16 for 2016

* I wrote these 16 thoughts a few months back but didn't publish them. I think I was afraid that I may offend someone. Now I just think it is time that someone with a moderate viewpoint on things speaks up...the world is teetering way too much on the extreme left and right. I hope one or two of these stir something within you.

Jim


Sixteen things that have become clear to me during 2016.

1. St. John's, Newfoundland & Labrador is becoming more ethnically diverse and this is good.

2. Defence attorneys are not better lawyers than the Crown council they oppose, their egos just tell them they are.

3. Shaking hands is a lost art.

4. Hockey is not the game it used to be.

5. Canada should build a snow wall on the 49th parallel and also sell one to Trump to use on his southern border.

6. You should be able to live where ever you want in this country but do not expect taxes to subsidize it.

7. Banks will lend you money when you don't need it but put the screws to you when you do need a loan.

8. Home contractors and renovators must hate HGTV.

9. Being 51 is 50/50.

10. Hugging should be more popular.

11. My wife is way smarter than me and stronger too.

12. I want to have more dogs.

13. I am a truck guy.

14. We all need someone to talk to.

15. I am a grammar snob.

16. Girls are smarter.

Dopeless Dad Knows Daughter Never Met Miley Cyrus

The pungent wafting odour was unmistakable. Whether you follow the Americans and spell it with a "J" or correctly using a "H"; whether you like to appear hip and therefore call it herb, kush, tree, or Miley Cyrus; or whether you knew it intimately way back, when it was so much less potent and to have a "nickle" meant it was five bucks worth that fit into a match box; cannabis marihuana will always smell like cannabis marihuana.

As a young narcotics officer one of the first lessons taught to me by my grizzled colleges was the correct reply when asked what marihuana smells like? It's not kind of like pipe tobacco, cigars, nor dirty wet socks. Wouldn't defence attorneys have a field day with a rookie Constable Nixon with those responses! The correct answer, and the only correct answer, is that cannabis marihuana smells exactly like cannabis marihuana.

If you've lived in our western society, ever ventured out in public, and breathe to survive then I have no doubt that you are, at the very least, an experienced secondhand smoker of marihuana. You don't need to be a trained police officer to recognize when "Miley Cyrus" is in the hood. Life experience is the best teacher. Heck, I have never ever even experimented with any form of cannabis but it seemed to be everywhere once I became a teenager and got out in the world. Yes.....you read that correctly....not even a puff, draw, toke, or pull. Lots of secondhand experience but no firsthand. Would I lie to you?

So, yesterday, I'm out in the woods...I smell marihuana being smoked. In the distance, through the trees, I see my soon-to-be 16 year old daughter, Kendall, and two of her friends huddling together. We are at the beautiful and surreal waterfalls in La Manche Park. It is one of Kendall's favourite places to swim as the water is deep and clear, plus their are high ledges from which to jump. It has been an annual excursion for my two kids and me for several years. The falls have always proven to be popular with the teenage and young adult crowd, most of whom just happen to find it a great opportunity to light up a joint or two, or ten of marihuana.

When my kids (Avery is 2 years younger than Kendall) and their friends were younger, I would get a great kick from their reactions to smelling the burning intoxicant as it funneled down the canyon walls to find their innocence wading in the whirling waters. Most would submerge to escape the "stink" but a well rolled joint can be held longer than the breath of a 10 year old. As knowledge is true power and the truth sets you free, I made sure my kids and friends knew exactly what they had experienced.

I don't recall there ever being an occasion that marihuana smoking wasn't taking place during our visits to the falls. Well, perhaps not on that ocassion when our annual trek didn't take place until mid September. I tried to talk Kendall out of going but she wouldn't be dissuaded. I think she is addicted to the place. As I suspected, the water was much too cold for a forty-something but not for the younger generation. I understand that with aging comes shrinkage and frailness but jumping into frigid water is no way to prove my manhood (nor to improve on it).

I smell weed. Kendall and her friends are huddled together and I see that something is being passed between them. Oh oh, a possible pivotal parenting moment! What to do? They haven't seen me so maybe I should just keep walking and pretend it never happened. Nah, that ain't me. Maybe I should burst out of the trees, yelling at how disappointed I am and maybe scare them back to the straight and narrow. Nah, despite being a cop, I was never the heavy handed sort. I decided that I would just watch for a bit and maybe the best way to handle this would eventually come to me. So, this is what being a dad had come to. I was resorting to voyeurism while I grappled with the idea that my little girl was diving headlong into the world of illicit narcotics.

I circled around to the top of the falls. Trying to play it cool and look like any normal fifty-something year old man who is alone in the woods and just happens to be watching bikini clad teenage girls. Creepy. Thankfully, Kendall and friends showed their hands before I had to do a citizen's arrest on myself. Miley Cyrus wasn't there after all. There was no bud, Keyshia, chronic, nor was there sticky icky or Cheech and Chong. The three amigos were passing around an iPhone 6s and selfies were the order of the day. They saw me on top of the falls and waved excitedly. Over the roar of the cascading water Kendall was asking me to take a picture of them from my vantage point. I signaled with my hands that I didn't have my phone. She shrugged and dove headlong into the water, continuing her love affair with one of her favourite spots on earth.

At that moment I felt a little bit of guilt for having doubted her but, even more so, I was extremely proud to be her father. It was such a joyful and intoxicating feeling that it was if I had just smoked a bale of weed. At least that's what I assume it would feel like. There's no sense asking Kendall if that's how it would feel. Perhaps Avery will know? :-)

Teen Faces Off Parents

It is Tuesday, right? I doubled checked on my smartphone and it definitely is Tuesday. In my house this morning it sure seemed more like a Monday. Perhaps this being a leap year and having a 29th day of February yesterday has thrown things out of kilter. In any event, the kids were in fine Monday morning form on a Tuesday. Kendall, 15, is hung over and Avery, 13, forgot to take her lunch for the umpteenth time this school year.

Avery and her lunch are a puzzle, one of those 2000 piece puzzles to be exact. You know the ones where every piece looks to be the same shape and colour and it is next to impossible to put together. That's Avery and her lunch bag. I heard Lynda tell Avery that her lunch was packed and I even watched as Avery peered inside to see what wonders her mom had buried in the bag today. Somehow, within the 30 seconds that followed, Avery walked out the door without her lunch! Somehow the 13 year old brain has a disconnect between what it is supposed to do and what it actually does.

Avery is a great kid and an equally great student. She has never been sent to the principal's office for bad behaviour but she does visit there often to retrieve her lunch bag after it gets dropped off by Lynda or me. Come to think of it, there have been a few occasions when Avery has also gotten out of my car at school and left her schoolbag on the backseat. Despite the forgetfulness I am not too worried about it being a medical condition or anything other than a teenage phase that she will eventually outgrow. At this stage in her life it is all a matter of priorities: forgetting a book bag - she's smart enough to get by without it for a day or buddy up with a classmate; forgetting her lunch bag - mom or dad always deliver anyhow; forgetting her cellphone - never ever has happened and probably never will. After all, she is 13 not 50 (like her old man).

Now let's explore this morning's exploits of Avery's older sister. The hangover Kendall is experiencing is from five days of a swim binge in Halifax. Being careful to eat healthily, sleeping the appropriate number of hours each night, and resting between the twice daily racing sessions would throw even the most seasoned Newfie binger off her game. It can't be natural to be so good. She certainly didn't get it from me.

Kendall seemed fine when she arrived home yesterday afternoon. She was happy and joking around with the rest of the family. As an aside I have to show you what wonders can be done by a smartphone in the hands of a skilled teenage operator. Yesterday, Kendall took a photo of her mom and dad and did this (somehow). Creepy but cool. I like to call it:

Jynda & Lim

A different girl showed up this morning. Kendall decided to ditch early morning swim practice and she only gave us a pillow muffled moan when we tried to get her up so she could get ready for school. Overnight she seemed to lose the ability to use the English language and also became body-glued to her mattress. She did manage to mumble something about not feeling well. Lynda and I have seen this before, the day following the last couple of travel meets she has been on, so we knew exactly what to do. Lynda would hound her to get up and inform her that there would be no more travel meets if she missed school upon her return. 

Stuff like that is better left to the unique relationship between mother and daughter. Being in the middle of a battle of wits between mother and teenage daughter is no place for me. I like to avoid confrontation, even when it employs the gentle kind of tactics that Lynda would be using to get Kendall to school this very day. So what did I do? I grabbed Avery and hustled here out the door to the car. She was lucky she already had her coat on and schoolbag in hand as a hasty exit was my main goal. Going back for her forgotten lunch bag just wasn't an option. Come to think of it, perhaps I was a little too rough on Avery in the earlier part of today's story. Maybe it wasn't entirely her fault that she was off to school today without her lunch. That explains today but not the umpteen other times the lunch was left at home. Today is my fault, I admit it.

Lynda just texted me to advise Kendall made it to school. I am now wondering if it was really such a good idea to have sent her today. I am worried that we may be getting a call from the Department of Child Youth and Family Services. After all, we did send one kid to school today who was hungover and the other with no food. I ain't taking the fall for any of this. If they ask me I will just tell them that Jynda and Lim did it. 

Spelling is Just a Theory

"Spelling doesn't matter."  Those words were spoken to me by my daughter, Kendall, a grade 10 honours student, I was driving her to school, where, on that particular morning, she would be challenging one of the several midterm exams stemming from the mind blowing courses she had chosen. Based on her statement one would think that she was mentally preparing to recite the periodic table for chemistry or maybe the Pythagorean Theorem for geometry.

You remember Pythagorean, right? It's that simple concept we all learned in high school that the square of the hypotenuse (the side opposite the right angle) is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. "Oh yeah, how could I have forgotten?" is likely what you are saying to yourself. Or not.

You see, this blog is not just a hilarious free read that recounts the adventures and misadventures of daily life, as seen through my eyes, This blog attempts, sometimes not very well, to teach you something useful. The real lesson of today's story, as you unglaze your Pythagorean weary eyes, is: Spelling Doesn't Matter - the Kendall Theorem.

I am no genius, so I took to Google to learn what exactly a theorem may be. It turns out that a theorem is a rule or law, especially one expressed by an equation or formula. Therefore, in order for the Kendall Theorem to have merit she would have to produce actual proof that "spelling doesn't matter". I, at first, doubted my elder daughter's latent genius. Genetics were against her and her assertion. Her grandmother, great aunt, aunt, and aunt-in-law are all teachers and devoted preachers of the religion of grammar and syntax. Her mother, a natural "knower" of all, has recently taken to writing down any new words that she comes upon and then learning all about their meaning and origin. Of late, I hardly understand half of what she is saying to me and that is only the half that I happen to hear.

I may be Kendall's saving grace. Not only has Mother Nature both blessed and cursed me with being follically-challenged, she has gifted me with being grammatically-challenged as well. (I looked follically up in the dictionary and I still don't know if I spelled it correctly! Is it even a word?) I've made a few spelling boo boos over the years and my loving wife is always more than willing to remind me, and everyone else, just what they were. So the package of goodies one gets for attending a kid's birthday party is a loot bag and not a loop bag. Big deal! So artwork painted on a wall is a mural and not a muriel. My apologies to all of ladies named Muriel but they do sound very similar.

It seems Urban dictionaries can justify just about any variation of a word's spelling. I feel for my friends, the Zhang's, who recently moved to Newfoundland from China. What am I supposed to tell Yuhua when he asks me to explain when to use and how to spell a word such as: sight/site/cite? Here's what I will say: "It's easy Yuhua, just apply the Kendall Theorem."

I am not sure her theorem can be disproved. I doubt that even Einstein, who had great follicles by the way, would dare challenge the Kendall Theorem. The evidence is irrefutable.

Fact #1: Kendall's grade for the midterm she wrote just prior to uttering the now famous "spelling doesn't matter"? It was a 93.

Fact #2: The course for which Kendall wrote her midterm that morning? You guessed it - Englsih. ;-)

As her father I can sincerely declare that I am very proud of Kendall. There aren't too many teenagers who can say that they have a theorem named after them. In addition to being brilliant, I can rest easy knowing that Kendall will also become fabuously rich. She will make her fortune from royalties after the Kendall Theorem adorns millions of loop bags and muriels.

The Rusted Doughnut

Winner - one free doughnut. That's what my Tim Horton's cup revealed to me last evening just as I finished the steeped tea I had savoured while witnessing a ferocious battle between a sloth of grizzlies and and herd of mustangs. It was amazing, the tea had the perfect mix of sweetener and 2% milk. Oh yeah, that thing between the bears and horses......my daughters grade 8 basketball team of Grizzlies won by 3 points. It was anything but gruesome.

My Tim's tab, entitling the bearer to a tasty treat, soon found its way into the hands of a young lad of about 10 years of age. He is a sibling cub to one of my daughter's teammates. Well you would think I had gifted him the winning Powerball ticket as the look on his face reminded me of one all kids wear when they see what Santa has left under the tree on the morning of December 25th. There were no string attached. My only request was that he buy a healthy doughnut, which left him somewhat perplexed. He's 10, he'll figure it out.

I really get a charge from surprising people by doing nice things for them. Being that way probably hasn't been very healthy for my net worth. As someone who doesn't have a paying job but who does own a pickup with a plow attached, I could do quite well if I were to hang out my shingle and open a business that charges actual money for clearing snow from driveways. Unfortunately for my bank account I get considerable more enjoyment from pushing snow for free than I would if it were solely an obligation that I had to fulfill. Despite the monetary shortcoming, I know am truly a richer person because helping, just for the sake of it, pays exceedingly well.

My most memorable encounter while helping a snow shoveling citizen took place about ten years ago. I was still a member of the RCMP. I was on duty, not wearing a uniform, and driving an unmarked police car through a neighbourhood in the center of St. John's. An elderly man was at the end of his driveway, about where the sidewalk should be, if only the city knew how or cared about clearing these. Winter walking in St. John's is not for the faint of heart. I'd strongly suggest that anyone so daring should be capable of leaping tall snowbanks and be faster than a speeding city council snow plow.

The senior sidewalk shoveler didn't appear to be making much of a dent in the ice dam that lay at the end of his driveway. In him I saw my grandfather, my namesake, Jimmy Barron. A quick u-turn and a few seconds later I was along side my victim. He was even older than I had first thought. I was more determined that I was going to help him, whether he wanted it or not. I was a public servant after all and I was on duty too. When I told him I was willing to help he didn't bat an eye. He didn't even look up nor stop swinging the shovel like an ax. Hmmm... then I realized what was up. Random acts of kindness, even 10 years ago, were as rare as hen's teeth. He figured I had to have an ulterior motive. I told him that I didn't want any money and, as quickly as that, he was a changed man. He handed me the shovel and, as I worked away, we began a wonderful conversation. I learned that he was Nigel Rusted, a name I immediately recognized as belonging to a renown medical doctor who was a pioneering physician throughout the 20th century and a legend in our province. Dr. Rusted was in his 90's at that time of our meeting but he was extremely spry and equally entertaining. I learned a little about his life's adventures, his family's history and the family home that belonged to the driveway we were clearing of snow.

I often recall my brief encounter with Dr. Rusted and realize how fortunate I was to have met him. He has since passed but not before becoming a centenarian. If I had simply kept driving on that winter's day ten years ago then I would have missed out on an incredible experience. Even now I am smiling just like that little boy to whom I gave the free Tim Horton's doughnut. When I rolled up in my car to help Nigel Rusted shovel his driveway I had no idea that my cup of warm memories would overflow again and again in the years that followed this chance encounter. I guess, in some small way, I have to thank Tim Horton's and the large tea, two sweetener and one milk that I bought last evening for stirring these great memories. I certainly won more a lot more than just a doughnut.

Haunted By A Memory

Do you have a word? You know, a particular word that just seems to be your special word. One that always seems to suddenly stare back at you from the piece of scrap paper that lay on the table before you even though you were convinced you were doodling mindlessly. This word often appears when you are at peace with yourself and your mind is free. It is the word that you carve into a sandy beach with a piece of driftwood or a feather shed by a seagull as you sit just watching the rhythmic movement of the ocean and listening to the seductive sound of its relentless tide.

I had such a word. I do not know why it chose me nor from where it came, it just did.  My word was WITH. A simple word really, just four letters. There certainly seems to be little that is mysterious or particularly captivating about it. I have never quite figured out its symbolism to my conscious or unconscious self. I have surmised that perhaps it conveys the importance I place upon being a part of something, something meaningful, of striving to achieve a goal not just by myself but WITH others.

That seemed reasonable enough to me. That is as good as any explanation for why WITH had appeared again and again in my scribbles for as long as I can remember. Something changed about 8 years back. My word was no longer with me. It has not returned. In its place there has appeared a new word. I do not see this word in my doodles nor on any tranquil beaches. Instead, this word has imprinted itself in my thoughts and overwritten my ability to be at peace with myself. The word is disingenuous.

Up until about eight years ago I don't recall ever having heard of this word. That was when someone used it to describe me or, more accurately, my actions and behaviour with respect to a specific incident. I actually had to go and look up the word to find it's meaning. It wasn't flattering. The person who said I was disingenuous was a Judge and it was following testimony I had given about my reasons for arresting a person for drug trafficking. If you Google my name and any combination of words relating to drug trafficking then you are likely to stumble upon the Judge's written decision. It was his opinion that I wasn't forthcoming in my testimony and that I crafted it, after the fact, to fit the circumstances.

About the only thing on which the Judge and I agreed was that the guy I arrested had a lot of marihuana and cocaine stashed within a false compartment of his vehicle. His Honour wasn't buying my reasoning as to how I identified this guy and how I was convinced, without a doubt, that he was bringing a load of drugs from Quebec to Newfoundland. During my career I have lost other cases in court and I certainly made my share of mistakes along the  way. So why did this one affect me so deeply? I believe it was the fact that my integrity was being questioned and I believed unfairly so. In hindsight I probably could have done a few things better to expose the guy for what he was, a drug mule. I played an endless game of mental gymnastics, where I'd tumble and turn the actions that I took and the reasons leading to those choices, over and over in my mind. I became obsessed with reading and rereading the Judge's decision. I also replayed the trial over and over in my mind. I was stick in a loop. The here and now had no choice but to suffer as they took a back seat to those past events. Here and now encompassed family, friends, colleagues, my career, and my health.

I wrote a counter argument for every point that the Judge had cited in his decision. I thought by showing how wrong he was that I would slay my inner turmoil and recapture my professional integrity. Of course I couldn't publish my counter decision as the Judge had (I guess I could have included it on a blog but I chose not to) but I thought the simple act of writing it would be enough. Here I am almost eight years later so I guess it wasn't.

There was one very peculiar fact about that trial that has stood out in my memory. The trial was done in French, meaning that the judge, prosecuting attorney and defence counsel would be conversing in that language. Witnesses, such as myself, would have our testimony relayed by a translator. As I had arrested the guy and had spoken with him at length, I knew that English was his first language. During breaks in the trial I happened to speak informally with his lawyer and learned and he too was fluent in English. The prosecutor was bilingual but English was her first language. The Judge spoke French but he too was a native English speaker. It seemed that we had all gathered in St. John's as a show of our nation's constitutional commitment that an individual has the right to be tried in either English or French.

Here's where things turned strange. I listened and watched as the Judge posed a question to the defendant. It was obvious he had no clue what the Judge has asked so he turned to his lawyer and had him restate the question in English. All this fancy finagling to have a French trial and the only person, other than me, who didn't understand what was being said was the guy on trial. That was the most bizarre thing I had ever experienced in my career. To add insult to injury, I don't think the Judge ever realized that the defendant didn't speak nor understand French.  Nonetheless, the drug trafficking charges were thrown out by the Judge and the guy walked out of court that day a free man.

It's probably about time that I let all of this go and stop letting it affect me so much. In other words, I need to get WITH it. Writing this has been helpful but I still haven't achieved the peace and ease that I am seeking. Ultimately, I am the one who has to get over this hurdle. My wife says that no one else really cares about what happened at a fairly insignificant trial that took place eight years ago. I know she is right but like the Judge said when he referred to me: dis-is-no-genius. No I isn't!

Batman's Robin is from Shoal Harbour!

Stick with me a little as I connect the dots on this original episode of my Not So Private Tales.

Adam West was the original Batman in the TV series that ran from 1966-1968. Batman's friend in the Gotham City Police Department is Commissioner James "Jim" Gordon.  You with me so far?

I am James "Jim" Nixon. My father and brother are named Gordon. I was, a lifetime ago, a police officer. (I never achieved the rank of commissioner or anywhere even close. I was but a lowly Corporal, but we won't let that take away from my story.) You can see how I feel such a close kinship with Batman's Jim.  It's almost as if I could be him, episode after episode, sequel after sequel.

My brother-in-law, who, unless you consider his day job as web designer at a prominent AM radio station, has never acted a day in his life, His name just happens to be Adam West. I'm beginning to believe that there are no coincidences here. I am 22 years older than Adam so I feel as fatherly towards him as Commissioner Gordon does towards Batman.  Adam's closest sibling in age is 15 years his senior. It must have been a very dark night, just over 29 years ago, when our Adam was conceived.  That and the likelihood that our superhero's father left the door open when he visited the *Fortress of Solitude!

* (Writer's note -- I thought about not using this term as it is a reference to another superhero, Superman. The obvious and more suitable replacement would have been Batcave, but I figured that to use it in the context I had chosen would have been a bit too risque and not appreciated by my mother-in-law.)

My connections to the Dark Knight are irrefutable. The kinship Adam and I share is more powerful than the our province's iron horse of old, the Newfie Bullet; deeper than the now flooded iron mines on Bell Island; and taller than the iron stained rock walls of Red Cliff. Who needs the Man of Steel when we have our Man of Iron. Sure, he may not exactly fit the bill as you would envision most superheros to be. His choice of vehicle, a near powder blue Subaru, may not strike fear in the hearts of wrong doers. His tights may reveal just a little too much of our hero's package and his six pack is actually a storage compartment for Joe Louis' and May West's (no relation) cakes. Think of it as a breadbox that could also double as a bullet proof vest.

None of these disturbing visual images detract from the super guy who is Adam West. He is a crusader in the offing. His heart is huge and it is pure. He is anything but 2 faced. His wit would make The Joker jealous and he is nowhere as brooding as Bruce Wayne. It even appears that our lovable Batman has found his Robin, who goes by the alias of Susan. She is a friendly Catwoman, certainly more tigress than cougar. Together they will put the saint back in St. John's, the shine in Mount Pearl, the paradise in Paradise, the conception back in CBS(!?) I probably should have stopped at paradise. Then again, if Adam's father had done that then where would we be today? The days and nights would be a whole lot darker.

Just one last message for Adam West, my brother-in-law. There is no need to "thank" me for writing about you, nor do you need to reply/respond in anyway whatsoever. ;-) (Your wit scares me to death!) Should I need The Batman I will shine a bright light into the sky over the South Side Hills. A light that bright will need tremendous power so it will have to wait until the electricity from Muskrat Falls comes on stream. You may be much too old to be an effective crime fighter by the time that ever happens. Perhaps you and Susan should consider naming your first born son Adam. Should that happen then I will know for certain that the sequel will be better than the original!  Powie! Z-zwap!

Softball - The Syrian Socializer

I don't suppose the Syrian refugees arriving in the province would have had much of an opportunity to play much fast-pitch softball while growing up in a country known more in the sporting world for....???.... (I got nothing!). It would be a safe bet to say that soccer/football is popular there but after four years of tumultuous civil war and decades of living under a tyrannical regime participation in organized sports and recreational activities is way down on the priority list of life. One should not have to worry about kicking the bucket when attempting to kick a soccer ball.

Well, the recent arrivals to our rugged shores have no such worries here. As someone who grew up playing plenty of softball, I think it would be the perfect sport to help these newcomers to become indoctrinated into our culture. Of course there are the obvious physical benefits of playing softball Newfoundland style. Our fresh, salty air is certainly a gift from God. Unlike Syria, we don't get those sandstorms that are so big and powerful that they would probably exfoliate Cabot Tower right off of Signal Hill. Sure we have wind sometimes too...okay, just about all of the time, but it has such enduring charm and character that it defines the people of the island. While playing softball I've witnessed hits that should have been 'no doubt' home runs but turned into bunts that barely made the pitcher's mound because of the wind.  I've also watched as a skinny third baseman flew arse over kettle into the fence all because he forgot to put rocks for ballast in his back pocket before taking the field.

Frostbite may be unknown to a future shortstop from Syria but softball will open his or her eyes to the diversity and unpredictability of our climate. Our playing season usually runs from May to October so this middle infielder will definitely experience chilly conditions while playing. Our Syrian softballers will learn so much about our culture - all about long johns, the beauty of knowing someone who can knit gloves and stocking caps, as well as never to slide when the frozen infield is harder than the parking lot. The good thing is that the softball season also is played during our exquisite summer weather - that two weeks in late July, if we are lucky. (It's actually three weeks if you live on the west coast or in Conception Bay South.)

I'm sure Syria has flies and yes, Newfoundland does too. Our most pesky flies come primarily in two varieties: Nippers and Black Flies. Nippers are big like helicopters. Black Flies are smaller but bring lots of their buddies along for the buffet. Both species especially love softball players. I was a catcher when I played. I got to wear protective equipment all over my body. Catchers need protection because the ball can travel up to 75 m.p.h. and the damn thing hurts, even when it hits a padded region of the body. The equipment used by the catcher has endearingly been called "the tools of ignorance". That term may apply everywhere else but not in Newfoundland. As the catcher, I was the only player that had any chance of not having my face eaten off by the Nippers and Black Flies. So, my Syrian friends, if there is one lesson I can teach you is that when playing softball in Newfoundland, ignorance in bliss.

Choosing to immerse themselves in softball would also teach the Newfoundland Syrians (or are they Syrian Newfoundlanders or how about Syrian Newfoundland and Labradorians?) much about our history. As an example, many communities can thank the American military for making the first softball fields in our province. We let them set up shop here during the World Wars and although an awful lot of Yankees left here with Newfoundland war brides at least they left us with an appreciation for apple pie and being taken out to the ball game.

As it has done for me, this good old game can show the Syrian softballers what life is all about in many parts of our island. I've played with and against guys from the big city of St. John's and from tiny outport communities. Softball and socializing go hand in hand so you can't help but learn about these people and their stories, usually over a cold beer after a game. What's more Canadian than a can of cold Canadian?

My advice to the Syrian folks, who are now taking up residence in places such as St. John's, Gander, Grand Falls, and Lewisporte, is to pick up a glove, ball, and a bat as quickly as you can. It will be such a great way to immerse yourselves in the communities where you have chosen to begin your new lives. I wouldn't wait too long to sign up for the local league though. Spring will be here in a few months and so will the cursed Nippers and Black Flies. You all can't be catchers and be so lucky to wear the fly protection gear like I did.

Shoot! I forgot to mention the fog. Forget it, I couldn't possibly come up with the words to describe that phenomenon. You will only believe it when you see it.  The flies and the wind love the fog so I'm sure you will too.  Welcome to our beautiful island. ;-)

No Ending But A New Beginning

Hello. It's me. (No! Not Adele.)

Yeah, I know. You're wondering where the heck I've been? Well.... life happens. Maybe you thought I ran out of ideas?  Never going to happen. My brain ain't the biggest, nor does it fire neutrons and electrons around as readily as missiles are currently flying around the Middle East, but it often sees rainbows in a world that, these days, seems mostly grey and dreary.

Perhaps you figured that I have made enough money from my writing and that I am resting on my laurels along with my royalties. Nope....haven't made even one red cent (whatever that is) from putting pen to paper or from clickety-clacking on a keyboard .  So, you're thinking it must be that Jim just got sick and tired of writing. Wrong again. I love this stuff. What else gets me up at 4:15 A.M.?

Well, to be perfectly honest, there is something, or more precisely, someone for whom the time of day matters not to me.  That would be my competitive swimming 15 year old daughter, who practices, well before dawn, five mornings a week. At that hour is it really morning or is it more appropo to say she practices late at night? In any event, one more year and she will be old enough to drive herself and I can stay in bed.  It's a good thing we have two vehicles because when that time comes I bet you a million bucks that her mom, also know as my wife, will be conducting mobile surveillance to make sure her first born arrives at the pool safe and sound.

Early risings are no chore for me.  I love both my kids indescribably, so being in their company is priceless daddy-daughter time.  Time spent writing is right up there too. Those minutes and hours I spend crafting a story in my mind, chewing on the ideas and spitting out those that are crappy is time well spent. A writer's busy mind is the antithesis of idol hands being the devil's workshop.

When I started typing at 4:15 this morning, I had an idea that I thought may be a fun to pursue. As often is the case, everything that I have typed so far bears absolutely no similarity to that original idea. Once I begin to type, my rainbow loving brain takes over and I am powerless to stop it.

For your reading pleasure and as an example of what goes through the mind of someone who awakes shortly after 4:00 A.M. (not much or, at least, not much that is earth shattering), I'll relate my original idea. I probably should have ended today's blog two sentences ago but what the heck. I've been away from writing for 51 weeks so I am prepared to cut myself some slack if the following story doesn't measure up. I'll make a deal with you, if you don't enjoy it then only send me half of the money that you usually send. ;-)  Here is today's story as a work in progress.

possible titles...........The Letter Between B and D or Now You C It Now You Don't  (needs work!!)

Given that it was January, 2015 when I last posted, I thought it only prudent that I begin by saying hello to everyone.  From there I ran with the idea that I would say hello using as many words or expressions as I could think of that began with the letter H.  I came of with five. Accompanying Hello, the other four where: Howdy; Hey!; Hi; and How ya doing? My idea was to then gracefully, yet amazingly, move you, the reader, from H to the letter C. Riveting writing for sure! You get what you pay for. :-\  

I make the smooth transition to C. Here it comes.....

For 2016 I am anti just about any word that begins with C.  C has had its day.  I am done with it.  I think you'd agree.  During the previous few years, the "Big C", the dreaded cancer, has been prominent in my family.  My loved ones are all doing well but we will forever be ardent enemies of the "Big C".

To strengthening my argument for the abolition of C, last spring I was found to have a coronary condition. (good use of alliteration and they are C words too..bonus!)  When I was told I had developed arrhythmia my first thought was that it meant my tone deafness had been cured and I would finally be able carry a tune.  Taking a page from Adele, I'd be calling my debut album 50. Google dictionary crushed that dream.  Arrhythmia has something to do with electrical misfiring of the heart so that it speeds up for no apparent reason. My heart rate would double in the blink of an eye.  What a rush! No need for caffeine, chocolate, cookies or crack cocaine?  These pesky C words could be removed from my vocabulary. (An admission - I have never tried crack cocaine, although I sure saw enough of it and what it does to people. It is caffeine multiplied by infinity. Not pretty! They both derive from the cocoa plant so go figure.)  

Since my diagnosis, I've had one medical procedure, which I watched on a HDTV as the doctor probed around my heart with a pair of tweezers.  It was as if he was playing a video game with my insides and I was hoping that he played a lot of Mario Brothers as a kid.  He snipped a few of my internal wires and sent me on my way.  He said I would be improved but that I would likely need a second procedure.  He was right, my symptoms persist. Maybe this summer I'll get fixed so that my coronary becomes ordinary.

As we work towards and wait for good health to return to our clan, I am going to have to think of a few more C words to banish. Cod fishing......never; think of other C words for consideration

- cuddling?? 

- cognac - what kind of liquor is that anyway?? 

- cayaking - check spelling....

Finish with a profound yet witty statement that ties the entire story together and leaves the reader wanting more.

The End

That story never quite got finished.  All in all, not a bad effort after being away from the writing game for almost a year.  I promise my next story will have a beginning, middle, and end. My! Look at the time. It is almost 2:00 P.M. It's my bedtime. Surprised? A little early, you say! Well I do get up at 4:00 A.M. most mornings and I now do it without the benefit of caffeine, chocolate, and cookies. Thankfully I have my Adele albums and the arrhythmia to sing her songs. Goodbye, it's me, Jim.

Hockey Dads, Make Room

I just got back from the sporting goods store.  It surprised me how quickly someone can be transformed into a hockey player.  Well, at least look like one.  One of my coaching expressions is to inform my players that there are people who play hockey and then there are hockey players. Their goal is to be one of the latter; a very rare athlete indeed. 

Now back to my shopping excursion. My daughter, Avery, is a mature 12 year old, a honour student, and, as of today, a Peewee.   Perhaps inspired by the gold medal winning Canadian Junior Hockey Team or by watching my Northeast Bantam B's last week, she decided she wants to play hockey.  Peewees are larger than Atoms (don't tell that to Einstein), gigantic compared to Mites, but smaller than Midgets and Bantams. (What's a Bantam anyway?)  Throw Juveniles, Tykes and Juniors into the mix and one begins to realize that maybe size does matter after all.  (I hope my wife doesn't read this, she'll know I've been lying to her all these years.)  

Avery knows the game better than most kids her age.  Her only obvious deficiency, when she finally hits the ice next week, will be that she can't skate.  She says she can go forward, stop a little, and definitely can't go in reverse.  Even with that fairly honest self assessment I think she is being somewhat optimistic.  Confidence is a great asset, but I hope when reality body checks her ego this coming Wednesday that she will get right back up on those blades of steel and persevere.

That truly is my hope, that Avery sticks with it.  Long enough at least,  so that when I donate her equipment to the minor hockey association I can tell them that it is "used" equipment.  Unlike her older sister, who found her sporting fit to be competitive swimming at a young age, Avery continues to try things out.  I love her enthusiasm and willingness to explore, but my garage is starting to look a lot like the sporting goods store I left this afternoon. Soccer, basketball, swimming, volleyball, rowing, and softball have all been favourite sports during Avery's short life.  Can hockey stay in favour?  That is the several hundreds of dollars question.

Lynda wondered why I just didn't just go get used equipment for Avery.  If any of you know Lynda then you would realize that position is totally unlike her.  Normally, Lynda would be totally against her kids wearing anything that someone else had so close to their skin.  Her thinking would be along the lines of "Who knows where that equipment has been and what heebie-jeebie creatures are lurking behind the layers of protection."  The fact she questioned that I outfitted Avery in all new equipment hints that Lynda also habours doubt that Avery will be the next Hayley Wickenheiser. Lynda wasn't an athlete, so she doesn't understand.  You have to look good to play good.  You need to be different than everyone else, but that is in how you play, not in how you look when you play. You can't have a Koho hockey stick when everyone else has a PMP 5030.  Your helmet must not be red when everyone else is wearing black.  You first need to fit in, then you work to set yourself apart from the pack by playing the game the way it was meant to be played - like a hockey player.

Avery may turn out to be a girl who plays hockey or a girl who played hockey once.  It matters not. What matters is that she is excited about trying.  Almost as much as I will be to watch her.  After all my years involved with the game, today I became what I thought I may never be, a hockey dad.  It sure feels special, but it sure was expensive.

One last thought before the final buzzer sounds on this story.  Lynda's dad, Ron West, was a famous, perhaps infamous, local hockey referee.  My first game misconduct, while playing hockey school hockey, came at his hands and that was long before I even knew he had a daughter.  I got the last laugh on him (or did I?). Just kidding, dear.  I hated Ron, the ref.  I've had my share of run-ins with many refs, both when I was a player and now as a coach.  It's not that I don't respect them, it's more that they are just so wrong so often and I don't mind telling them.

I wonder if my attitude towards hockey refs will be carried on by Avery or will she turn out more like her grandfather and be a sympathizer of the folks in the zebra shirts?  I'll be okay with whatever path she chooses.  I can tell her that all that time I spent in the penalty box allowed me to see the game from an entirely different perspective.  Getting punched in the head repeatedly does that to a person.  I am thankful that Avery is more like her mother and is a lover not a fighter.  I think even Ron West would have approved. On that he would have be right, for the first time ever. Touché, Ron!

The 5 Second Rule of Engagement - featuring Butter Bowls & Mother's Roles

I have never considered myself to be an overprotective parent.  I frequently...okay, always abide by the "5 second rule" whenever my kids drop an item of food on the floor or ground.  I don't even bother to count if the landing area is a lap, car seat, or the top of the dog's head.  If the landing zone is sketchy then I'll just count to five faster so not as many germs get a chance to hop on for the ride.  So far, it seems, this approach seems to have worked well - the kids are still alive and kicking.

My lovely wife, Lynda, does enough "mothering" of the kids for the both of us.  Case in point was this very morning. I was heading out the door to pick Kendall up at the swimming pool and then drop her at school when I was handed a larger freezer bag containing a copious amount of Cheerios in a reemployed butter container that was now full of skim milk.  Don't worry, a spoon and some napkins were cozily nestled next to the cereal and milk too.  Lynda must have seen the "What the..." expression I was wearing at that moment so she explained that Kendall had said that she hadn't much time in the mornings and wasn't eating her breakfast.  No sense questioning.  Twenty something years of marriage and fourteen plus years as a father has taught me that.

So as Kendall jumps into the car and buckles up for the commute to her junior high school, one that takes no more than five minutes, even in the St. John's' version of rush half hour traffic, I show her the freezer bag that her mother has prepared.  Now it is Kendall who has the 'What the..." look on her face, which appeared as no surprise to me.

I tell Kendall that her mom wanted to make sure that she had her breakfast before going to school. Kendall laughed and went on to explain the recent conversation she had with Lynda that may have been the catalyst for her mom's concern. Kendall had recently mentioned to Lynda that the lineup at the pool's Tim Horton's is often way too long and that she would be late for school if she tried to order from there.  The school's breakfast program, although awesome, is usually out of her favourite breakfast food, bagels, by the time she arrives and that she is usually stuck with having to eat a bowl of cereal.  Somehow Kendall's version of events was interpreted by Lynda as "pack breakfast for Kendall and make sure it is cereal and milk that she will eat in 3 minutes or less with a small plastic spoon while sitting in a car driving up to 70 kph on the Parkway and stops and starts suddenly for traffic lights, traffic, and pedestrians".

\

What do you think the odds are that a 14 year old girl would take the chance of wearing her breakfast rather than eating it and showing up to junior high with a huge milk spot on the front of her blouse?  I have found that milk doesn't adhere very well to the "5 second rule".

I'm writing this morning from Starbucks, where wifi is free, offers bottomless coffee with my Gold Starbucks card, and the leather chairs are comfortable, even if they do have more than their share of milk stains. There's no chance I'll be adding to those stains today.  This butter container is actually a very good cereal bowl so the milk will go precisely where it is supposed to.  So tasty and I'm saving $3 by not having to order the bran muffin.  Just one caveat though,  On the off chance that I drop a Cheerio or two on the floor her at Starbucks, then to heck with the "5 second rule".  Some rules are okay to break. I think even Lynda would approve.

Depot was Home

 A young and mustachioed Constable Nixon can be found as the 3rd guy in, on the right hand column.

Twenty-five years ago this past week I became a member of the RCMP.  Four years ago this week I also became an ex-member of the RCMP.  It's those earlier years that I'd like to focus upon today. More specifically, I'll recount a few of my more vivid recollections of those first six months as a Mounted Policeman.  Those were the Depot days, on the fringes of Regina, Saskatchewan.  By the way, Depot is not pronounced the way we say it when referring to the retail store, Home Depot, nor does it sound like Dee-Pot.  It is Dep-po (the first syllable rhymes with "step" and in the second the "t" is silent).  Get it right or you'll find yourself CB'd next weekend!  That's confined to barracks.  Or maybe it'll be a week of "Bozo Parade" - 6:30 a.m. full uniform inspections in the drill hall, conducted by a crusty, loud, caffeine deprived Corporal, who, in the world outside of Depot is merely a low level supervisor, but within the confines of the RCMP Training Academy, a corporal is a demigod.

I lived in D Block.  My home for those six months consisted of a 12 inch slab of foam on a metal frame for a bed, a few drawers and a closet.  There was also room for the tickle trunk, which was pretty much the same size, shape, and style of trunk that every RCMP officer since 1873 has had the honour of owning.  There was an expansive community bathroom and shower area just down the hall. What more could a 24 year old bachelor ask for!  Well, maybe a few walls?  You see, my room was also the bedroom of 31 other guys.  Sixteen beds lined one side and sixteen the other. We were alphabetical.  Nice and orderly.  The RCMP way.  We weren't 32 individuals.  We were Troop 20 - 1989/1990.  All for one, one for all.

In some strange way I actually enjoyed Depot.  I was in great physical shape going there and after 6 years of university I had learned a thing or two about cramming and the nuances of how to study effectively.  I found out I was a natural marksman and all those childhood scrapes with my sister had toughened me for the rigors of ground fighting sessions during our self defence classes.  Some of my troop mates weren't as prepared, so that made for a hellish first few months. The thing about the RCMP is that they instill a sense that your troop is only as good as your weakest member.  It certainly provided an incentive for the guys who needed to get better at pushups, running or swimming to put the extra hours in a night.  It also taught us to help one another and not to only think of yourself.  For those who didn't buy in there was no where to hide. Your harshest critics or your biggest supporters were an arms length away....literally....day and night.

It was interesting that I shared my living space, or pit as it was known, with Roy Nishimura, a Japanese Canadian from Edmonton.  Roy was.....interesting.  The normal 5:30 a.m. wake up for the troop just wasn't early enough for Roy.  At 5 every weekday morning, Roy would begin pruning and preening our pit.  The first few times I thought I was experiencing a nightmare, one where a monster with one bright red eye was preparing to devour me.  It made a menacing, hair raising, swishing and swooshing sounds that surely had to come from a relative of Godzilla.  No, it was just Roy.  With a mini flashlight clenched between his teeth and his steam producing flat iron in hand, Roy was getting a head start on his daily chores.  He was ironing the blanket on his bed. Yup, you read me right. Believe it or not, the actual act of ironing one's bed is not abnormal in the Depot world, but doing it before the lights came on, when sleep is a very precious commodity not to be wasted, is very strange indeed.  I may have razzed Roy somewhat but I didn't stop him.  It turned out to be a great move. Each and every weekday morning, by the time I had gotten up, showered, returned from breakfast (or Bozo Parade), Roy had not only tidied up his part of our pit, but mine too.  I never dusted once trying my entire stay at Depot, although I did iron my bed a few times, but usually just with the flat edge of a metal clothes hanger to get out the major wrinkles.

Here's something funny too.  I never slept in my bed, ever.  We learned from more senior troops that sleeping ON the bed is a better way to go.  Sleeping in the bed meant body hair, messy sheets, and dirty pillows, all things that were easily spotted during the daily inspections of the lurking corporals. The way around this was to buy a comforter and pillow and use them exclusively.  During the day, those non-RCMP issued items were then hidden in our tickle trunks. Nothing is sacred when you are a recruit, nothing that is but the inside of your trunk.  That was off limits to everyone.  It was the part of a recruit that helped protect and maintain his or her individuality.  We all dressed alike, were given identical haircuts, had to conform to rule upon rule, but the trunk remained that bastion of who we truly were, Twenty-five years later I still have my trunk.  I always will.  I no longer have the pillow and comforter though.  They went in the garbage on June 4th, 1990, the day I was presented with my badge and was unleashed on the world as a rookie cop.

I have lots of fond and some not so fond memories of life at Depot and of living with 31 other guys. I'll save those for another day.  In case your curious, Roy Nishimura was posted to Whistler, BC after graduation from Depot.  I guess the Force figured that with so many Japanese visitors to that resort town, it would be a good idea to have a friendly and familiar face wearing the uniform with the yellow strip down the leg.  Perhaps it didn't really matter that Roy couldn't speak a word of Japanese, nor did he know how to ski. The RCMP must have known what I had known, that Roy did a pretty good impression of a beloved Japanese folk hero - Godzilla.  What the RCMP failed to realize is that Roy's Godzilla wan't visitor friendly at all, as it only came out just before dawn.  They also should have known that Roy's dusting skills may have been better served somewhere on the dry and windy prairies.  All they had to do was ask me.  I could have been found at Bozo Parade.

I Really Am Cool

What a horse's ass I turned out to be this morning!  It seemed like a fairly innocent comment.  At the very least, it was one that was meant to be funny, with a touch of father-to-daughter "love you no matter what" thrown in for good measure.

Avery, 12 years young and new to the wonderful world of junior high, was struggling with a fine case of bed head.  Her mom was in the bathroom with Avery and they were tag teaming to tame the menacing mane.  I just happened to walk by at the very moment Lynda had lassoed Avery's hair.  I couldn't help it, it reminded me of a horse's tail, so that's exactly what I blurted out and chuckled as I did.  Avery burst into tears and Lynda shot daggers at me with her eyes.  I scurried off to empty the dishwasher.  I understand that a whole lot more than I do the fairer sex.

Normally, my attempts at such humour are met with rolling eyes or maybe even slight smiles that daughters 1 and 2 attempt to hide from my view.  (Avery has a 14 year old sister, Kendall.) God forbid that either of my offspring should ever have to admit that their father, whom they've come to call "Didi", actually made them laugh out loud.....I guess to be hip I should use LOL or ROTFL.

Keeping up with the tween and teen Jones's is proving to be too much for my middle aged (and then some) self.  I realized this a few months ago.  As a dad who is heavily involved in his kids' lives as a sports coach, chef/fast order cook, and taxi driver of the teen horde to and from the mall, I believed I was the bee's knees, the #1 Dad,  No doubt I had earned the prestigious label of "cool dad". My bladder burst when my girls informed me that, in their world, cool was actually an acronym that stood for Constipated-Overrated-Outdated-Loser.  They ROTFL!  I cried on the inside.

As for her hair, Avery won the battle by employing some sort of double bun combination.  She looked cute as a button.  It turns out it wasn't really her hair that made her upset and that it was other things. I didn't pry. I'm learning.

I drove Avery and Kendall to school but we arrived late.  I asked if they wanted me to come to the office with them to explain to the staff why they were late.  "No", blurted Kendall, "that's cool." Off they went to join the hundreds of other,s all born since the new millennium.  What do they know about the real world?   Meanwhile, I'm off to Starbucks to write my blog, have a bran muffin, and a Tall Dark Roast.  Hmmmm????  I think the kids could be right, I just may be one cool dad after all!

When Kids Cry....I'm Likely Close-by

So I took a swimming trophy back from a little 10 year old girl at a recent meet!  I didn't mean to give it to her in the first place.  I had mistakenly thought that she had done just that (as in finished in first place).  Surely she didn't feel too embarrassed?  After all, there were only a few hundred people in the stands watching all of this.  She's young, she'll get over it.  I say that in hope, but I know if it happened to me that I probably wouldn't.

And why the gigantic alligator tears from the grade 5 kid at last week's chess tournament?  Surely it wasn't because I chose to use "rock-paper-scissors" to eliminate either him or his opponent after several games lead to neither claiming victory.  Stalemate was not an option.  If I hadn't resorted to a more expedient means of deciding a victor then we'd still be in the school gym waiting for one to finally checkmate the other and I'd be the one crying.  Was it fair?  Probably not.  Would I have felt the same as that little boy and cried a river?  You bet.

I fancied myself a pretty good hockey coach, always believing I had the best interest of the kids at heart.  My last coaching stint left a lasting impression on me and taught me that my best effort may not be good enough.  Sure, most of the boys had a great year but there was one who slipped through the cracks.  I had no idea that he was so unhappy and that he considered it to be his "worst year ever".  Once again, my actions precipitated the opening of the floodgates.  Those tears drowned whatever desire I may have had to continue coaching.

Hockey, chess, swimming.....and I'm only scratching the surface on just how good I am at making kids cry.  I've coached basketball and softball too. Maybe there's a message there somewhere?

My own family is not exempt from Jim - The Tear Jerker!  On any given Sunday, my brother Bill, his wife, and three young children come over for a family gathering so we can all scoff down whatever feast (must include gravy) mom has prepared.  Now his kids are age 6 and younger, so one never knows what mood and manner each will be bringing with them.  Inevitably, I (Uncle Jim) will swing one around too fast, bop one little head off another, or scare the daylights out of one or all three because I happened to shout too loudly at my older brother Gord or one of the dogs.  You guessed it, tears begin to stream from my nieces or nephew.  They often continue unabated until Grammie comes to the rescue with visual distraction, also known as a homemade chocolate chip cookie.

Perhaps this tendency to induce tears comes naturally to me.  As a kid I did more than my fair share of shedding.  There were sports teams I didn't make, awards I didn't win, got beat up, broke bones, bitten by dogs, stung by bees, bike accidents, two brothers and a sister to learn to live with, parents, and the mind and body altering teenage years.  No wonder I balled so much! No wonder mom made such good chocolate chip cookies.  They were her tasty, edible pacifiers.

Perhaps the wisest thing I have ever did was to move back to Newfoundland in 2004 after being away for fifteen years.  It's no coincidence that this move occurred not long after Lynda and I had children of our own.  It was also no accident that our home construction plans included a living area for Grammie.  My children, Kendall and Avery, are great kids and were phenomenal babies.  But even phenoms cry and with me as their dad they were guaranteed to do more than their share.

Grammie's cookies have saved the day for us on numerous occasions.  They put a stop to the waling and balling that came naturally with being so young, as well as for those instances when I may have done something to accidentally induce the tears.  There have been a few times over the years when the cookies failed to do their magic.  Perhaps I shouldn't totally blame Grammie's baking abilities.  I may have had something to do with why her secret recipe was not able to hold back the tears of my children (her very precious grandchildren).

How was I to know that little kids would get upset when their dad took back their cookies and ate them?  I figured, being not long past the rug-rat stage, that they'd get over it.  Also, they were so young that I believed it was likely they'd never remember that I re-gifted the cookies anyhow.  Turns out I forgot one important thing - Grammie remembers.  Since those days of my gluttony, all chocolate chip cookies are now taken straight from her oven, packaged and delivered to Kendall and Avery for their sole consumption.  None for me, ever.  I could just cry!

Southern Charm - Floridian Tales

I am presently in Florida.  No, I am not telling you I am half a continent away so that any would-be B&E artists amongst you can violate the sanctity of my home.  I respect my readers too much to even think that.  Also, I recruited the kid from Home Alone to house sit (the one from the first two movies, as he was definitely more creative and vicious than those in the umpteenth sequels.

I share my geo-location only because it is relevant to the telling of this story.  Even more relevant is the company I am keeping.  Of course Lynda, Kendall and Avery are here, but joining us on this adventure are: my mom (Grammie); my mom-in-law (Nanny); and Lynda's brother, Adam West (Batman).  

My stories almost always result from the things people do or say.  That is what I find most compelling.  People never fail to disappoint.  They always provide excellent material.  You just have to watch and listen.  Of course, it doesn't hurt to stir the pot sometimes either, just to make the story in waiting that much more tasty, albeit not necessarily more tasteful.  I digress.  Here are a couple of incidents from early in our vacation, compliments of my daughter Kendall and Grammie.  I have labelled them as Funny and Not So Funny, but whether they are is ultimately up to you.  I am but the messenger.

Funny

All seven of us were on the can't miss ride, It's a Small World.  I think it looked exactly the same as when I first came to Disney in 1972.  Surely the words to that song become implanted in everyone who rides in those boats on rails and to all who become entranced by the vivid colours and the global, heart warming theme of the experience. Everyone in our boat, as well as those folks nearby, were all quiet, perhaps even reflective.  That was when the silence was broken by my 13 year old daughter.  She loudly exclaimed, with partial disgust and iPhone in hand, "Hey!  There's no WiFi down here.".   She has a point,  it is supposed to be a small world after all.

 Not So Funny

Typhoon Lagoon took on No Holds Barred Grammie and won the day.  Determined to do whatever rides her granddaughters do, and do them better, Grammie donned her not-so-bikini after a six year absence from all things swimming.  She warmed up well.  The Swirling Beast was no match for her tenacity.  In retrospect, riding on top of an inflatable rubber life raft perhaps should not be considered such a mean feat.

With confidence assured, Grammie followed along as we ascended the many steps to the top of the next adventure - a virtual free fall down a tube of white water.  No rubber rafts this time.  Grammie was equipped only with her wits and her millennium era swim suit.  I made sure to precede Grammie so I would be able to capture the spectacle of her splashdown.  Instead, what I saw was my 75 year old mother arriving at the splash pool at the end of the "ride" and remaining submerged and remaining submerged and..... 

Grammie reminded me of Jack, as he followed the Titantic to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, arms waving, no panic to be seen, just acceptance.  I watched, waiting for her to standup - the pool was about 30 inches deep, but she didn't, and she didn't and she didn't.  My mom was drowning!  

As Batman looked on, I jumped in front of the lifeguard, who was not doing that job at that particular moment, and pulled my mom from the not so icy depths.  She was unflappable.  Grammie said she thought it was all just part of the ride, although she said she couldn't have held her breath any longer.  There's no way Grammie would ever surrender to fear or a near death experience.  For her, it was, "What ride are we doing next?".   Unflappable!  I put my glasses back on, tucked my cape back into my Speedo, checked in my superego, and returned to being just another nameless face in the crowd.

If there's a lesson here, it is that Grammie needs to learn, that when submerged, to be a bit more "flappable".  At least a little bit so that the lifeguard will notice.  We don't want to lose the one and only Grammie.  A world without Grammie would be a too small world after all.

The End

About the Author

Jim continues to vacation in Florida, where there is no snow.  Earlier today he received a call from his lawyer.  Apparently, he is being sued by both the propane delivery guy and the NL Power meter reader.  Each sustained significant injuries while approaching the Nixon house over the previous two days.  The perpetrator is reported to be a 30 something year old male, who says his name is Kevin McAllister.  The police [presently have my house surrounded and are trying to get him to come out.  The cops say they may use water cannons, but it's a last resort because it has a history of not working. (No kidding!  Can you say - Leo Crockwell?)  My lawyer tells me that everything will be okay, after all, Kevin is Home Alone.

Man Cave Mathematics

My chest swelled with pride.  My daughters wanted me to play video games with them and they weren't taking no for an answer.  Perhaps I was still the 'king of cool' in their eyes.  My girls, now 13 and 11, wanted their daddy, so how could I refuse.  I followed them down to the room that when I built this house ten years ago I had envisioned to be my man cave.  It was to be the place where I, as head of the household, would go to regenerate, to relax after a day of hunting and gathering.  A place where my woman and my offspring would enter only to bring me my slippers and an occasional glass of milk, to be accompanied by a row or two of Oreo cookies (the dark ones, not the vanilla wannabes; and always eaten whole, never cracked open to slurp the creamy filling all by itself. Sacrilege!)

My cave never was to be.  Soon after moving in, it became the vault for precious treasures.  That would have been fine but I had neither ownership of nor say in these riches.  I'm not sure that I minded though.  I just wanted that room to be mine and mine alone.  It was never to be.  My kids strong-armed it from me. They are tough little girls.  They, being two and me being one, had the strength of numbers.  More importantly for maintaining their claim to my cave, they had the ever present, lurking in the shadows, not to be crossed, support of their mother.  One of the biggest surprises in a man's life is when he learns this mathematical equation: (MOTHER > wife).   There are never any exceptions to this rule...never.  As a result, I learned another equation:  (KIDS > husband).  By using the transitive property or my take on it, it then makes sense that: (KIDS > husband) (husband = man cave) (husband < = 0), therefore (man cave = ain't never going to happen).

In the early days, my room of desire was filled to the rafters with such wondrous things as: Barbie's extra large play house; a few thousand stuffed creatures; several large bins that had gazillions of those stupid, useless and one use only McDonald toys; and few million dolls in various stages of undress with many minus a limb or two.  Mr. Dress Up would have have been envious of the number of princess dresses and costumes that overflowed from several more large bins.  He, Casey and Finnegan could have been trapped underneath those mountainous piles for all I know.  I never went in the place.  I just did an occasional wishful glance through the doorway as I swept, mopped and did my daily household chores, ever mindful that Cinderella had triumphed.  In my daydreaming, I pictured my kids bringing my cookies, milk and slippers and fittingly, my slippers were glass.  I was Jimderella.

Today, that room is the "playroom".  The Wii and Xbox are kept company by girlie coloured bean bags.  No war games make it to the big screen.  The girls prefer less hostile pursuits.  Their latest craze is some kind of dance thing on the Xbox.  This is what they asked me to play with them.  I'm not exactly built for dancing of any sort, nor have I been gifted with much rhythm. I held my own on the dance floor in the 80's by doing the ankle slap - 2 side to sides, one step forward and one step back.  Throw in the occasional Night Fever arm in the air, pretend to know the words, and you were golden.  There was no phone camera, no video this or that. You just had to survive three or four minutes and you could get off the floor, ego in tact.  Such is not the case today.  Even the damn video games have cameras!

There I was a few days ago, on the dance floor of the kids' playroom, sandwiched between my two little girls.  The proud and popular dad.  Or so I thought.  The music began and I quickly learned that the object of the game is to copy the moves that your video image is performing on the TV.  While doing it, we were laughing and having a great time.  It's also not a bad workout.  After our song ended, the scores popped up and I was third or last.  The game said I was "creative", which was a nice way of saying that I didn't exactly copy much of what my image had done.  This was not unexpected.  What was unexpected is what happened next.  The kids played back segments of our dancing.  I was worse than I ever imagined.  The ankle slap wasn't as timeless as I had thought.  To add insult to injury, the kids then proceeded to do weird things to our images.  One was to make our heads two or three times there actual size.  I have to admit that it was funny to watch.  My girls and I laughed hysterically and I felt all warm and closer to them than ever.  This was a wonderful daddy-daughters moment.  That was until they informed me that I looked like Shrek and they proceeded to laugh even harder.

I think I was set up from the beginning.  I certainly can't be mad at my kids for poking fun at me.  They actually weren't wrong.  Shrek is green and that colour describes me perfectly.  Green with envy because they have my man cave.  I won't try to get even with with my kids either.  They likely come by there deviousness honestly - from their mother, Princess Lynda-ona.  To end my story, here's one last formula that may be foreshadowing events to come: (Wife > husdand) (husband = dead man).  The end!

For Change Sake

"Nothing is as constant as change."  Not my words, but ones so very very true.  How about this one - "A change is as good as a rest."  Again, not mine, but I sure believe in its message.  Now when you combine the message in these expressions with one of my all time favourites, then we've really have something prophetically profound.  "If you've got an itch.....scratch it."

Ten years ago, that exactly what I did.  Lynda and I were living in Burlington, Ontario.  Kendall and Avery were three and one years of age and went to a wonderful lady's house whenever we trotted off to our jobs. We all resided in our quaint little bungalow, in an established area of the city, with massive oak and maple trees lining our peaceful suburbia.  After being there for 8 years, we had formed great relationships with many of our neighbours too, with a lot of them becoming more like family than merely just friends.  We had a pool.  The weather in Burlington is ranked as being near the top for the entire country.  We loved the warm summers and short winters.  Lynda also loved her job.  As for me, I was no longer working the dreaded weekend and night shifts and had settled into a Monday to Friday day job as an investigator of white collar crimes for the RCMP.  Not much of a requirement to wear my bullet proof vest in that gig, albeit the paper cuts were brutal.  At least they were until my fingers toughened up.  Perhaps I should have used the puncture resistant gloves that I had dawned so often whenever I was searching the person, vehicle, or anything to do with a suspected drug trafficker.  Oh well, hindsight is 20-20.  (No, again, not my expression!  I need to work on being more original.)  I certainly can't forget Doug and Dallas.  Our dearest friends and soul mates.  Transplanted Newfies too, they lived not too far away and we could usually be found together, doing some of the "funnest" stuff and making memories to last a lifetime.

By any measurement, my life was pretty good a decade ago.  I could have easily convinced the RCMP to leave me in the Greater Toronto Area for the remainder of my career, so no one was likely to force us to leave the home that I had lived in longer than any other during my entire life.  No one, that is, except me.

I still don't know what exactly it was that caused my itch.  I just knew that I needed a change and that my family did too.  Perhaps it was dad's death a few months earlier.  That is the most likely candidate.  I spent a few weeks back home during dad's final days and after he died.  I left Newfoundland in 1989 and this was the longest time that I had spent back there since.  When I returned to life in Ontario, I developed a yearning to go home.  It seems that no matter how long they are away, transplanted Newfoundlanders always call the place home.  Lynda needed some convincing, quite a bit actually.  Eventually she came on board and I was able to call in a few favours and by the summer of 2004, we all had relocated back to the island.

Today, we have a wonderful house, with a view of the ocean to die for.  We live in the woods.  There is lots of privacy and we enjoy doing so many outdoor activities that come with being nestled in our quaint little town.  The kids are 13 and 11 and this is the only home that they remember.  They love it here.  My mom lives with us.  She has her little apartment downstairs and she is the glue that bonds us all.  Her baking is pretty good too.  We have great neighbours and have watched families grow and prosper during the last 10 years.  Lynda has worked at the same company for the last eight years and enjoys the challenges but welcomes the flexibility the job provides so she can partake in the kids' activities.  I'm no longer in the RCMP, having burned the candle at both ends for too many years, my mind and body told me it was time to leave.  I have tinkered at several jobs but because I haven't jumped back into the workforce entirely.  This has afforded me with the opportunity to spend so much more time with Kendall and Avery.  I am blessed to have had this opportunity and it's my most treasured gift.  As for the weather here.....it sucks.

So guess what?  My itch has returned.  Change is in the wind.  I don't know what yet, nor do I know where. I just know that it is very likely that a year or two from now, things will be very different for me and my family.  I'll take my time, think it through, and consult Lynda constantly, so that we make the best decision possible.  It's just like when you go on the city bus and the driver says..."Correct change only."

As for my life so far, I wouldn't change a thing.