Does it get any better than this? It's a few minutes past 6 a.m. (I love early mornings); most of the idiots of this part of the world are asleep or passed out (cops love this time of the night shift) ; I have a Tall Blond beside me that was complimentary because Starbucks didn't have a pot of it ready when I ordered; (personal note - I'm more partial to brunettes.); the music playing in the background is mellow enough that it still allows the brain to process somewhat and what's playing won't be found on the radio station that my kids make me listen to.
Don't get me wrong, I love Katie Perry's music and especially her look, but the station favoured by my kids tends to play the same few artists over and over and over. So many of them sound alike alike alike.... I drive Kendall and Avery nuts by usually guessing incorrectly as to who is singing whatever song is blasting out of the radio. Kendall is a One Direction freak, so I just love to push her buttons by purposely guessing wrong for any of their songs. I actually do know most of their songs. How could I not? Thanks to osmosis from radio waves, video feedback, posters covering every bit of Kendall's bedroom, and the highest pitched shriek known to man that comes from my 13 year old to signal that the radio station is about to play a 1D song (again).
I've managed to instil some civility in the kids. There was a time that as soon as they got into my vehicle, which ever one sat in the front, her little pointer finger would automatically shoot to the radio buttons and on would come 99.1 The Hits. No please, no thank you, nothing! It didn't even matter if I was listening to the Moonman, a frequent and colourful caller to AM talk radio, or singing a duet with my favourite artist, Neil Diamond, as one of his classics was being played by a radio station that knows real music. My kids were radio bullies. I really put the fix to them when I would turn off the radio all together whenever their fingers did the walking all over my listening pleasure. When left with the option of silence and maybe having to actually speak with their dad, the kids quickly learned to ask politely if it would be okay to change the station. Some tough old man I am. Well, not really. I have never said no, but at least it makes me feel more appreciated.
Perhaps I do get the last laugh on my two little darlings. The new (to me) truck that I bought recently has one feature that originally bugged me but there's no way I'll be getting it fixed now. Only one speaker works and it's the one furthest away from the driver. I'm half deaf in my right ear too. Touché kids and ha ha Lady Gaga!
I have time for a refill before I'm off to pick Avery up at the pool. She or her sister have early morning swimming practice four days a week. Starbucks opens at 5:30 so it works out perfectly for me. I can drop them off, come here to read or write or even just veg. The couch is comfy, the fireplace comforting and One Direction is no where to be found. Life isn't just good, it's "Grande".
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Saturday, December 07, 2013
Back to the Spa
I did something to my back a few days ago. Sleeping has been a challenge because no horizontal position frees me from the pain. It's nothing serious though, I'll survive. Sleep is overrated anyway. I don't have the same type of dreams I did when I was a much younger man, which means there's less laundry to do. The ones I do have usually have me pitted against an unyielding foe or taking on an impossible task, but I always wake up before I know whether I turn out to be the hero or the goat.
Sick of hearing me moan and groan, Lynda was kind enough to give me the appointment she had made to visit a massage therapist this afternoon. Lynda was using a gift certificate that I had won at a recent charity event. The appointment was to be at an up scale spa, so it's not the kind of place that simple folk like me visit often.
It just so happens that I had been at this specific spa once before. On that occasion, I had gifted Lynda with a certificate that entitled her to a massage and hot tub for two. I crossed my fingers and was rewarded when she took me along to be the "two". The side by side massage was great; the hot tub for two was fantastic; but the best thing of all was that somebody else would be doing the laundry.
The only fly in the ointment on that spa visit was my experience with the robe. Perhaps such places don't cater to guys too much or maybe they don't care enough about guys because we're not traditionally the ones who spend any money at these fancy spa places. When we arrived, they whisked Lynda away and it seemed like she was set to be "Queen for the day" or at least the couple of hours that the gift certificate granted that wish. I, on the other hand, was merely told to go to the men's locker room, put on a robe, and to meet Lynda upstairs - nothing more, nothing less. I found the locker room after a few minutes of searching. It was empty, but there on the bench was a robe. It was the only one in sight so I got undressed and put it on, although, not before I had a great debate with myself about whether or not to keep on my "tightie-whities". I was having a massage so drawers could stay on. I was then having a hot tub rendezvous with the wife so drawers should come off. I wasn't sure of what spa etiquette says on the subject, so I let my man brain decide. No drawers it would be.
I met Lynda in the waiting area. It was a room with several couches, where everyone waited to be summoned for their procedure. Lynda was already there, as were several other folks. As I sat down beside her, the robe rode up so that it barely covered half my thigh. It was a little airy, so I decided I better cross my legs. I whispered to Lynda that I was all natural under the robe. She laughed and asked if anyone helped me out at the check in after she was taken away, as this is something that they should have explained to me. When I told her I was left on my own she then asked how and where did I find the robe that I was wearing. I told her that was the easy part, as it was on the bench in the change room. Boy, was I surprised when she told me that I had just put on a dirty robe that someone else had worn and that the clean ones were in the cabinet. Oh well, the damage was done. Perhaps that guy made a better decision that I and kept his underwear on. Hopefully.
On today's visit, I had no major gaffs. The lady welcoming me to the spa actually told where the change room was located and where I would find the clean robes. Once again though, I was not told whether to leave on or take off my underwear. They should not take it for granted that guys coming to this spa will automatically know what to do. As a man of one previous spa experience, as well as the fact that I wasn't there with Lynda, I knew that the right thing to do would be to keep my drawers on. Not all guys coming to the spa will be as worldly as I and they may not be able to make such an informed decision as I did today. Also, by leaving on my underwear, the robe that I used was as good as when I found it. I didn't leave it on the bench like that unpolished goof from my previous visit. After my massage, I folded the robe nicely and put it back in the cabinet. That's one less thing the spa will need to launder.
Sick of hearing me moan and groan, Lynda was kind enough to give me the appointment she had made to visit a massage therapist this afternoon. Lynda was using a gift certificate that I had won at a recent charity event. The appointment was to be at an up scale spa, so it's not the kind of place that simple folk like me visit often.
It just so happens that I had been at this specific spa once before. On that occasion, I had gifted Lynda with a certificate that entitled her to a massage and hot tub for two. I crossed my fingers and was rewarded when she took me along to be the "two". The side by side massage was great; the hot tub for two was fantastic; but the best thing of all was that somebody else would be doing the laundry.
The only fly in the ointment on that spa visit was my experience with the robe. Perhaps such places don't cater to guys too much or maybe they don't care enough about guys because we're not traditionally the ones who spend any money at these fancy spa places. When we arrived, they whisked Lynda away and it seemed like she was set to be "Queen for the day" or at least the couple of hours that the gift certificate granted that wish. I, on the other hand, was merely told to go to the men's locker room, put on a robe, and to meet Lynda upstairs - nothing more, nothing less. I found the locker room after a few minutes of searching. It was empty, but there on the bench was a robe. It was the only one in sight so I got undressed and put it on, although, not before I had a great debate with myself about whether or not to keep on my "tightie-whities". I was having a massage so drawers could stay on. I was then having a hot tub rendezvous with the wife so drawers should come off. I wasn't sure of what spa etiquette says on the subject, so I let my man brain decide. No drawers it would be.
I met Lynda in the waiting area. It was a room with several couches, where everyone waited to be summoned for their procedure. Lynda was already there, as were several other folks. As I sat down beside her, the robe rode up so that it barely covered half my thigh. It was a little airy, so I decided I better cross my legs. I whispered to Lynda that I was all natural under the robe. She laughed and asked if anyone helped me out at the check in after she was taken away, as this is something that they should have explained to me. When I told her I was left on my own she then asked how and where did I find the robe that I was wearing. I told her that was the easy part, as it was on the bench in the change room. Boy, was I surprised when she told me that I had just put on a dirty robe that someone else had worn and that the clean ones were in the cabinet. Oh well, the damage was done. Perhaps that guy made a better decision that I and kept his underwear on. Hopefully.
On today's visit, I had no major gaffs. The lady welcoming me to the spa actually told where the change room was located and where I would find the clean robes. Once again though, I was not told whether to leave on or take off my underwear. They should not take it for granted that guys coming to this spa will automatically know what to do. As a man of one previous spa experience, as well as the fact that I wasn't there with Lynda, I knew that the right thing to do would be to keep my drawers on. Not all guys coming to the spa will be as worldly as I and they may not be able to make such an informed decision as I did today. Also, by leaving on my underwear, the robe that I used was as good as when I found it. I didn't leave it on the bench like that unpolished goof from my previous visit. After my massage, I folded the robe nicely and put it back in the cabinet. That's one less thing the spa will need to launder.
Thursday, December 05, 2013
Swimmingly Simplistic
I love to see Lynda laugh. I especially love it when I am the one who has made here do it. She can laugh with me, at me, for me, because of me, despite me.....it's all good. Last evening , it just may have been a little of all of those.
We were at the residence of the president (the guy) and the team manager (the gal) of our swim club. It's not actually "our" club, but the one Kendall and Avery are in - The St. John's Legends. It was the occasion of the club's monthly board meeting. Lynda is the secretary and social club go-to person, while I am the Meet Manager. No, I don't liaise with Sobey's for deals on beef. My job is to coordinate the couple of meets that our club hosts each year. No small task when you consider we get over 350 swimmers, from all over the province, at our pool for a weekend. The effort required has equalled the project management that I used to do as a supervisor with the RCMP drug unit here in St. John's. Swimmers and drug dealers strive for good times, but the comparison ends there. Instead of a cushy cell at a Federal Pen perhaps convicted drug traffickers should have to do a 1500 meter free style. That'll go way further in teaching them about the attributes of hard work, dedication and self respect. I may even take their handcuffs off.....nah.
Everyone on the board is a parent of a swimmer. Like all of the other parents, Lynda and I pay a small fortune for the privilege of having the girls partake in an awesome sport. I thought I was getting off easy when the girls gravitated towards swimming - no expensive skates, no $250 hockey sticks, $400 catcher's mitts. Boy, was I wrong. Competitive swim suits run from $80 to $300 and are only worn during competitions because they disintegrate to near invisibility after a dozen wearings. The girls each have 4 or 5 regular suits too that don't cost an arm and a leg. These manage to get them through the practices that go on every day, except Sunday, and twice on Monday for Kendall - before and after school. Going into the world of swimming as a newbee, I could see that goggles were a part of the sport. I just didn't realize that the girls just had to have the ones that are the latest and greatest and come with a price tag to match. Those damn things wear out way too quickly. I guess the chlorinated water eats away at the plastic and rubber. Oh yeah, it must also eat away at the kids' brains because way too often we've come away from the pool only to find their swim bags void of the goggles that were there when they went into the pool. I've pretty much fixed that problem though. The girls have to buy their own if they lose their goggles and I have threatened to make them where the ones I've been using for the last 15 years. I'm pretty sure the idea of wearing goggles that makes them look like a gigantic housefly is more effective than forking out a couple of months allowance, but my wallet is just happy that something gets their attention.
And how could I forget the travel. If you want to go anyway in the sport, then you have to go just about everywhere. The thrill of competition and the life experiences gained are priceless commodities for our kids. It just so happens they tend to be pricey too. Last weekend, Avery and I went to Gander for her very first swim meet. It was awesome! I was so proud to see her belly smacking off the blocks, giving maximum effort during her races, and coming up smiling no matter how she placed. It was well worth the cost of the hotels, gas to drive there, meals and entry fees. It looks like Lynda and I will be writing many more cheques for upcoming swim meets for Avery. Then there's Kendall. At 13, she's a virtual veteran of the world of competitive swimming. Her swimming schedule will see her go to Corner Brook; Gander; Pointe-Claire, Quebec, New Brunswick, Florida and maybe California. Guess where the money will be coming from. I'd have Kendall take up a paper route if only she wasn't so busy practicing and going to school. Seeing how I drive the kids to 5:30 a.m. practices four days a week that leaves me out of the paper delivery option. Hmmmm, Lynda is not busy at that hour. I don't think she's laughing at, or even with me, about that idea.
I am but a simple man. Lynda always knew this. Now, so does everyone else. A couple of weeks ago the club held an auction as a fund raiser. It was a somewhat formal affair, with a nice meal and wicked items available to the highest bidders. For those who follow my stories and who know me a little, you are aware of my passion for cod fishing and my fondness for my little boat. It was a natural fit for me to offer a cod jigging experience as an auction item. A day out on the waters of Torbay, watching whales, exploring cliffs and coves, breathing the salty air, catching our cod quota......does it get any better than that? Surely it is priceless! My buddy, Wayne, was the auctioneer. No one is better at it. It so happens that Wayne has been out jigging with me, so he knows what I have to offer. The organizers want me to spice up the experience and suggest an on board meal would fetch more money. I'm easy, so no problem. I'll just get my mom to make it all anyway. A granola bar and a Pepsi are usually the extent of my fine dining while out on the water. No need to fill your belly only to end up sharing it all with the gulls. In any event, I don't have a bathroom on board. I've never needed one. It's a truly liberating feeling to pee off the bow into the great big sea.. Just be careful to make sure no sharks are lurking about, especially when the ladies tinkle. Anyway, a lunch will be included. The bidding is going well, $400....$500.... when someone asks Wayne what exactly is included. Wayne repeats the spiel....cod fishing, Torbay, lunch, then pauses and looks my way. He then tells everyone to look at me, that this is what you get, Jim is just a simple man. $500 to $600 to $700 and it sells for $800. Maybe simple ain't so bad. (I forgot to look to see if Lynda was laughing with me or at me. I bet she wished she had a newspaper to hide behind.)
So, finally I'll get back to the last evening's board meeting and what made Lynda laugh. We were discussing having Santa attend an upcoming swim practice to meet all of the kids in the club. We could do pictures, candy canes and Santa would interact with the kids on the pool deck for a couple of hours. All I could think about was Santa, big beard, bigger belly, red suit and the heat and humidity of the pool. The big guy wouldn't stand a chance. I had to come to the defence of St. Nick. I told everyone that the poor guy would surely sweat his bag off! Everyone busted out in hysterics. Hey, I meant the bag he carries on his back. I can't help it if people take things the wrong way. Anyway, Lynda was quick to come to my defence. She told everyone - "Don't mind Jim, he is simple."
We were at the residence of the president (the guy) and the team manager (the gal) of our swim club. It's not actually "our" club, but the one Kendall and Avery are in - The St. John's Legends. It was the occasion of the club's monthly board meeting. Lynda is the secretary and social club go-to person, while I am the Meet Manager. No, I don't liaise with Sobey's for deals on beef. My job is to coordinate the couple of meets that our club hosts each year. No small task when you consider we get over 350 swimmers, from all over the province, at our pool for a weekend. The effort required has equalled the project management that I used to do as a supervisor with the RCMP drug unit here in St. John's. Swimmers and drug dealers strive for good times, but the comparison ends there. Instead of a cushy cell at a Federal Pen perhaps convicted drug traffickers should have to do a 1500 meter free style. That'll go way further in teaching them about the attributes of hard work, dedication and self respect. I may even take their handcuffs off.....nah.
Everyone on the board is a parent of a swimmer. Like all of the other parents, Lynda and I pay a small fortune for the privilege of having the girls partake in an awesome sport. I thought I was getting off easy when the girls gravitated towards swimming - no expensive skates, no $250 hockey sticks, $400 catcher's mitts. Boy, was I wrong. Competitive swim suits run from $80 to $300 and are only worn during competitions because they disintegrate to near invisibility after a dozen wearings. The girls each have 4 or 5 regular suits too that don't cost an arm and a leg. These manage to get them through the practices that go on every day, except Sunday, and twice on Monday for Kendall - before and after school. Going into the world of swimming as a newbee, I could see that goggles were a part of the sport. I just didn't realize that the girls just had to have the ones that are the latest and greatest and come with a price tag to match. Those damn things wear out way too quickly. I guess the chlorinated water eats away at the plastic and rubber. Oh yeah, it must also eat away at the kids' brains because way too often we've come away from the pool only to find their swim bags void of the goggles that were there when they went into the pool. I've pretty much fixed that problem though. The girls have to buy their own if they lose their goggles and I have threatened to make them where the ones I've been using for the last 15 years. I'm pretty sure the idea of wearing goggles that makes them look like a gigantic housefly is more effective than forking out a couple of months allowance, but my wallet is just happy that something gets their attention.
And how could I forget the travel. If you want to go anyway in the sport, then you have to go just about everywhere. The thrill of competition and the life experiences gained are priceless commodities for our kids. It just so happens they tend to be pricey too. Last weekend, Avery and I went to Gander for her very first swim meet. It was awesome! I was so proud to see her belly smacking off the blocks, giving maximum effort during her races, and coming up smiling no matter how she placed. It was well worth the cost of the hotels, gas to drive there, meals and entry fees. It looks like Lynda and I will be writing many more cheques for upcoming swim meets for Avery. Then there's Kendall. At 13, she's a virtual veteran of the world of competitive swimming. Her swimming schedule will see her go to Corner Brook; Gander; Pointe-Claire, Quebec, New Brunswick, Florida and maybe California. Guess where the money will be coming from. I'd have Kendall take up a paper route if only she wasn't so busy practicing and going to school. Seeing how I drive the kids to 5:30 a.m. practices four days a week that leaves me out of the paper delivery option. Hmmmm, Lynda is not busy at that hour. I don't think she's laughing at, or even with me, about that idea.
I am but a simple man. Lynda always knew this. Now, so does everyone else. A couple of weeks ago the club held an auction as a fund raiser. It was a somewhat formal affair, with a nice meal and wicked items available to the highest bidders. For those who follow my stories and who know me a little, you are aware of my passion for cod fishing and my fondness for my little boat. It was a natural fit for me to offer a cod jigging experience as an auction item. A day out on the waters of Torbay, watching whales, exploring cliffs and coves, breathing the salty air, catching our cod quota......does it get any better than that? Surely it is priceless! My buddy, Wayne, was the auctioneer. No one is better at it. It so happens that Wayne has been out jigging with me, so he knows what I have to offer. The organizers want me to spice up the experience and suggest an on board meal would fetch more money. I'm easy, so no problem. I'll just get my mom to make it all anyway. A granola bar and a Pepsi are usually the extent of my fine dining while out on the water. No need to fill your belly only to end up sharing it all with the gulls. In any event, I don't have a bathroom on board. I've never needed one. It's a truly liberating feeling to pee off the bow into the great big sea.. Just be careful to make sure no sharks are lurking about, especially when the ladies tinkle. Anyway, a lunch will be included. The bidding is going well, $400....$500.... when someone asks Wayne what exactly is included. Wayne repeats the spiel....cod fishing, Torbay, lunch, then pauses and looks my way. He then tells everyone to look at me, that this is what you get, Jim is just a simple man. $500 to $600 to $700 and it sells for $800. Maybe simple ain't so bad. (I forgot to look to see if Lynda was laughing with me or at me. I bet she wished she had a newspaper to hide behind.)
So, finally I'll get back to the last evening's board meeting and what made Lynda laugh. We were discussing having Santa attend an upcoming swim practice to meet all of the kids in the club. We could do pictures, candy canes and Santa would interact with the kids on the pool deck for a couple of hours. All I could think about was Santa, big beard, bigger belly, red suit and the heat and humidity of the pool. The big guy wouldn't stand a chance. I had to come to the defence of St. Nick. I told everyone that the poor guy would surely sweat his bag off! Everyone busted out in hysterics. Hey, I meant the bag he carries on his back. I can't help it if people take things the wrong way. Anyway, Lynda was quick to come to my defence. She told everyone - "Don't mind Jim, he is simple."
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Silent Night
It's dead calm and quiet. The whooshing of the wind through distant corridors is the only challenger to complete silence. A rare occurrence in this place. Night time usually invites the muted sobs of many who call this place home. But not on this night. Daytime is a stark contrast, anything but peaceful and anything but silent. Six hundred men, trapped inside an ancient medieval structure that is maximum security, awake, alive, but not quite living, come together to make a singular sound that is not quite human, unnatural, unsettling. Further penance perhaps?
But this night is different. Eyes closed and ears taking in only the rhythm of the breeze, he finds it possible to allow his mind to escape the confines of this place. He is here because he deserves to be. His body will be here for a long time. He has imprisoned his flesh, but to survive this place, to leave someday with his humanity, he needed to find freedom. Any type of freedom.
He taught his mind to do what is not possible for his body, to escape, to go beyond these cursed walls. Everyone has their "happy place". It can be real or imagined. A place where we feel at ease, not weighted down by worry, more alive, free....free...free. He takes himself there. He is happy. As happy and as free as inmate 41391 can be...deserves to be.
But this night is different. Eyes closed and ears taking in only the rhythm of the breeze, he finds it possible to allow his mind to escape the confines of this place. He is here because he deserves to be. His body will be here for a long time. He has imprisoned his flesh, but to survive this place, to leave someday with his humanity, he needed to find freedom. Any type of freedom.
He taught his mind to do what is not possible for his body, to escape, to go beyond these cursed walls. Everyone has their "happy place". It can be real or imagined. A place where we feel at ease, not weighted down by worry, more alive, free....free...free. He takes himself there. He is happy. As happy and as free as inmate 41391 can be...deserves to be.
Thursday, November 07, 2013
Utterly Ridiculous
It's remarkable what little things we remember and how we cling to those ideals and expressions for the remainder of our lives. My little case in point is surprisingly silly. It has to do with the devilish and very adolescent practice of cow tipping. "What the heck is that?", you may be asking. I can assure you it has nothing to do with 15% gratuities at the Keg, nor is it a slice off the age old argument as to whether filet mignon is a better cut of meat than strip loin.
Cow tipping is just what the name implies. It so happens that cows sleep standing up, so if a person is stealth enough, it is possible to sneak up on one and pull two legs out from under her and down she will go. Hint - make sure the two legs are on the same side, otherwise the cow will do a face plant or a butt drop. That would be cruel!
I have only experienced this tipping phenomenon from the comfort of a semi-reclining theatre chair. It was when the kids and I were watching an animated Hollywood movie that I think was called "Barnyard". This was several years ago when Kendall and Avery were wee ones. We still joke and laugh about the silliness of the idea. It was even sillier in the movie because the main character was a cow named Otis. Otis was a boy cow! Otis had utters and a girlfriend. Confusing perhaps, particularly if you are from my generation, but my children took it all in stride. Kids today are certainly much more accepting and worldly than I ever was. As a kid in the late 1960's, it was as normal as bell bottom pants to have our fresh milk miraculously appear on our doorstep each morning. The still chilled milk would be in reusable glass bottles that had a flimsy cardboard seal. Ain't no way our kids would be drinking that stuff now-a-days. Some cow may have pee'd in it.
My now half grown kids and I are reminded of the shenanigans of Otis and friends almost daily. There are a couple of dairy farms near our house and the black and white bovines must wonder what the heck we are always smiling at when we drive by the muddy, sea salt air whipped fields. They'd be wise to sleep with one eye open.
I know that decades from now, whenever I want to take Kendall and Avery with me back to a time of simplicity and innocence, I will simply have to ask them if they want to go cow tipping. I'll remind them to avoid any cow with a deep gravelly voice,who can stand upright and goes by the name of Otis. That dude, if he hasn't yet been turned into ground beef, is definitely on to us.
Cow tipping is just what the name implies. It so happens that cows sleep standing up, so if a person is stealth enough, it is possible to sneak up on one and pull two legs out from under her and down she will go. Hint - make sure the two legs are on the same side, otherwise the cow will do a face plant or a butt drop. That would be cruel!
I have only experienced this tipping phenomenon from the comfort of a semi-reclining theatre chair. It was when the kids and I were watching an animated Hollywood movie that I think was called "Barnyard". This was several years ago when Kendall and Avery were wee ones. We still joke and laugh about the silliness of the idea. It was even sillier in the movie because the main character was a cow named Otis. Otis was a boy cow! Otis had utters and a girlfriend. Confusing perhaps, particularly if you are from my generation, but my children took it all in stride. Kids today are certainly much more accepting and worldly than I ever was. As a kid in the late 1960's, it was as normal as bell bottom pants to have our fresh milk miraculously appear on our doorstep each morning. The still chilled milk would be in reusable glass bottles that had a flimsy cardboard seal. Ain't no way our kids would be drinking that stuff now-a-days. Some cow may have pee'd in it.
My now half grown kids and I are reminded of the shenanigans of Otis and friends almost daily. There are a couple of dairy farms near our house and the black and white bovines must wonder what the heck we are always smiling at when we drive by the muddy, sea salt air whipped fields. They'd be wise to sleep with one eye open.
I know that decades from now, whenever I want to take Kendall and Avery with me back to a time of simplicity and innocence, I will simply have to ask them if they want to go cow tipping. I'll remind them to avoid any cow with a deep gravelly voice,who can stand upright and goes by the name of Otis. That dude, if he hasn't yet been turned into ground beef, is definitely on to us.
Thursday, October 03, 2013
Let'em Play
Hockey season is here. Actually, I'm not completely certain that it ever quite goes away. The so called off season might have been those three days in mid July. Certainly no more than three and never more than two days in a row. Now-a-days parents enlist their budding stars in all types of summer hockey adventures that make my childhood experiences look downright amateurish. Howie Meeker was the cock of the walk in St. John's hockey circles in the 1970's. After all, Howie had played with the Leafs during the Original 6 era of the NHL and he was the league's rookie of year. So why is it that my only recollection of him is getting a hockey stick to the behind every time I skated over the blue line during drills? He pretty well did it to all of us kids. Gosh darn Howie, that smarted! I just don't think it made me any smarter.
I went to the rink a few nights ago to watch some of the kids who I had coached during the past few years. It was a big night. Final selections were being made for the top all star teams for the 11 and 12 year old hockey players from all over the greater St. John's area. As I walked into the tin can covered arena, I felt like I was back in my playing hey days of the 70's and 80's. The tension was so thick that I could see it hanging just below the rafters. I could have sworn it was just like the blue cloud that I grew up playing under and had no choice but to suck those toxins into my lungs. The blue cloud of the "good old days" was from cigarettes and what ever else patrons smoked. In any event, the cloud in the rink a few nights ago wasn't one of smoke. It was a gigantic tension cloud that wasn't emanating from the players, but from the parents. For many, their hopes, dreams and aspirations were skating before their eyes. The pressure being imposed seemed unbearable, certainly too heavy for such young skaters to bear. I know I played hockey when I was a kid. I'm just not sure if the kids I saw the other night will ever truly get to "play" the game.
I have stepped away from the game. A few years ago I stopped playing and this year I won't be coaching. I think the time away will be good. I was recently asked to coach and the person asking pretty much "had me at hello" and I said yes. But a few hours of sober thought made me change my mind. I would like to add my two cents on coaching.
Today's hockey coaches are equipped with the best of courses, equipment, and training videos. Our world is so much smaller today and it seems that the a former professional coach can be found toiling in just about any rink in every city, town and hamlet across the country.
It would seem that anyone can be a hockey coach if they so choose. A minor hockey coach doesn't get paid and the job requires an exorbitant amount of time, dedication, patience, passion, compassion, toughness, thick skin, short memory...... Need I go on? That's the kicker though. How many of you can honestly say you have these qualities or even know many who do?
A large percentage of people have no business being behind the bench. No amount of internet queries to find the latest and greatest drills for practices or listening to a coaching podcast on the merits of employing the 1-2-2 or 1-3-1 power play during games will ever change that. The game has too many coaches that are there for the wrong reasons, often selfish ones. Executives, parents and even young players see through the facade, yet, most often, nothing is done. (It sort of reminds me of my career in the RCMP and how I saw many problems arise because management and supervisors abdicated the responsibility that came with that role.)
Hockey people all need to talk a collective breathe. It is a great game. Give it back to the kids. Perhaps Howie Meeker had just the remedy for those that dare mess with it. Although even Howie may be hesitant for fear of breaking off the hockey stick of today. Those baby's cost $300 each.
I'll leave you with one of my favourite expressions and one that any kid who I have coached should know quite well: "There are those who play hockey and there are hockey players."
I went to the rink a few nights ago to watch some of the kids who I had coached during the past few years. It was a big night. Final selections were being made for the top all star teams for the 11 and 12 year old hockey players from all over the greater St. John's area. As I walked into the tin can covered arena, I felt like I was back in my playing hey days of the 70's and 80's. The tension was so thick that I could see it hanging just below the rafters. I could have sworn it was just like the blue cloud that I grew up playing under and had no choice but to suck those toxins into my lungs. The blue cloud of the "good old days" was from cigarettes and what ever else patrons smoked. In any event, the cloud in the rink a few nights ago wasn't one of smoke. It was a gigantic tension cloud that wasn't emanating from the players, but from the parents. For many, their hopes, dreams and aspirations were skating before their eyes. The pressure being imposed seemed unbearable, certainly too heavy for such young skaters to bear. I know I played hockey when I was a kid. I'm just not sure if the kids I saw the other night will ever truly get to "play" the game.
I have stepped away from the game. A few years ago I stopped playing and this year I won't be coaching. I think the time away will be good. I was recently asked to coach and the person asking pretty much "had me at hello" and I said yes. But a few hours of sober thought made me change my mind. I would like to add my two cents on coaching.
Today's hockey coaches are equipped with the best of courses, equipment, and training videos. Our world is so much smaller today and it seems that the a former professional coach can be found toiling in just about any rink in every city, town and hamlet across the country.
It would seem that anyone can be a hockey coach if they so choose. A minor hockey coach doesn't get paid and the job requires an exorbitant amount of time, dedication, patience, passion, compassion, toughness, thick skin, short memory...... Need I go on? That's the kicker though. How many of you can honestly say you have these qualities or even know many who do?
A large percentage of people have no business being behind the bench. No amount of internet queries to find the latest and greatest drills for practices or listening to a coaching podcast on the merits of employing the 1-2-2 or 1-3-1 power play during games will ever change that. The game has too many coaches that are there for the wrong reasons, often selfish ones. Executives, parents and even young players see through the facade, yet, most often, nothing is done. (It sort of reminds me of my career in the RCMP and how I saw many problems arise because management and supervisors abdicated the responsibility that came with that role.)
Hockey people all need to talk a collective breathe. It is a great game. Give it back to the kids. Perhaps Howie Meeker had just the remedy for those that dare mess with it. Although even Howie may be hesitant for fear of breaking off the hockey stick of today. Those baby's cost $300 each.
I'll leave you with one of my favourite expressions and one that any kid who I have coached should know quite well: "There are those who play hockey and there are hockey players."
Saturday, September 07, 2013
Silence Speaks Loudly
My younger brother is no longer speaking with me. That says a lot because it is not a tactic that our family employs recklessly. For that matter, I can't readily recall a time when either of my brothers, my sister or myself used it against a fellow sibling.
God knows there have been numerous incidents involving the four of us during the almost 50 years that we have been on this earth together. Some of these could have and should have warranted the cold shoulder being used to send a loud message to say that certain actions or words have not been appreciated. How about the time in 1975 that Margaret Ann, right in the middle of a heated game of Crazy 8's, changed the rule allowing 8's to be laid at any time and not just when the 8 in your hand matched the suit of the last card played? Dastardly indeed!
If you think that was a doozy, the wait until you read this one. Both of my brothers, during their mid teens, had severe physical reactions to something they drank or possibility due to the quantity of whatever it was they drank. My brothers and I came to name such occasions by using the much more pleasant code phrase - "I saw Ralph last night." Ralph is no longer a part of our lives, but he hung around with all three of us during our much younger days.
Now back to what they did. Oh yeah, I played a minor role in these capers too. It just so happened that I was the first family member each brother encountered as he attempted to slip past the ever watchful eyes of mom and dad. Being the middle brother, I did what anyone in my place would do, I aided and abetted them. Why not? After all, I was no angel and someday I may have needed their help to evade our parents, who never seemed to sleep soundlessly enough for my liking.
Although separated by 5 years, the outcomes of these two incidents were eerily similar. Both of my brothers invited Ralph to join us, at which point I had had enough. Brotherly love goes only so far. With Bill, Ralph was in the back seat of dad's car, which I had borrowed. With Gord, the setting was the main bathroom of our house and then after I got him back to our room, he even went as far as tucking Ralph into bed next to him. In each case, Ralph had to go and there was no way I was being responsible for doing that. I chose the same fate for both of my brothers. A knock on mom and dad's bedroom door looked after Ralph, not to mention any extracurricular activities my brothers may had been planning for quite some time. Even after such betrayal, my brothers didn't hold a grudge towards me. Maybe they have trouble recalling the exact details so blame for their capture has only been cast upon themselves. Or perhaps each has found someone else to blame. That must be it. Surely, it was all Ralph's fault.
I think I know a little of why Bill is so pee'd off with me at the moment. Over the previous few months, in his eyes, I've had three major strikes against me. The first happened in late June when I quit my job. It was not just any job though. It was one Bill had gotten for me with the company at which he is a high ranking manager. I lasted there a little less than 6 months but it was probably the method and suddenness of my quitting that irked him the most. An email to him and my immediate bosses stated that I was done as of that moment, no advance notice, no reasons given.
Strike two has to do with a small boat I bought from Bill earlier this summer. He had purchased a stake in another fishing boat and was going to put his current boat up for sale. We worked out a deal and I took over as the boat's captain. After the money exchanged hands I came to learn that Bill had no ownership papers for the boat. Apparently, the local resale market for boats and trailers has a soft under belly, with such items being passed around as easily as a flask of rum at a cold hockey rink. Whether it was my policing background or just the idea of wanting to legally own the boat, after trying unsuccessfully to make any head way on my own, I began to pester Bill for a resolution. I must have hit a nerve because one of our last discussions on this ended with him telling me that I was "cracked".
With Bill's frayed nerves and patience for me waning, it was easy to get to strike three. I didn't even have to swing. I went down looking. Umpire Bill called me out on a slow curve that barely hit the corner. Normally, Bill he would have let that one go and I'd still be at bat, but not after all of the other bad calls I made in the recent past.
Here's how that one went. It was early August and I had just docked at the wharf in Torbay, in the boat that is still owned by person or persons unknown. Cods' heads were flying and fillets were being sliced from the bodies of the 15 fish that the law allows one boat to bring ashore. As cleaning the fish is as memorable, if not more so, as catching them, I encourage all of my crew to partake. On that day, one of them was a landlubbing Mainlander and that was his first jigging experience. Well, at least his first time jigging for cod. Whatever other jigging he may do is really not the point of this story, nor it is any of our business. This is a family oriented blog.
I digress......my mainlander friend was following my instructions and doing an admirable job. It so happened that Bill and his new boat arrived at the dock at that moment. Bill's co-owners are friends of mine too, so they came over to say hi. Bill soon meandered over and without even acknowledging me he began to offer advice to my fish filleting Mainlander friend. His suggestion, although not unreasonable, conflicted somewhat with what I had shown my friend so I told him to disregard Bill and to keep doing it the way he was already doing it. There may be many ways to skin a cat, as well as a cod, but I discovered a new way to get under the skin of a brother. Bill was noticeably irate with my reply to his helpful advice. In retrospect, I don't blame him. He squirmed and shuffled his feet, as he considered his response. I guess I got what I deserved. Bill said: "Jimmy, you've got a problem."
At the time I didn't realize it but Bill was (and is) right. I do have a problem. It'll soon be three years since I left my career in the RCMP. I was in a very dark place in my life at that time, as well as for the few years leading up to my retirement. Even though I had served enough years to get a monthly pension, I still regard my leaving the Force as having quit. I haven't truly faced the demons that lead me to leave a career that I saw as defining the person I was. I now realize that the scars of depression and anxiety still cast a shadow over me. I have fooled myself and some of those close to me into thinking that all of that was behind me. The truth is I am still waging an internal battle against negativity and despair.
As regretful as they have been, my three strikes with Bill have helped me to see the truth. There have been a lot more strikes of late to go along with the ones I have handed to Bill. I've got some work to do, but recognition of a problem is an all important step in the right direction. To win this internal struggle will mean that I will have made peace with myself. I look forward to that victory. A good place to start may be to make peace with my brother. Bill, I'm sorry.
p.s. Gordie - Do you want to buy a boat? ;-)
God knows there have been numerous incidents involving the four of us during the almost 50 years that we have been on this earth together. Some of these could have and should have warranted the cold shoulder being used to send a loud message to say that certain actions or words have not been appreciated. How about the time in 1975 that Margaret Ann, right in the middle of a heated game of Crazy 8's, changed the rule allowing 8's to be laid at any time and not just when the 8 in your hand matched the suit of the last card played? Dastardly indeed!
If you think that was a doozy, the wait until you read this one. Both of my brothers, during their mid teens, had severe physical reactions to something they drank or possibility due to the quantity of whatever it was they drank. My brothers and I came to name such occasions by using the much more pleasant code phrase - "I saw Ralph last night." Ralph is no longer a part of our lives, but he hung around with all three of us during our much younger days.
Now back to what they did. Oh yeah, I played a minor role in these capers too. It just so happened that I was the first family member each brother encountered as he attempted to slip past the ever watchful eyes of mom and dad. Being the middle brother, I did what anyone in my place would do, I aided and abetted them. Why not? After all, I was no angel and someday I may have needed their help to evade our parents, who never seemed to sleep soundlessly enough for my liking.
Although separated by 5 years, the outcomes of these two incidents were eerily similar. Both of my brothers invited Ralph to join us, at which point I had had enough. Brotherly love goes only so far. With Bill, Ralph was in the back seat of dad's car, which I had borrowed. With Gord, the setting was the main bathroom of our house and then after I got him back to our room, he even went as far as tucking Ralph into bed next to him. In each case, Ralph had to go and there was no way I was being responsible for doing that. I chose the same fate for both of my brothers. A knock on mom and dad's bedroom door looked after Ralph, not to mention any extracurricular activities my brothers may had been planning for quite some time. Even after such betrayal, my brothers didn't hold a grudge towards me. Maybe they have trouble recalling the exact details so blame for their capture has only been cast upon themselves. Or perhaps each has found someone else to blame. That must be it. Surely, it was all Ralph's fault.
I think I know a little of why Bill is so pee'd off with me at the moment. Over the previous few months, in his eyes, I've had three major strikes against me. The first happened in late June when I quit my job. It was not just any job though. It was one Bill had gotten for me with the company at which he is a high ranking manager. I lasted there a little less than 6 months but it was probably the method and suddenness of my quitting that irked him the most. An email to him and my immediate bosses stated that I was done as of that moment, no advance notice, no reasons given.
Strike two has to do with a small boat I bought from Bill earlier this summer. He had purchased a stake in another fishing boat and was going to put his current boat up for sale. We worked out a deal and I took over as the boat's captain. After the money exchanged hands I came to learn that Bill had no ownership papers for the boat. Apparently, the local resale market for boats and trailers has a soft under belly, with such items being passed around as easily as a flask of rum at a cold hockey rink. Whether it was my policing background or just the idea of wanting to legally own the boat, after trying unsuccessfully to make any head way on my own, I began to pester Bill for a resolution. I must have hit a nerve because one of our last discussions on this ended with him telling me that I was "cracked".
With Bill's frayed nerves and patience for me waning, it was easy to get to strike three. I didn't even have to swing. I went down looking. Umpire Bill called me out on a slow curve that barely hit the corner. Normally, Bill he would have let that one go and I'd still be at bat, but not after all of the other bad calls I made in the recent past.
Here's how that one went. It was early August and I had just docked at the wharf in Torbay, in the boat that is still owned by person or persons unknown. Cods' heads were flying and fillets were being sliced from the bodies of the 15 fish that the law allows one boat to bring ashore. As cleaning the fish is as memorable, if not more so, as catching them, I encourage all of my crew to partake. On that day, one of them was a landlubbing Mainlander and that was his first jigging experience. Well, at least his first time jigging for cod. Whatever other jigging he may do is really not the point of this story, nor it is any of our business. This is a family oriented blog.
I digress......my mainlander friend was following my instructions and doing an admirable job. It so happened that Bill and his new boat arrived at the dock at that moment. Bill's co-owners are friends of mine too, so they came over to say hi. Bill soon meandered over and without even acknowledging me he began to offer advice to my fish filleting Mainlander friend. His suggestion, although not unreasonable, conflicted somewhat with what I had shown my friend so I told him to disregard Bill and to keep doing it the way he was already doing it. There may be many ways to skin a cat, as well as a cod, but I discovered a new way to get under the skin of a brother. Bill was noticeably irate with my reply to his helpful advice. In retrospect, I don't blame him. He squirmed and shuffled his feet, as he considered his response. I guess I got what I deserved. Bill said: "Jimmy, you've got a problem."
At the time I didn't realize it but Bill was (and is) right. I do have a problem. It'll soon be three years since I left my career in the RCMP. I was in a very dark place in my life at that time, as well as for the few years leading up to my retirement. Even though I had served enough years to get a monthly pension, I still regard my leaving the Force as having quit. I haven't truly faced the demons that lead me to leave a career that I saw as defining the person I was. I now realize that the scars of depression and anxiety still cast a shadow over me. I have fooled myself and some of those close to me into thinking that all of that was behind me. The truth is I am still waging an internal battle against negativity and despair.
As regretful as they have been, my three strikes with Bill have helped me to see the truth. There have been a lot more strikes of late to go along with the ones I have handed to Bill. I've got some work to do, but recognition of a problem is an all important step in the right direction. To win this internal struggle will mean that I will have made peace with myself. I look forward to that victory. A good place to start may be to make peace with my brother. Bill, I'm sorry.
p.s. Gordie - Do you want to buy a boat? ;-)
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
The Tale of Two James'
My four year old nephew, the real James Nixon, knows more than the average kid his age. In fact, it would seem that he is in a class by himself on the genius continuum. You see, little red headed James knows everything. To verify, all you simply have to do is ask him. Sure, it's an easy claim to make. There are lots of pretenders out there. Lynda's uncle Paul is "Cliff Claven-like" in knowing just about every tidbit of useless information. (Paul kind of looks like Cliffie too! Lucky Brenda!!) But when compared to James, Paul turns out only to be a pretender to the throne of being all knowing.. He is simply a master at parroting what he has seen on reruns of the Discovery Channel.
I have witnessed James' brilliance. The smart ones seem to have a mastery of grasping the obvious, whereas all others look for hidden meanings and answers to questions that never needed to be asked in the first place. The past Sunday, the Nixon clan gathered at mom's for our traditional weekly feast (FYI - any time there's gravy involved, then it can be classified as a feast). I was sporting a week's worth of facial scruff. I had let it get to that point for two reasons: one was to see how grey I had become, given I have very little hair on the top of my head to gauge such things; the second was to see if more manliness would spur on more womanliness in Lynda. From my experiment I learned that I could give Saint Nic a run for having the snowiest looking beard and I also found out that Lynda is all the woman I will ever need regardless of how much hair I have or from where it chooses to sprout. I dare not say any more, as she has forbidden me to mention her in my stories. (When she starts to read them, then I'll stop. Maybe.)
A week into having a face that more resembled a bear than my usual baby butt complexion, not one person had said anything to me. Not my wife, not our best friends who were home from Ontario, not my brothers, my kids, my mother, nor my many close friends who had seen me just about every day since I gave my Gillette razor a much needed vacation. I was beginning to wonder. Perhaps all of those years of trying to go unnoticed while following drug dealers around had made me a virtual ghost. I know I'm not drop dead gorgeous or a radical dresser, but eventually someone had to look me in the face and blurt something out.
Finally, finally, finally, someone took notice. Yes, it was James. As I sat on mom's couch, basking in the glow of having 'gluttoned' myself on a few plate loads of gravy covered something or other, James saddled up beside me, put his little hands of my cheeks and exclaimed "Uncle Jim, you have a beard!" James lived up to his self professed genius. I was so proud of him. I was about to give him a huge hug but when I took a good look at his face, he was sporting a gigantic moustache fashioned out of Grammie's gravy. It was hideous. I could barely bring myself to make eye contact. I certainly couldn't bring myself to tell him. I didn't want to be cruel and hurt his feelings. I figured it best just to say nothing. After all, he's four. He'll get over it.
Suddenly, the light bulb illuminated above my head. It all made sense to me now. People were looking at me for the last seven days. They were seeing my bristly beard take shape. The reason that no one said anything is that they were disgusted and embarrassed for me. I knew it couldn't have been my manly beard that grossed them out. I must have forgotten to wash off last Sunday's gravy moustache.
I have witnessed James' brilliance. The smart ones seem to have a mastery of grasping the obvious, whereas all others look for hidden meanings and answers to questions that never needed to be asked in the first place. The past Sunday, the Nixon clan gathered at mom's for our traditional weekly feast (FYI - any time there's gravy involved, then it can be classified as a feast). I was sporting a week's worth of facial scruff. I had let it get to that point for two reasons: one was to see how grey I had become, given I have very little hair on the top of my head to gauge such things; the second was to see if more manliness would spur on more womanliness in Lynda. From my experiment I learned that I could give Saint Nic a run for having the snowiest looking beard and I also found out that Lynda is all the woman I will ever need regardless of how much hair I have or from where it chooses to sprout. I dare not say any more, as she has forbidden me to mention her in my stories. (When she starts to read them, then I'll stop. Maybe.)
A week into having a face that more resembled a bear than my usual baby butt complexion, not one person had said anything to me. Not my wife, not our best friends who were home from Ontario, not my brothers, my kids, my mother, nor my many close friends who had seen me just about every day since I gave my Gillette razor a much needed vacation. I was beginning to wonder. Perhaps all of those years of trying to go unnoticed while following drug dealers around had made me a virtual ghost. I know I'm not drop dead gorgeous or a radical dresser, but eventually someone had to look me in the face and blurt something out.
Finally, finally, finally, someone took notice. Yes, it was James. As I sat on mom's couch, basking in the glow of having 'gluttoned' myself on a few plate loads of gravy covered something or other, James saddled up beside me, put his little hands of my cheeks and exclaimed "Uncle Jim, you have a beard!" James lived up to his self professed genius. I was so proud of him. I was about to give him a huge hug but when I took a good look at his face, he was sporting a gigantic moustache fashioned out of Grammie's gravy. It was hideous. I could barely bring myself to make eye contact. I certainly couldn't bring myself to tell him. I didn't want to be cruel and hurt his feelings. I figured it best just to say nothing. After all, he's four. He'll get over it.
Suddenly, the light bulb illuminated above my head. It all made sense to me now. People were looking at me for the last seven days. They were seeing my bristly beard take shape. The reason that no one said anything is that they were disgusted and embarrassed for me. I knew it couldn't have been my manly beard that grossed them out. I must have forgotten to wash off last Sunday's gravy moustache.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Good Times in the Maritimes
"Please sir, put me anywhere except the Lock Up." Those words were spoken to me by a federal inmate who I was bringing back to Newfoundland for a court appearance. The inmate was a resident of Nova Scotia's Springhill Institution, courtesy of my former colleges at the RCMP's St. John's Drug Section. The Lock Up is the temporary holding facility for those awaiting court appearances in St. John's. The clientèle there are mostly those who were arrested during the previous night for any number of alleged wrongdoings. Alcohol is often a factor that lends itself to getting on the wrong side of the law, so the Lock Up also has a "drunk tank", where the inebriated can sleep it off - albeit, best done with one eye open! The Lock Up is like something from Middle Ages, minus only the rack and guillotine.
Having never visited Springhill Federal Pen, the few hours I spent with this guy were enough to paint me a nice picture. I believe his exact words were "I love it there." A world class gym, better than basic cable in his private room...I mean cell, and the best food my new acquaintance ever had.. I also learned that he had a rough upbringing and a very unsettled home life as a kid, so his bar may have been set a little lower than for what most of us would consider a decent life. Still, as a deterrent to a committing crime, it was clear to me that jail time was anything but, for this citizen. Our federal penal system managed to provide all of the comforts of house and home. So well, in fact, that it represented a better life than anything he had experienced previously. I got the feeling that he wasn't looking forward to the day that those steel doors closed behind him and he had to fend for himself in the world of free men. On that day a few years into the future, I pictured him standing in front of the doors of Springhill Pen, staring at the vastness and uncertainty of the world before him, then turning and running back to the cold steel door and hitting it with flailing arms while screaming "Let me in.".
Let's come back to the present. Eight years or so have passed since I first met Springhill Pen's #1 fan. I'm no longer a police officer but buddy still finds himself mixed up with some pretty serious criminal charges. Murder is as heinous as it gets. A few months ago, a physical altercation resulted in a man's death and my former travelling companion is alleged to have killed this person. Given the seriousness of the crime, he has been in custody in St. John's ever since. His newest home would be our provincial jail, located on the shores of beautiful Quidi Vidi Lake. What can I say about the aged and decrepit place other than it's a hole! Everything that Springhill Institution is, the "Pen" isn't. Couple that with the fact that he would be making frequent stopovers at the Lock Up as his murder case makes it's way through our system of justice at the usual pace of a tortoise, then I see buddy as being very dissatisfied with his accommodations. That was confirmed when it was recently revealed that he was planning a prison break. His efforts were detailed and advanced enough that he now faces additional charges of attempting to escape lawful custody.
So what do we take from all of this. It's probably fair to say that this is a very troubled individual. Long before I took him from the comfortable confines of Springhill Institution, he likely had caused his more than his allotted share of mayhem in our little corner of the world. Somewhere along the road travelled, he has seemed to come to the perverse realization that getting caught for a crime that carries a penalty of "2 years less a day" just isn't worth committing. Those crimes mean serving your jail time at one of our Newfoundland jails, most likely at the Pen. So unless you go big, you'll have to stay at home.
A conviction for murder could see him go away for life, which means 10 to 15 years in our justice system. If that befalls him, off he'll go to one of our federal pens. He's probably hoping for Springhill. The good news for him is there are even nicer places. Some of our country''s "best" criminals reside in town house style luxury that have all of the status and security that come from being in a true gated community.
If I were the Judge (now there's a laugh), as buddy was standing before me and I was finding him guilty of murder, I'd wipe the smile from his face very quickly. I wouldn't give him 10 years, 20 years or even 50 years. There'd be no Club Fed for him. I'd smash the gavel down and pronounce sentence - "Two years less a day, to be served at Her Majesty's Penitentiary, St. John's with weekends at the Lock Up." I can picture him now, standing at the cold steel door and hitting it with flailing arms while screaming "Let me out.". Now that would be justice served and a warning to those thinking of travelling that sane road.
In case you are wondering, eight years ago I dropped my friend off at the Lock Up. I was naive enough to try to find a better jail cell for him, but had no luck in doing so. It turned out that's where he belonged.
Having never visited Springhill Federal Pen, the few hours I spent with this guy were enough to paint me a nice picture. I believe his exact words were "I love it there." A world class gym, better than basic cable in his private room...I mean cell, and the best food my new acquaintance ever had.. I also learned that he had a rough upbringing and a very unsettled home life as a kid, so his bar may have been set a little lower than for what most of us would consider a decent life. Still, as a deterrent to a committing crime, it was clear to me that jail time was anything but, for this citizen. Our federal penal system managed to provide all of the comforts of house and home. So well, in fact, that it represented a better life than anything he had experienced previously. I got the feeling that he wasn't looking forward to the day that those steel doors closed behind him and he had to fend for himself in the world of free men. On that day a few years into the future, I pictured him standing in front of the doors of Springhill Pen, staring at the vastness and uncertainty of the world before him, then turning and running back to the cold steel door and hitting it with flailing arms while screaming "Let me in.".
Let's come back to the present. Eight years or so have passed since I first met Springhill Pen's #1 fan. I'm no longer a police officer but buddy still finds himself mixed up with some pretty serious criminal charges. Murder is as heinous as it gets. A few months ago, a physical altercation resulted in a man's death and my former travelling companion is alleged to have killed this person. Given the seriousness of the crime, he has been in custody in St. John's ever since. His newest home would be our provincial jail, located on the shores of beautiful Quidi Vidi Lake. What can I say about the aged and decrepit place other than it's a hole! Everything that Springhill Institution is, the "Pen" isn't. Couple that with the fact that he would be making frequent stopovers at the Lock Up as his murder case makes it's way through our system of justice at the usual pace of a tortoise, then I see buddy as being very dissatisfied with his accommodations. That was confirmed when it was recently revealed that he was planning a prison break. His efforts were detailed and advanced enough that he now faces additional charges of attempting to escape lawful custody.
So what do we take from all of this. It's probably fair to say that this is a very troubled individual. Long before I took him from the comfortable confines of Springhill Institution, he likely had caused his more than his allotted share of mayhem in our little corner of the world. Somewhere along the road travelled, he has seemed to come to the perverse realization that getting caught for a crime that carries a penalty of "2 years less a day" just isn't worth committing. Those crimes mean serving your jail time at one of our Newfoundland jails, most likely at the Pen. So unless you go big, you'll have to stay at home.
A conviction for murder could see him go away for life, which means 10 to 15 years in our justice system. If that befalls him, off he'll go to one of our federal pens. He's probably hoping for Springhill. The good news for him is there are even nicer places. Some of our country''s "best" criminals reside in town house style luxury that have all of the status and security that come from being in a true gated community.
If I were the Judge (now there's a laugh), as buddy was standing before me and I was finding him guilty of murder, I'd wipe the smile from his face very quickly. I wouldn't give him 10 years, 20 years or even 50 years. There'd be no Club Fed for him. I'd smash the gavel down and pronounce sentence - "Two years less a day, to be served at Her Majesty's Penitentiary, St. John's with weekends at the Lock Up." I can picture him now, standing at the cold steel door and hitting it with flailing arms while screaming "Let me out.". Now that would be justice served and a warning to those thinking of travelling that sane road.
In case you are wondering, eight years ago I dropped my friend off at the Lock Up. I was naive enough to try to find a better jail cell for him, but had no luck in doing so. It turned out that's where he belonged.
Friday, June 07, 2013
Not So Private Poop
It has been five and a half months since I last wrote on my blog. I may have to change it's title to something more appropriate that reflects the whimsical way in which I ply this hobby. How about "Jim's Stories - Don't Hold Your Breath Waiting"; or maybe "Tales So Private that I Didn't Write Them". Maybe I'll just stick to the title I already have. After all, it's what my readers have grown to know and appreciate. By the way, thanks so much for the surprising number of inquiries as to where my stories had gone and when I'd get back to pounding the computer keys. I'm humbled. Imagine how I'd feel if four people had asked!
I should update you on a few of the important things that have happened during these months of my hibernation.
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.
In February I started working, actually working where I get a pay check. It's June and I'm still there! As many of you know, my track record for sustained employment hasn't been very sterling since leaving the RCMP in October, 2010. I had 10 days at Costco and 4 weeks at a provincial government job before I decided that neither of these jobs was for me. Coaching hockey, basketball, chess and most recently, baseball, are great but always result in a net loss to the bank account. Cod fishing is unbelievable and I can't do that often enough. Catching 5 fish a day for 3 or 4 weeks isn't about to make anyone rich. It's probably illegal to sell them anyway, as it's a "recreational" fishery. I also think I enjoy giving the fresh fillets, tongues and cheeks away as much as catching them. I can't wait to surprise Mrs. Roche with a feed or two of fish in a couple of weeks. Oh yeah.......I began to tell you about my job. I'm working with the engineering company where my two brothers have worked for years. I guess maybe I had an in to this job but I'm well suited to what they have me doing too. My boss is actually my long time friend, builder of my house, the one who have me my first wedgie and introduced me to bingo at The Star and A. Frank Willis. There's a lot more to add about Bud, but that's a story for another day. So far, so good at Acuren. I like when my hands are busy, as it keeps my mind from wandering off to places where it shouldn't go. As a cop, on several occasions I had to pick narcotics out of human faeces. So far, nothing I've experienced at Acuren has been nearly as crappy. I guess I'll stick around there for a while longer.
My family is my priority in life. My kids are my passion. Kendall will be a teenager next month. I know she is ready, I'm just not sure I am! She continues to be in love with her competitive swimming. As I'm waking her three times a week at 4:45 a.m., I often give her the choice of staying in bed or getting up for practice. She never misses. Last weekend, at a provincial meet, she won 5 individual gold medals and 2 silvers, as well as 2 more golds in the team relay. In addition to being proud of her, I'm learning first hand what true dedication and hard work can accomplish. Avery will be 11 next month. She is so smart, funny and well rounded. She's my Gilligan and fishing buddy. This year I'm hoping she'll learn to gut the cod fry up a feed of tongues for Grammie. Avery can best the entire Nixon clan in any computer gaming challenge and she's great at getting the #1 answer for any question on Family Feud. I'm off now to coach Avery's team in our second game of baseball. During yesterday's game, Avery was doubled off of first base when she ran on a pop fly. She asked me why she was out and I explained the rule. She listened intently and understood, never to make that mistake again, I'm sure. She did say that it was my fault as I hadn't told her that rule. I may not have taught her all of the rules of baseball, but it seems I've done a fairly good job of teaching her to speak up for herself. Did I already tell you that she's only 11! I'm surrounded at home by women - from kids to Grammie and Lynda somewhere in between. Perhaps having picked dope from poo won't seem so bad after all a few years from now.
Stay tuned for more intrigue and adventure. I'm just not sure when that will be.
Jim - The Not So Private I
I should update you on a few of the important things that have happened during these months of my hibernation.
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.
In February I started working, actually working where I get a pay check. It's June and I'm still there! As many of you know, my track record for sustained employment hasn't been very sterling since leaving the RCMP in October, 2010. I had 10 days at Costco and 4 weeks at a provincial government job before I decided that neither of these jobs was for me. Coaching hockey, basketball, chess and most recently, baseball, are great but always result in a net loss to the bank account. Cod fishing is unbelievable and I can't do that often enough. Catching 5 fish a day for 3 or 4 weeks isn't about to make anyone rich. It's probably illegal to sell them anyway, as it's a "recreational" fishery. I also think I enjoy giving the fresh fillets, tongues and cheeks away as much as catching them. I can't wait to surprise Mrs. Roche with a feed or two of fish in a couple of weeks. Oh yeah.......I began to tell you about my job. I'm working with the engineering company where my two brothers have worked for years. I guess maybe I had an in to this job but I'm well suited to what they have me doing too. My boss is actually my long time friend, builder of my house, the one who have me my first wedgie and introduced me to bingo at The Star and A. Frank Willis. There's a lot more to add about Bud, but that's a story for another day. So far, so good at Acuren. I like when my hands are busy, as it keeps my mind from wandering off to places where it shouldn't go. As a cop, on several occasions I had to pick narcotics out of human faeces. So far, nothing I've experienced at Acuren has been nearly as crappy. I guess I'll stick around there for a while longer.
My family is my priority in life. My kids are my passion. Kendall will be a teenager next month. I know she is ready, I'm just not sure I am! She continues to be in love with her competitive swimming. As I'm waking her three times a week at 4:45 a.m., I often give her the choice of staying in bed or getting up for practice. She never misses. Last weekend, at a provincial meet, she won 5 individual gold medals and 2 silvers, as well as 2 more golds in the team relay. In addition to being proud of her, I'm learning first hand what true dedication and hard work can accomplish. Avery will be 11 next month. She is so smart, funny and well rounded. She's my Gilligan and fishing buddy. This year I'm hoping she'll learn to gut the cod fry up a feed of tongues for Grammie. Avery can best the entire Nixon clan in any computer gaming challenge and she's great at getting the #1 answer for any question on Family Feud. I'm off now to coach Avery's team in our second game of baseball. During yesterday's game, Avery was doubled off of first base when she ran on a pop fly. She asked me why she was out and I explained the rule. She listened intently and understood, never to make that mistake again, I'm sure. She did say that it was my fault as I hadn't told her that rule. I may not have taught her all of the rules of baseball, but it seems I've done a fairly good job of teaching her to speak up for herself. Did I already tell you that she's only 11! I'm surrounded at home by women - from kids to Grammie and Lynda somewhere in between. Perhaps having picked dope from poo won't seem so bad after all a few years from now.
Stay tuned for more intrigue and adventure. I'm just not sure when that will be.
Jim - The Not So Private I
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