ever doing this illegal act, but wouldn't all of one's senses be working at their ultimate best when the risk of death is a mere key stoke away?  Taken a step further, then it's reasonable to suggest that a texting driver is a mindful driver.  Mindful drivers are certainly preferential to mindless ones.  Therefore, texting while driving makes perfect sense.

I don't believe a word of what I just wrote.  It seems that that kind of ludicrous reasoning is used more and more these days by people or groups who have an agenda.  Advertisers stretch the truth to get us to buy their products, politicians just outright lie, and writers take things out of context in order to make a story more interesting.

Okay, okay.....I may not have been as close to death as I first lead you to believe.  It was foggy and I did have a car full of kids, but it wasn't like I almost went off the road or gave a moose a close shave with my car fender or encountered anything even remotely close to being that life shattering.  The only things that were shattered were my eardrums.  Kendall was next to me in the front seat and she let out such an ear piercing scream that my heart skipped a few beats and went up in my throat.  My senses went right to DEFCON 1, not bothering to even stop at 5-4-3-2, as it seemed that the end of my world was at hand.  (I wonder if that is how texting drivers feel?)

To understand why Kendall screamed, you first have to know something about her.  She is twelve years old and a fairly typical "tween-ager".  That little bit is more than enough to explain the shrilling scream ---- a One Direction song began to play on the radio.  If you haven't heard of or heard 1D, then you've been living under a rock.  These five Brits are the hottest boy band since The Bay City Rollers of my youth and perhaps even bigger than the Bee Gees.   Kendall is One Direction all of the time.  Her room is a shrine and she never leaves the house without wearing something dedicated to 1D.  Her infatuation is cute and creepy at the same time.  Of the five boys, young men actually, Kendall has chosen Niall as the one she likes the most.  He seems nice enough and he wears his pants at a height so that his underwear don't show.  Kendall could do worse.

As parents, Lynda and I have chosen to embrace Kendall's enthusiasm.  Actually, it's kind of infectious and even Kendall's younger sister, Avery, seems to have been won over.  Their music is catchy and it seems appropriate for kids.....at least relative to some of the lyrics being put out there by Lady Gaga and her compatriots.  These boys don't show much skin either.  I guess their managers realize that young girls may be the fans but moms and dads still handle the family finances.

So, what is the moral of today's story?  We have learned that texting while driving is dangerous, moose in the middle of the road are a hazard, and pea soup thick fog causes near zero visibility for drivers.  Yet, the most important lesson I hope to impart on you has to do with the amount of attention paid while driving.  Whenever you have a twelve year old girl in your vehicle and the radio begins to play a One Direction song, you are in imminent danger of losing control of your vehicle.  Therefore, it goes to reason that the less attention you give to driving, the more mindless you are while behind the wheel, then the safer you and your passengers will be.

Drivers need only to let their minds go off in one direction and make sure not to interfere with a young girl's enjoyment of her favourite boy band.  The one sure way of doing that is to have your smart phone on vibrate while you are texting and driving.

Time is Ticking

No predawn swimming practice for Kendall.......nothing on the calendar today that says I should be shuffling off to the hockey rink, half bleary-eyed....the kids are old enough not to need me to rescue temporarily misplaced pacifiers and blankies from the confines of their own bed sheets.  It's so early on a Sunday that even my dogs are nestled in their beds, not daring to look in my direction for fear I may say a four letter word.  That word is "walk", so get your minds out of the gutter.  The clocks won't "fall back" until next weekend, so it's still pitch black outside.  It's so foggy and misty that I'm not sure the rising sun will be able to take any edge off of the dreariness of this fall morning.

So why the heck am I sitting at my computer, composing a story, while listening to Kenny Chesney belt out "Anything But Mine" on iTunes?  Wouldn't most people choose the comfort of a bed and the companionship of a cuddly bed mate?  I have both of those those, just down the hall.  I guess I'm not most people.

Most people do not write blogs.  Those that do certainly don't reveal as much of themselves as I have chosen to do since taking up this calling early in 2011.  The handle The Not So Private I remains a fitting one.

I'm awake because I have things to do.  Time is a precious commodity.  I dare not waste too much of it.  I recently wrote a story about applying for a job and that I was having trouble passing the medical.  I mentioned that the EKG found an abnormality and that I may have a big heart, in the literal sense.  I have since followed up with my own doctor and it appears that is indeed the case.  The early diagnosis is that my ticker has minor electrical issues.  Those are my words, not the phrase used by my doctor, which was way too technical.  I'll be following up with a cardiologist.  As you may expect, I'll keep you posted.

When I turned on iTunes this morning, I went to my personal folder and clicked on shuffle.  The first song that came on was "Safe in the Arms of Love" by Martina McBride - (you gotta love those eyes).  Most times I don't pay too much attention to the lyrics of any song and god knows I've butchered my share over the years by making up words that sort of sound like they might fit with the music.  I digress.  When Martina began, today, for some reason, I heard what she sang.  The very first line of her song is "My hearts not ready for the rocking chair."  Coincidence or karma?

I'm not going anywhere, at least not anytime soon.  I've been assured that my heart problem is not serious.  (Hey, Jimmy Boy!  Try reading what you just wrote.  Now go back and read it again.)  I'm talking to myself (or writing to myself) because I know me fairly well.   I seem to have a propensity to over think everything.  I guess I'm not listening to myself very well because my alter ego wants to go back to bed.  The me, who's banging away at the keyboard, is not taking any chances.  I'm not about to sleep my life away, no matter how much of it I have left.

I've been pretty good over the years at making sure that my affairs are in order.  The RCMP does its part of educating young officers of the necessity to do just that.  I'll double check everything, just to be sure.  Perhaps there's a message here.  No matter what your age or life situation, every adult should take the time and spend the few bucks to ensure that your loved ones are looked after.  Get a will and have a power of attorney in place in the event you are incapacitated.  Those two are the bare minimum.

If I can ask a small favour of you, it is to please don't forget to complete an organ donation form.  It is also very important to tell your loved ones that you want your organs to be donated.  So many organs go to waste and lives are lost because no one is aware of your wishes.  That donation card you signed may never be found, or worse, found days or hours after you have been buried or cremated.  This is such an unselfish act and an oh so simple thing to do.  The life you improve or save may me that of someone you know.  Have a heart and do the right thing.  Who knows, someday I just may need your heart.

Brownies Rule

I recently broke the #1 rule that comes with being on a sports team.  I should know better, but I couldn't help myself.  It's probably a good thing that I'm the coach or I'd probably be looking over my shoulder for errand pucks, cross checkers, or even sticks that "accidentally" slip from the hands of fore-checking forwards.  Perhaps what will save me is the fact that my players are still kids, 11 and 12 year old boys, who are still learning the ropes about the idiosyncrasies of teammanship.  They likely do not comprehend as of yet that I have committed such an egregious violation of the team concept.  It may also help that not too many 11 and 12 year old kids are faithful subscribers to my blog. 

What rule, you ask?  Was it failing to give 110%, which is not only mathematically impossible, but humanly impossible too?  Nope!  Perhaps it was forgetting to teach the kids the all important rule that "winners never quit and quitters never win?  No, not that rule either.  Then surely, you are thinking, that it has to be the  most over quoted rule that goes with being a player on a team - "There's no I in team."  Wrong again.  The rule to which I refer has nothing to do with athletic performance and everything to do with what happens before and after the actual competition.  Simply put, this rule is the glue that binds a team.  It is the engine that drives a team to greatness.  By adhering to this rule, the total awesomeness of a team becomes greater than the sum of its individual parts.

Time to spit it out.  Here goes - What's said in the dressing room, stays in the dressing room.  It's as simple as that!

If you haven't been a part of a team, then you probably don't get it.  For those of you who have been, or still are, then you are probably nodding your head in agreement.  Taken a step further, this rule has been expanded to include team road trips.  Therefore, we have "What happens on the road, stays on the road."

My breaking of this rule occurred after I asked my young hockey players if any of them had any allergies.  One of the boys, in a seemingly serious state of mind, said that he is allergic to marihuana.  The innocence of the remark, combined with the flashback of all those years I spent chasing down users and abusers of narcotics, made it one of the most hilarious statements I have ever heard.  As I said, I couldn't resist the temptation, so I blabbed about the kid's malady in an email to all the players' parents.  I hope that they laughed as heartily as I did.

I've been a part of so many sports teams that I can't even begin to count the exact number.  There's been hockey, softball, soccer, basketball, curling, and even golf.  Now that I'm an admitted transgressor of the holy grail of team rules, I'm betting there are an awful lots of former team-mates of mine who hope and pray that will be my only violation.  Oh, the stories I could tell.  Some of my former team-mates seemed to do a Jekyll and Hyde as soon as our bus or plane went beyond the overpass.  Thankfully, none of them have nothing on me.  How could they?  I was way to busy being boring.

Perhaps the parents of my peewee hockey team also have similar misgivings.  After all, we certainly will hit the road this year for one or two tournaments.  I can only promise them that any and all secrets and transgressions will be fairly safe with me.  I hope that will be enough to convince them and all hands can relax and have fun.

Even if I do write about our road trips, it won't be a big deal.  Its not like a lot of people read my blog anyhow.  Just in case some of the parents don't see things the way I do, I have an ace up my sleeve.  I will pacify them with brownies I will make using my secret recipe.  You know, the kind of brownies that kids shouldn't have (certainly not the boy on my team with the unique allergy).  These brownies will be guaranteed to make all of the hockey moms and dads really like my stories - 110% guaranteed.

Halfway There (and Then Some)

To my mom I'm young.  To my daughters I'm old.  That's must be what is meant by age being relative.  Several things have happened recently to make me reflect on the years that I have seen and those that are yet to come.  Being 47 also probably means I've lived over half of my earthly existence.  Nothing in my family genes suggests anything different.  I've made it to the top of the mountain and I'm working my way down the other side.  Taken literally that means I'm "over the hill", but I still feel like I did when I was a much younger man.  Lord knows I am still accused of acting somewhat juvenile at times.  But what do my kids know anyway?

I knock around with a group of guys who are in their mid thirties.  Perhaps I'm closer to their fathers' ages than to theirs, but sometimes I feel like I'm from another planet.  I'm a borderline Baby Boomer and they are one of those alphabet generations - X or Y or something like that.  I never have taken the time to figure out what those younger groups stand for, so maybe our parallel universe existence is partially my fault.  Only partially though.  That younger generation seems to have no clue about where we've been, nor any understanding of the how and why today's world is as it is.  Take for example that fact that neither of my thirty-something friends had a clue about the ground breaking, 1970's family sitcom, The Partridge Family.  Two of them never even heard of it.  Surely Mr. Kinkade is rolling over in his grave.  One of my younger buddies at least made an attempt, although his assertion that Mrs. Partridge had a son named John Boy left my eyes rolling behind my bifocals.  I kept my thoughts to myself and, somewhat exasperated, muttered under my breath - "Kids!"

The other wake up call to my humanity came when I was looking for a part time job as a baggage handler for a large national airline.  I made it through the initial phases of the hiring process and was required to have a medical examine.  Filling out the form sure took a lot longer than it used to.  There are so many more medical procedures and dates to recall.  I handed it to the nurse and her review of it took even longer.  She said I will have to go back to my family doctor and have her provide clarification of a few issues I've had over the years.  I was still in the game but I had a couple of strikes against me.  Next was a hearing test.  I passed but needed my hearing aids to do so.  Finally, she hooked me up to a heart monitoring device to do an EKG.  Wouldn't you know it, I was told to go see my doctor about that too.  It seems that test indicated that a part of my heart may be enlarged.  I'm not too concerned, but I have gone to see my doctor to double check.

At this point I'm not sure if I'm going to pursue the job with the airline.  With all of those strikes, I'm not sure they would want me anyway.   To add insult to injury, Lynda says that my medical results say that I'm a ticking time bomb and airlines don't like bombs.  Funny!

In any event, I don't plan on dying any time soon.  There are millions of youngsters out there who need me around to teach them about the pinnacle events of the 70's: Fonzie, on water skis,  jumping over the shark; Laura Ingalls growing up on the prairie; the White Shadow schooling Coolidge and friends in high school basketball and life; and Kotter sparring with the sweat hogs.

When my time does come, perhaps my headstone can reflect the life I lived.  I'm hoping it says something like:

James NIXON
1965-2065
loving husband, proud father, cracked grandpa
He had a big heart.

Don't Bet On It

If you are lukewarm on something or teetering on the fence as to whether you give a hoot about how something will turn out, then I have just the prescription to ensure that you'll care a whole lot going forward.  It's quite simple actually.  All you have to do is place a bet on it.

I joined a football pool this year and I can't believe how much more interested I am in the games, or at least their outcomes.  I anted up a few bucks and that has made all of the difference.  It's not like there's a lot of money on the line, certainly no one is getting rich on the weekly prize.  The actual odds of winning any of the cash are so high that I probably shouldn't count on using that money to pay for fixing my brother's boat.  You may remember that I recently wrote about the vicious whale that attacked the boat and it was only through the courageous actions of her captain, yours truly, that  all hands were saved from a Titantic-like fate.  No? You don't remember?  OK, so it may not have happened actually like that.  Some of it is true though - I was using my brother's boat, it was on the mighty North Atlantic, and the rock that the propeller hit did very much resemble a whale.   It's funny that when I told my other brother, Gord, what I did to Bill's boat he said he wasn't surprised.  He told me that "they" had bets on when I was going to do something like that.  I wish he had told that to me earlier so I could have gotten in on the action.

It appears that my family has developed quite an interest in betting on what I'm going to do, or not do, next.  I guess it's a tribute to my somewhat erratic behaviour of late.  Lynda has even taken to calling me a ping-pong ball.  I prefer to consider myself as charmingly creative and imaginative.  The opportunities available to me seem endless.  I'm like a big kid in the candy store of life.

I wrote in my last story, which was four days ago, that I would not be a hockey coach this season.  Well, since hitting the publish button on that one I wasn't coaching, I was coaching, I wasn't coaching...and now.... I am coaching.  I also mentioned in that post that I am looking for a job and that I had "an iron in the fire".  I agree that I was somewhat wishy-washy on deciding whether or not to coach and that was for something I love doing.  So you can only imagine what's going through my head on whether or not to continue to pursue a part time position that pays just above the minimum wage.  Or can you?  If I'm a ping-pong ball then I'm the one being practiced with by the unconquerable Forest Gump in the movie of the same name.  Brother Bill told me this morning that he has a pool going on how long I will last in that job.  Geez!  I don't even have the job yet and already the vultures are swooping over my corpse.

I know how to turn the tables on my family of Doubting Thomases.  I will break open my piggy bank and bet it all on me staying in that job for the next ten years.  Surely the odds will be so against that happening that I'll make a fortune when the time comes to collect.  After all, as I wrote in the first paragraph, betting on something makes it more interesting.  Maybe that will be in my favour as I try to plug in ten years at something I just may not be too passionate about.  Hmmmm.....I wonder what odds Bill is giving on me not even taking the job?  That's where the smart money will be.

Lynda is not a fan of being a character in any of my stories.  As she is undeniably the most important influence in my life, it is hard not to include her in some fashion.  I would argue that most times she is responsible for getting herself included.  Her description of me as being a ping-pong ball was the inspiration for today's story.  To honour her, I will conclude with a few, very fitting, quotes from Forest Gump:

• "My momma always said, Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."
• "I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floatin' around accidental-like on a breeze. But I, I think maybe it's both."
• "That's all I have to say about that."

Shooting the Breeze and Talking Turkey

I'm going to write today as if the words came from a shotgun.  There won't be one specific theme, but instead I'll throw a bunch of thoughts at the cyberspace wall and see if anything sticks.  I hope at least one of the attempts resonants with you.

As its Thanksgiving weekend, I'll first start out by wishing all of you health and happiness.  In a nutshell, if you really think of it, if you have those two simple things then what more can you ask for.  Perhaps there is one more thing - an extra helping of mom's gravy on Sunday when the Nixon and West clans sit down together to devour the turkey and fix-ins.  We'll remember my dad and Lynda's dad too.  Dad would have the plate so loaded that it required side boards and Ron would be reminded that gravy is not meant to be a beverage.  I am thankful for having such fond memories.

Minor hockey has begun another season and the next John Slaney or Daniel Cleary is waiting to be discovered in the frosty rinks of our province.  I'm not coaching this year, so it's been a strange fall season.  I did go to the rink this morning to watch some of the kids I coached last year as they played their first tournament of the season.  Hockey is unique in the passion it inspires.  The rink is a tin can but it is a shrine nonetheless.  It seemed that every player had an entourage.   In the congregation were parents, both sets of grandparents, copious uncles and aunts, and reluctant siblings.  At this time of year, as well as for kids who are at the age that most still sleep with blankies, hope abounds.  After a hour, I left the rink.  It was great to watch the kids work so hard and to compete.  I think I made the right choice not to coach hockey this year.  I'll use that extra time to volunteer at my daughter's swim club.  Pools tend to be a lot warmer than rinks and the expectations for the kids' success are more realistic.  I know that Kendall won't become a millionaire because she is a great breaststroker, but I've already booked plane tickets for the 2016 Olympics in Rio.

I admire so many people.  They are not celebrities or famous in any way.  These are people who take the crap that life throws at them and make the best of it.  Life is short.  We all have others depending, in one way or another, on us.  Those of you who tackle the untimely death of loved ones, ill health, difficult employment situations, job loss and so many other challenges, continue to fight the good fight.  Don't forget that those of us who know and care about you are not meant just to be spectators.

I'm back on the job hunt.  Being a dad, house husband, chauffeur for my children and children's friends, and a blogger are all great but the pay sucks!  Having kids is expensive, as is running your brother's boat aground.  I have an iron in the fire, so I'll let you know if and when it becomes a sure thing.  Lynda is on the proverbial fence about me working.  We've enjoyed a couple of years of me just being available to do all of the stuff that comes with having a home and a family.  I'm thinking of telling her that I'll give up the job search if she provides some thoughtful fringe benefits (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).  I'm pretty sure I know her reply will be along the lines of "So when do you start your new job."  I haven't told her yet that I'm not too hopeful on landing the job.  I've applied to be the captain of the Bell Island ferry.

It's time to head home.  I have to check on a leak that's coming from the main floor into the basement.  It's been going on for the last few days.  I left it as I kind of hoped that Lynda or mom would look after it, but no such luck.  I do laundry and the dishes and I'm still expected to fix stuff around the house.  My dad and father-in-law must be rolling in their graves.  Perhaps they have a point.  I think I'll have another coffee and read the paper.  After that I'll head home and beg Lynda to forgive me.  Just maybe I'll have to make it up to her by providing her with fringe benefits.  Now wouldn't that be a real nice "thanks giving".

Broken Dream

A few days ago, my wife, Lynda, informed me that I'm "half cracked".  Apparently she is not alone in her assertion, as she also told me that several other people agree with her. I was speechless....a rarity.

For those of you who may not be quite sure how someone comes to be labelled as "half cracked", let me explain.  I believe the term is unique to Newfoundland and it's synonymous with crazy, but in a nicer way.  If that's at all possible?  The context in which the term is used and the intonation the speaker utilizes when describing someone in such a manner is oh so important.  As a result, it is possible to be called "half cracked" and it is not meant in a derogatory sense.  Some of the funniest, most genuine and caring people I know certainly fall on the good side of being half cracked.  It's not unusual to hear the following: "Let's get together with Wayne and his wife this weekend.  They're a lot of fun and he's half cracked."  Or how about after an awesome Friday night on George Street - "Everyone was sure having a time.  They were all half cracked.  Want to go down town again tonight?" 

So being described as half cracked is not necessarily a bad thing.  I think that's how Lynda meant it when she said it to me last week.  I can see how I have earned the title over the years.  Perhaps the negative thing about being half cracked is that it's not possible to ever go back to being un-cracked.  Think of an egg.......makes sense I guess, as an egg with a broken shell can never be whole again. (As proven by all of the king's men.)  But if I take that thought process a little further, then is an egg really ever half cracked?  It's either cracked or it isn't.  Right?  It's the same as being pregnant......you're either pregnant or your not.

So that explains what transpired between Lynda and me yesterday.  No, Lynda is not pregnant and neither am I!  I came up with what I saw as a good idea and was gathering more information about it.  I must agree with Lynda that it is somewhat of a different idea.  Actually, the word she used was "extreme".  It turns out that not too many people have done it before.  I spoke to someone knowledgeable in the field and was told that she had not had anyone do what I was proposing in the 25 years she has been involved in this endeavour, even though it is quite possible to do it and it is actually a very good thing.  I'm not about to tell you what it was.  That's between Lynda and me.

As it turns out, the timing is probably not right for me to proceed with this idea.  Lynda is great at helping me see the big picture during those times when I am looking at things through a narrow tunnel.  I appreciate her counsel.  There was no need to consider the context or the intonation she used when she was telling me what she thought of my idea.  It was short, sweet and quite clear.  She said I was "cracked".  I think it sounded better when I was just "half cracked".

Yutes

My homeland is a changing. Most noticeably, at least this year, is the fact that eastern Newfoundland has had descent weather since mid June.  Three and a half months of fairly nice weather, whereas in a typical year, three and a half weeks would be the norm.

The animals that inhabit the north eastern part of this province have also changed since the days of my youth.  It is not uncommon to see squirrels busily squirrelling away food for the winter.  Where the heck did they come from?  Also, once rare as hens teeth, foxes are now as common as cats used to be in my rural neighbourhood, which may explain the cat shortage.  My neighbour actually befriended a little black fox and they enjoyed sharing early mornings together on his deck that overlooks beautiful Outer Cove.  That was until someone left the poor little guy dead in the middle of the road after hitting him with their car.  The fox was youthful, so perhaps he was not wise to the dangers of man's progress.

A more recent addition to the landscape is the wily coyote.  I have yet to actually see one, but word of their presence abounds and provides excellent fodder for the local newspaper and radio call in shows.  On my favourite Saturday morning cartoon as a kid, the Roadrunner didn't seem to fear Wile E.  So why is it that the mere mention that the coyote now inhabits our province causes native Newfoundlanders to lock up their children and to bear arms against the unwelcome intruder.  It's almost as if the coyote was a CFA (a Come From Away or person not born in Newfoundland).  In a sense I guess it is.

Now it seems we have a new and even more dangerous species to worry about.  It's something called a "yute".  I first heard of them in a movie called My Cousin Vinny.  That was a few years ago and in those days they seemed to travel in pairs.  I vividly recall the actor, Joe Pesci, telling the judge of the notorious behaviour of "two yutes".  It now seems that they sometimes travel in packs.

Like the wolf, I have yet to see any actual yutes either, but I understand they are masters of disguise and deception so that's not all too surprising.  Yutes can appear to be harmless and can blend so well into the landscape that you hardly notice them.  Stumbling upon one yute is not supposed to be so bad, as they seem to only be dangerous when in larger numbers.  Apparently they are right here amongst us.  There was a report on the radio this morning that five were captured in St. John's over the weekend.  From the sound of things, these yutes are more predatory than just about anything else we have here on the island.  This particular gaggle of yutes is alleged to have lured a 24 year old, physically disabled man to a wooded area in the city's west end, where they proceeded to deprive him of his valuables and his dignity.  As this seemingly nocuous species is prone to do, they pummelled, pounded and "laid the boots" to their prey.  Perhaps the beating was necessary so the yutes could soften up their victim.

What these yutes are purported to have done reminds me of something I witnessed when I was a much younger man.  I attended bull fights in Spain and was surprised to see that the matador finished off the bulls only after a legion of less heralded taunters had turned them into ground beef and the once mighty animals were barely able to move.  Thirteen bulls were killed during that afternoon's spectacle.  Not all at once, as even a bull, upon observing the goings on, would understand the fate that awaited and would surely attempt to survive.  A stampede of thirteen bulls would have certainly evened the odds somewhat.  To ensure victory, the bulls were singled out.  Once separated from the herd, the youthful gang of wannabe matador's tortured and maimed their victims.  A single weakened bull was easy prey.

The way I see it, yutes are the matadors.  The 24 year old, on his way to a movie, walking alone in the parking lot, just happened to be the lonely bull.  I think it's time we took responsible and tamed the yutes so they can live amongst us in peace and harmony.  If we don't, then the next time it could be you that becomes their prey and that's no bull.

The Torbay Blunder - Starring Yours Truly

Just about any journalist worth a pinch can write or recite a good story.  A first year cub reporter at a newspaper can put to paper what he or she has been told in a coherent manner.  Broadcast media personalities just read the news to us from prompters or from a page, where the words have been written by someone else.  Wouldn't it be way more interesting if our 6 o'clock news anchors, Jonathan Crowe and Freddy Hutton, were in their stories instead of just being talking heads in suits?

What really separates me, as a blogger, a writer and a story teller, from 99% of my compatriots is my ability to create the story.  Let me be totally honest.  It's never my intention to be cast in the lead role of my own dramatic comedies.  There's nothing in it for me to write better stories, at least not materially.  I don't have ads on my blog so there are no extra pennies rolling into my bank account from having more page views.  I don't have any sponsors, nor do I ever envision any publishing company knocking on my door to sign me to a book deal.  If I had my druthers, I'd very much prefer to sit back and "live, laugh and love" at the rest of you rather than the table being turned the other way, as it so often seems to be.

My most recent "slice of life" is still unfolding.  I hope to be around long enough to tell you how it turns out, but I may be dead by then!  I suspect my baby brother, Bill, wants me out of the picture.  If he catches up with me today I'll probably end up in the middle of Torbay (the actual bay of Torbay) wearing a pair of size 10 1/2 cement shoes.  My only saving grace from suffering that fate is he no longer has a boat.  I took care of that yesterday.

Okay, I didn't actually sink his 18 foot long, ocean going beauty.  I almost did.  What I did do was drive her over a humpback whale sized rock that was lurking precariously below the ocean's surface just off Outer Cove beach.  That rock hasn't moved since I first visited that beach in the mid 1970's, so pleading ignorance just won't cut it.  I did it - plain and simple.  It kind of makes the title of my most recent story, "Stund Arse", apropos.

As it turned out, the boat itself is unharmed.  I can't say the same for the nearly new and very expensive motor that saddles her bow.  She's a beauty....or at least she was.  A propeller is always a victim when rocks are involved.  The good thing about them is that they are relatively easy to replace and relatively not too hard on the pocketbook.  As my luck goes, this engine has fancy wings just below the propeller.  Now, it used to have fancy wings.  You guessed it, relatively speaking, these wings are not cheap.  (I keep using "relative", but I'm not sure why.  Perhaps it's to remind Bill that we are, after all, brothers.)  The guy at the service shop, where I went even before taking the S.S. Minnow back to Bill, said a part can be welded on the wings and the motor will work as good as new.  That would be fine if the boat and motor belonged to me.  I've been taught that when you borrow something, bring it back the same or even better than when you got it.  Therefore, new wings it has to be.

I awoke this morning after a restless night.   The sound and the feel of the motor hitting the rock played over and over in my head.  I couldn't sleep anyway as I had to keep one eye and ear open in case Bill came to extract revenge.  I don't have any fancy man toys for him to flatten.  There are no quads, trikes, bikes, or fancy four wheelers in my yard.  My only concern was that he may try to do what we brothers did to one another when we were kids - the dreaded wedgie.  Thankfully, Bill didn't show up.  Maybe tonight I'll be able to wear my thong pj's to bed and not worry so much.

To add sea salt to my wounds, the weather this morning was perfect.  As I looked out my front window I could see several boats out on Torbay.  The morning mariners would be jigging for cod, as the recreational fall fishery had opened last weekend and runs until this coming Sunday.  Just as I love to be out on the water fishing, so does Bill.  It was why he bought a boat in the first place and why I was glad he did.  The same boat that now sits at the repair shop in the west end of St. John's, which is a long way from the sunny skies and warm winds gracing the calm waters of Torbay this morning. The repair plan is for the propeller to be replaced by early this afternoon.  The replacement of the wings is a more delicate job, so I've scheduled that for next week after the recreational fishery is over.  That way, Bill should have his partially repaired boat back today and can get out this evening.

I'm not sure what long term damage has been done to my relationship with my younger brother.  I hope this is something we'll be laughing about for years to come.  Until the actual laughing begins, I probably shouldn't think about asking him if I can use his boat tomorrow?

I do know that having the starring role in this particular story has not only not made me wealthy, but it has also has had the opposite effect.  I hope not too many of my future stories end up costing me so much.  I may have a solution to my financial quandary.  Before yesterday's incident, we did manage to haul eight cod into the boat.  It's against the rules, but I'm sure the authorities would understand if I tried to recoup some of my losses by selling these fish.  So if you know of anyone interested in some fresh cod fillets, please send them my way.  The cost - only $400 a pound (cash only please).

Stund Arse

Sometimes it takes me a while to master the obvious.  It's probably because I tend to ignore things unless or until they impact my life in some way, shape or form..  It's a truism that when something has an impact on our lives, whether positively or negatively, it is only at that point do many of us take notice.  As I said, I've been slow on the uptake a few times in my life.  Thankfully, there are loved ones around who have helped to keep me grounded and have been more than willing to give me a "duff in the arse" whenever I have needed it most. Perhaps I'm being a little hard on myself.  I'm not stund all of the time, just some of it. (And yes, that is the correct spelling of "stund", at least here in Newfoundland.  To spell it as "stunned" would be....., well, stund!)

My one shining example of an event that impacted my life was when babies arrived in our household around 12 and 10 years ago.  I was at an extremely busy point of my policing career.  I was spearheading a new program for the RCMP in Ontario and was partnered with two drug sniffing dogs, Bandit and Max.  These Labs were with me 24-7.  Their ability to perform well was solely my responsibility and one that I took seriously.  There was no down time and no relaxing weekends with family and friends as there was always exercise needed for the dogs, obedience sessions or drug detection training to undertake.  That is not to mention the after hours call outs to help combat crime and the hundreds of demonstrations my furry partners and I did for just about every conceivable kids' group, school and charitable organization within hailing distance.  Oh yeah, I also punched a regular forty hour work week sniffing around Toronto International Airport..

I had an inkling that life as I knew it was about to change when the kids arrived.  It was just the wrong inkling.  I erroneously figured life was about to get a little easier, at least for a while.  After all, Lynda would be off on maternity leave.  For a year after each of the kids were born she would be home all day.   No longer would she have to leave the house so early each weekday morning to beat the insufferable rush hour traffic as she and the rest of the suburbanites made their way from Burlington to Mississauga, only to repeat the process to get home each evening.  With so much more free time,  Lynda would be able to cook, clean and be the perfect mother to our children (and to me!).  Surely a hot breakfast awaited me each morning.  The added bonus was that I would have all of this extra time to devote to my job and passion, which was playing..... I mean working with my detector dogs.

Reality turned out to be vastly different from the world I had envisioned.  Who knew that a new mom actually sleeps very little and she even has to get up a couple of times a night to feed the baby?  I had encouraged Lynda to breastfeed.  It seemed like the perfect situation - free food and a delivery system that didn't involve me so I would sleep soundly and be well rested for work the next day.  Plus it provided a chance for Lynda to bond with the kids, which was important because I wouldn't be home too much because  I  planned to spend more time perfecting my craft as a dog handler and making the streets safer for my children.  I was the one making the big sacrifice in the relationship.  Right?  Wrong again. Another duff in the arse for me.

On the breastfeeding issue, my advice to new dads or those of you who will be a daddy sometime in the future is simple.  Listen to your partner - she will have already researched this to death and have spoken with her mother, sisters,  and girlfriends, so you have nothing important to add; look her in the eye and nod a lot when she talks to you about her position on whether or not to breastfeed; whatever feeding choice you make as a couple, tell her that it's the best one for your child (and tell her that again and again); lastly, watch and help out as much as you can.  Watching and holding your baby are two of life's simple and most joyous pleasures.  Even I figured that one out before it was too late.

So when did the light come on entirely for me?  When did I finally realize that Lynda, Kendall and Avery were better off having a husband and father at home rather than a workaholic, slave to the man, poop scooping, dog loving, public servant who called his mobile dog pen home?  Perhaps it was 10 years ago, soon after Avery was born?  That was when I resigned as a dog handler and turned my dogs over to officers who I hoped would care about them as much as I had.  Perhaps it was four years ago when I realized that even though I no longer had a dog for a partner, I was spending even more time on the trail of the scoundrels who use the drug trade and the human weakness that supports it as a means to line their pockets with material riches?  Or maybe it was two years ago when I finally left my policing career?  The oath I took 23 years ago and the weight of the badge I carried in my wallet were lifted from my shoulders when I finally retired.  In the subsequent two years I have continued to "untrain" myself from looking at everyone and everything from a policeman's perspective. It's work-in-progress, but it sure is liberating.

I guess the true answer is I'm still learning to be the best husband and father I can be.  I am so lucky to have an understanding partner (the two legged variety) and awesome kids.  I'd be the first to fully understand if ever one, or all of them, comes up to me and says "Daddy, why were you so stund for all those years?" and then proceeds to give me a good duff in the arse.  I earned it.

Silent But Deadly

How do you know when you have a rock solid relationship?  What's the one thing that tells you that your friendship can endure when times are tough?  It's not a thoughtful gift, a kind word or gesture, and it's not even making huge personal sacrifices to help out your BFF in his or her time of need.  The answer may surprise, but when you read further and reflect on what I have to say, I suspect that you'll be nodding to yourself in agreement.  Each of you will have (hopefully) experienced this phenomena, likely many times over.  If you haven't, then get off your high horse and join the real world.  It's time to smell the roses. I'll use a couple of examples to illustrate my point.

A few days ago, my daughter, 10 year old Avery, had two of her friends over to the house for a play date.  Her friends are sweethearts.  They are polite, thoughtful and fun.  As much as Avery enjoys their company, Lynda and I also love their visits and the way house comes to life with their innocence of youth.  I happened to be walk down the hallway on my way to the laundry room and passed the bathroom and its open door.  Well, the invisible cloud of poop odour almost floored me.  The fan was on, the window open, but neither seemed to be having the needed effect.  It was the type of odour that is so offensive that it leaves a taste in your mouth.  You probably get the idea!  I proceeded to my daughter's bedroom, where the kids were playing.  I asked which one just went to the bathroom?  Avery and friend #1 quickly responded that they had not, while friend #2 was silent.  I looked at her and said "Wow, that was some poo!"  She turned a bright shade of red and nodded sheepishly.  "Good one." I said and headed back to the living room, although at a quicker pace as I traversed the hallway and the still lingering invisible cloud.  I wouldn't give such high praise to anyone that I didn't truly like.  I was also elated that friend #2 felt comfortable enough in our home to do #2.  She is welcome any time.  The only thing I'll need to do is to teach her how to light a match!

Lynda is my life partner, best friend, confidante, lover........Once again, you get the idea.  Well, it was probably several years into our relationship before I knew with 100% certainty that she could fart.  I suspected that she knew how and likely let'em rip with the best of them.  It's just that I never heard evidence to say that she did, nor did I get a sniff or taste of any of her bombs.  Then it happened.  One day, right out of the blue, my girl told me that she was mine forever and she did it without speaking a word.  With a simple toot, followed by a meek "excuse me", our relationship was forever solidified.  As a guy, I had been letting them go since day one of our relationship, but to have the fairer sex join the dark side is really the pinnacle of relationship building.

So there you have it.  The pivotal "tell", that one clue that tells you that you are liked is as simple as understanding that people poop and people pass gas.  Maybe that's why flatulate sounds so much like infatuate.  So please, don't hold back.

I have one final word of caution for you ladies.  Your man may be so overcome by your show of affection that he may feel the need to reply in kind.  It's sort of our way to say that we get the love message that you've laid on us.  Here's what you can expect: it's known as a Dutch Oven and it's performed when a couple is in bed together.  The guy flatulates and at the same time raises the blankets over the head of his chosen one, thereby letting her enjoy the full effect of his inner aroma.  What can be more romantic!  My last piece of advice to you ladies is do not....DO NOT try to light a match while inside the Dutch Oven.  It's a very bad way to ignite a relationship.

Throw Those Ones Back

It's early August, the height of summer holidays.  It's the time when families venture off to their favourite places to soak up the sunlight that is fading more with each passing day and to bask in the glow of what it means to be loved.  Or maybe these trips are exercises to keep the kids from killing each other (or from you killing them) because you've all spent more "quality time" together in the the last six weeks than you did from September to June.  A trip may be just the thing to get the family over that last hurdle before that elusive finish line, often referred to as the start of the new school year.

Here are a few thoughts that are swirling around this stay-at-home dad's head.   I hope this collection brightens your day - sort of like an ice pack on a twisted ankle or perhaps something more preventative, such as applying a band-aid to cover your nipples before setting off on a marathon-like run or that brisk walk with your neighbour and chatting partner.

The Summer Olympics are presently taking place in London.  Lots of great athletes, all of whom are dedicated beyond belief.  To be at the Games requires talent, skill, some luck, but mostly it requires a Herculean commitment.  I admire all of these people for that.  Have you ever noticed that with every victory or defeat each athlete has someone close by who shares in the glory or the tears.  So many people seem to go unnoticed and they all seem okay with that.  Road bikers have entourages following them through the streets in cars packed with replacement parts; those inside bikers, who go around the roller derby looking track, have coaches who push them to the starting line and hold them up so they don't fall over because their feet are welded to the pedals; weight lifters always seem to be escorted to the platform by five or six people, as if their presence will somehow help get that 500 pounds high into the air.

I recently volunteered at my daughter's swim meet that was held in Halifax.  Part of my role as a chaperon was to help provide healthy snacks for the swimmers.  Often, before the athletes woke up or after lights out at night, my fellow chaperones and I worked diligently behind the scenes cutting up fruit and vegetables to ensure that the swimmers would be nourished and on top of their games.  It wasn't the Olympics, but it gave me a taste of the amount of effort and dedication that is required by so many before any serious athlete is even able to compete.  My hat is off to all of you and thanks for the gold medal performances.

The recreational cod fishery is on the go and I've been out jiggin' like an Olympian.  Brother Bill has a nicely outfitted boat for such an adventure and doesn't mind that I borrow it often.  His 3 year old son, James, seems to have a different take on my taking.  Whenever I arrive with my truck and hook up the boat that sits in Bill's driveway, James shouts to anyone within a square kilometre that "Uncle Jim is taking daddy's ship again!"  The fish are plentiful, the weather has been unbelievable, the humpback whales entertaining and the views spectacular.  Young James is just going have to get used to the idea that I'm going to continue to steal his daddy's boat - over and over again.

One more note on ocean fishing.  At the bottom lurks a devilish looking fish known as a Sculpin.  Perhaps it more resembles a dragon that a devil, but you get the picture.  Sometimes it will swallow our hook and take the long ride from the darkness of the sea bottom to the deck of the boat.  These things are certainly not "keepers" and readily find there way back into the water once someone gathers the nerve to grab their thorny bodies to remove the hook.  I've taken my kids and several of their friends out this week.  It has been pure joy to watch their faces as they reel in a cod that can be almost half their size.  It's even more fun to watch them whenever they come eye to eye with the nefarious Sculpin.  Cod and whales must be deaf because the screams from boys and girls alike have been simply world class.  Thankfully, they haven't been scared off.

My sister arrives later today from her home in Ontario. She lives in Milton, which is where I worked for several years.  She moved to Ontario from Alberta just a few months after I moved back to Newfoundland.  I'm still wondering about that one!  Her two girls are similar in age to my kids and they all get along wonderfully.  I'm sure my sister, Margaret Ann, is looking forward to visiting old friends and reacquainting herself with Newfoundland.  She'll take my car and my family will entertain her kids for the next few weeks.  It'll be great, but I'm guessing I'll have to remind her to take her kids with her when she's leaving to go back to Ontario.  It's not that she doesn't love them tremendously, it's just that she's a teacher and they've spent each and every day together since school got out in June.  After that much time together, even our own precious kids kind of start looking a little sculpin-ish.

Enjoy the rest of the summer.

The Story About Nothing

Today I will write about car ownership.  Before I get too revved up about those pieces of steel on wheels I'd like to clarify something regarding my writing style.  The fact that I have chosen to write about life's everyday happenings may seem trivial and predictable to some.  This is understandable when one considers the real journalists who risk it all in the war zones of the world and the intrepid beat reporters who take on Big Brother in order to uncover the latest shocking examples of government corruption.

The advantage I have over my professional colleagues, other than not having to wear a flak jacket when typing or worrying that I may stumble across another Watergate, is that my stories are begging to be told.  They are right there for all to see.  Every day life happens everywhere, every day and it's interesting.  Often,  it is also hilarious, disturbing, head-scratchingly curious or even just plain stupid.

I'm not bound by political leanings of my editors, nor by having to bang out 5000 words before a deadline so that I can get paid.  In a sense, my stories are the Seinfeld of the blogging world.  They are mostly about nothing in particular, yet they serve to tell us a little, or a lot, about who we are and how we choose to go about our day-to-day lives.  Unlike Seinfeld, my stories are about real people and events.  Anyone I know , or even not know, can be cast in a starring role.  Life is my studio and you are my actors.  I have no choice but to use you, the last I heard, Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer were in jail.

Now, here's my car story.  I'm off in a few minutes to buy my mom a car.  Ain't I a wonderful son?  (That is meant to be rhetorical for any of you smart-asses who insisted on answering.)  Well, as truth would have it, my generosity is really not as it seems.  Yes, I will be giving the car salesman my very own money and mom will drive away with her very own brand new 2012 car.  My actual generosity begins and ends with the drive I will be giving her to the dealership.  You see, mom is also gifting her 2007 Subaru Forester to me.  It's probably an equitable exchange - her car for me buying her the new car.  It's amazing how semantics can change the entire meaning of a story.

Perhaps I am getting the better of the deal and in doing so I've managed to inadvertently rip off my own mother.  Suddenly, this whole idea of the Nixon vehicle swap is sounding more and more like a Seinfeld episode.  Let's role play for a moment.  We'll cast mom in the role of the crazy and eccentric Mrs. Costanza and have her rip my head off for being such a conniving son.  That would mean that I would be George, who just happens to be the biggest loser on prime time television.  I guess it could be worse,  I could be cast as Jerry and that would be just be way too funny.

They May be Small Shoes, But Hard Shoes to Fill

A year ago I wrote about a man for who I have the utmost respect.

http://notsoprivatei.blogspot.ca/2011/06/sun-shines-on-mr-rumsey.html

I still feel that way and, if possible, that respect has grown.  Mr. Gerard Rumsey is the principal of the school where my kids have learned, laughed, cried, cheered and blossomed during the last seven years.  More importantly, under the leadership of Mr. Rumsey, the school has been a place that will forever be one of the building blocks for young lives that have limitless possibilities.  St. Francis of Assisi has been a home to my kids and the adults, who report to work there from September to June, have been more like family than public servants.

At the time I wrote my story, rumours were rampant that Mr. Rumsey may retire after one more year of tireless and selfless dedication to a profession that certainly does not get its just rewards.  In a world where even modestly talented professional athletes easily earn fifty to one hundred times more annually than our teachers, I question our priorities.  As a sports enthusiast and a parent, I can attest that neither a goal nor a home run stacks up to the immense responsibility of shaping the future of our young people.  The theme of my story was somewhat self-serving.  I asked that Mr. Rumsey delay any thoughts of riding off into the sunset for a minimum of three years.  That's when my younger daughter, Avery, would have completed grade 6 and my days of dodging the craters of the St. Francis of Assisi parking lot will have come to an end.

I know Mr. Rumsey is a frequent reader of my stories, but he did not  heed my request in this instance.  A hour ago I stood in that very school parking lot and watched Mr. Rumsey being greeted by the students, staff and many parents as he arrived at the school for his final day as its leader.  He was accompanied by the grade 5 teacher, Mrs. Furey, who will also be retiring.  Although, it the case of Mrs. Furey it must be early retirement because she looks no where near old enough to call it a day.  Perhaps she has a second career planned?

It was very symbolic that the fog that enshrouded the school was lifting just as Mr. Rumsey and Mrs. Furey arrived.  In a real sense, that's what educators do for our children.  As for arriving in sports cars, I'm not exactly sure what that says about Gerard and Janet future plans, but the kids sure loved the spectacular entrance.  We all lingered in the parking lot to soak up the good tidings, as much as the sunshine.  Given the title of my previous story about Mr. Rumsey, how fitting that the weather behaved as it did.  Every time I looked for Mr. Rumsey I found him joyfully conversing with the kids.  When he's amongst the elementary students he can be hard to locate, as he is somewhat vertically challenged.  Despite that, Mr. Rumsey will always be a giant in the eyes of the people that know him.  His heart must occupy most of his body because it is huge.

I could go on and on and on.... but as Mr. Rumsey knows, there is always a right time to stop doing something.  Farewell sir!

A Daughter's Dad is Watching

My oldest daughter is graduating.  Let me type that again so I can get my nearly hairless head around that concept - Kendall is graduating!  Am I Proud? Yes.  Hopeful? Yes.  Scared shitless? Definitely.

Oh, she's seems perfectly at ease with the idea.  It's her parents (okay, me) who will lay awake at night wondering what evil awaits here as she transitions from our country garden sleepy hollow school to the harrowing hallways of a middle school in the big city.  It's not the girls that concern me.  Sure, they can often be catty to one another and sometimes even cruel.  Actual fist fights are almost know existent, as most girls learn early in life that the tongue cuts much deeper and hurts a lot longer than a slap in the head or a scratch on the cheek.  My sleeplessness will be because Kendall will be in her new school with boys.  Boys who are teenagers.  Boys who are teenagers tend to think with the wrong head.  I know, I was one.  The knowledge that comes with that is what scares me.  I remember all too well.

Middle school is like a lifelike version of Lord of the Rings.  The  boys are morphing into young adults, which results in a cast of characters that touches both ends of the physical spectrum.  Some will look and sound as they did in grade 6, as yet untouched by the forces of puberty.  No matter what these boys are really like, their 'youngster-ish' looks portray them to be sweet and innocent.  These kids are often disappointed with their late charge to adulthood.  As is often said, youth is wasted on the young.

In dressing rooms of beer league hockey leagues everywhere, middle-aged and round in the middle men are always recounting sexual conquests and heroic adventures from a time long forgotten by almost everyone, when they were the Romeo of some girls life.  It didn't matter that the love affair lasted for only a few minutes, which it often did for teen-aged boys.  I have often heard these beer leaguers say that they wish they could be thirteen again.  That wasn't because they now knew the secret to making it to the NHL, or what six numbers to pick for the huge 6-49 jackpot.  No, the wish to once again be thirteen had only to do with, and everything to do with, girls.

The maturing boys (a term I use very loosely) are like those creature that relentlessly attack Gandalf and friends in the great quest for the ring.  These teenage boys are freakish in appearance, with feet too big for stick-like legs and heads certainly too big for the grey matter contained therein.  Their voices are shrill one second and so deep the next that they could pass for Louis Armstrong clones.  It may be a wonderful world, but it is also a confusing one.  Many boys, and I include myself, incur the wrath of early physical maturity by becoming kids in the bodies of men.  Real adults expected you to act your size rather than your age.  I wasn't very good at that sometimes.  I guess mom lowered her expectations because her favourite come back to my two brothers and me was: "Act your age, not your shoe size."  None of us have big feet.  Hey!  You know what they say about small feet.......!  (Just don't ask the guys I shower with after beer league hockey.  They'll say that they don't look at such things, but they would be lying.  We all peek.)

So this is the scene my soon to be twelve year old daughter will be faced with.  What's a father to do?  I can't follow her around forever.  Some of the time maybe, but 24-7-365 is not realistic and those monsters won't need much time to defile my little princess and toss her into the "conquest completed" pile.  Her mom and I talk openly with her and tell her many of the realities of life.  It's not all white picket fences.  Life is a product of choices and opportunities.  She has to make her own correct choices and don't give any testosterone driven swinging dick an opportunity.  (I haven't told her that one yet.  Not in so many words anyway.)

That's all fine and good, but no father should sit back and let the chips fall where they may.  We must always stack the deck a little.  These previous three or four years I've taken up coaching various activities in our community.  My time spent at basketball, hockey and even chess has been fun, but it has also allowed me to better understand my daughter's peer group.  I'm 47 years old, so 12 was a hell of a long time ago and times have changed a little.  In my day, there were two stations on TV, Pong was king of video games and phoning your friends hurt too much because of that cursed rotary dial.  Coaching allows me to peer into their world at a different level than that of a parent.  The kids are a little more relaxed around Coach Jim than around Mr. Nixon.  I know many of the boys from the Northeast Avalon area that are on the verge of becoming young men.  Just as importantly, they know me.

When I was a cop, those of us who were dad's of girls often joked about scaring the crap out of our daughters' future boyfriends by the subtle reminder that we had a gun.  We were just joking.  Or were we?  I no longer have that card to play, but I'm not totally unarmed.  I have my ways.  If any prospective suitors are reading, I'll leave it to your shrunken grey matter to take it from here.

I am thankful that Kendall's first official graduation is from grade 6 and not grade 9, as was mine.  By grade 9, boys and girls both are hormones on legs.  I went to an all boys school, yet the tradition had somehow developed that graduates would have a dance to end ten years of togetherness.  All that accomplished was to put pressure on everyone to ask a girl to the dance as there would be no single girls stuck to the wall waiting to be asked to dance.  Suits or even tux's were also tradition, so that only added to the uncomfortableness.  For the first time I took a girl out to a restaurant that had real napkins and more than one fork that wasn't even plastic.  Surely, my first such foray should have been at McDonald's.  The Big M hadn't been here that long and still only had one location in town, so that should have been good enough.  Tradition and hormones combined to make sure it wasn't.  To be honest, I didn't even understand what my hormones were telling me.  I liked girls.  The times I had kissed them were certainly nice.  But to actually talk with one and to understand what her words and body language were saying was another matter.  I was thirteen going on fourteen, but the hormones traversing through my body and guiding my thoughts were newborns.

After the dining and dancing, my date and my firends with their dates, all retired to my house for the next phase of the adventure.  In September, we would be heading to the land of the big boys.  As a rite of passage or perhaps to teach us a lesson, our parents let us have a small bottle of champagne, which would be shared between the ten of us.  I was young, but this all seemed so grown up.  That's probably when we, the "men", reverted to our true state of just being boys.  Our jokes and actions must not have been to the liking of the ladies.  Who knew that a wedgie or two could be so unrefined?  In any event, before any of us finished our half glass of bubbly (that's gross stuff - highly overrated), our dates had all been rescued...I mean picked up by their parents.  That left just me and the boys.

Finally our hormones could relax.  On went the 45 of the Bay City Rollers and all was once again right with the world.  We chalked the evening up to experience and figured things could only get better for the next time.  The next time would be in two years, when we finished high school at Brother Rice.  By then I would just have turned seventeen and surely I'd know everything there was to know or needed to know about such stuff.  I figured, by then, I'd be a master of my domain and my hormones.  So ladies, watch out!  I know now how that high school graduation turned out.  In retrospect I was a bigger goof at seventeen than I was at fifteen.  Knowing more only meant that I really knew less.  Thinking you have all of the answers is worse than having none.  At 47 that lesson is now easy to see and to chuckle about as I reminisce to write.

So how does my personal experience help me guide Kendall through her graduation to middle school and into young adulthood?  I still have little clue as to how adolescent girls think.  The biggest mistake I could make is to fool myself into thinking that I have all of the answers about the fairer sex.  My strength lies in knowing how boys think.  At the ages when my two daughters will be most at risk from boys of similar age, I know for certain that there is little progressive brain activity taking place in the male melon.  Most adolescent boys are guided by one impulse, so we fathers know all too well what that means.  Thankfully, it also allows us to intervene and suppress the advances of any boy with his sites set squarely on our daughters.  One other dressing room slogan has turned out to be all too true: "I have a son, so all I have to worry about is one prick.  You have a daughter, so you have to worry about every prick in the world."

All I can say is: "Let the games begin."  Kendall is my daughter.  She is as precious to me.  I am the lord of the ring and will vanquish all who come to her with unpure hearts.  Okay, that sounds a little hokey.  How's this - I will ask questions to any boy who looks sideways at Kendall.  When you are with her, I will be watching, closely.

I figure that should be enough to thwart any hormone raging teen that has designs on soiling the virtue of my daughter, which will probably be all of them.  I hope they get the message.  I think I have spelled it out clearly enough, so even a teen-aged boy should be able to understand.  I have to go now.  I'm off to the shooting range for some extra target practice.