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.
Thursday, November 07, 2013
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? ;-)
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