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? ;-)
Saturday, September 07, 2013
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
The Tale of Two James'
My four year old nephew, the real James Nixon, knows more than the average kid his age. In fact, it would seem that he is in a class by himself on the genius continuum. You see, little red headed James knows everything. To verify, all you simply have to do is ask him. Sure, it's an easy claim to make. There are lots of pretenders out there. Lynda's uncle Paul is "Cliff Claven-like" in knowing just about every tidbit of useless information. (Paul kind of looks like Cliffie too! Lucky Brenda!!) But when compared to James, Paul turns out only to be a pretender to the throne of being all knowing.. He is simply a master at parroting what he has seen on reruns of the Discovery Channel.
I have witnessed James' brilliance. The smart ones seem to have a mastery of grasping the obvious, whereas all others look for hidden meanings and answers to questions that never needed to be asked in the first place. The past Sunday, the Nixon clan gathered at mom's for our traditional weekly feast (FYI - any time there's gravy involved, then it can be classified as a feast). I was sporting a week's worth of facial scruff. I had let it get to that point for two reasons: one was to see how grey I had become, given I have very little hair on the top of my head to gauge such things; the second was to see if more manliness would spur on more womanliness in Lynda. From my experiment I learned that I could give Saint Nic a run for having the snowiest looking beard and I also found out that Lynda is all the woman I will ever need regardless of how much hair I have or from where it chooses to sprout. I dare not say any more, as she has forbidden me to mention her in my stories. (When she starts to read them, then I'll stop. Maybe.)
A week into having a face that more resembled a bear than my usual baby butt complexion, not one person had said anything to me. Not my wife, not our best friends who were home from Ontario, not my brothers, my kids, my mother, nor my many close friends who had seen me just about every day since I gave my Gillette razor a much needed vacation. I was beginning to wonder. Perhaps all of those years of trying to go unnoticed while following drug dealers around had made me a virtual ghost. I know I'm not drop dead gorgeous or a radical dresser, but eventually someone had to look me in the face and blurt something out.
Finally, finally, finally, someone took notice. Yes, it was James. As I sat on mom's couch, basking in the glow of having 'gluttoned' myself on a few plate loads of gravy covered something or other, James saddled up beside me, put his little hands of my cheeks and exclaimed "Uncle Jim, you have a beard!" James lived up to his self professed genius. I was so proud of him. I was about to give him a huge hug but when I took a good look at his face, he was sporting a gigantic moustache fashioned out of Grammie's gravy. It was hideous. I could barely bring myself to make eye contact. I certainly couldn't bring myself to tell him. I didn't want to be cruel and hurt his feelings. I figured it best just to say nothing. After all, he's four. He'll get over it.
Suddenly, the light bulb illuminated above my head. It all made sense to me now. People were looking at me for the last seven days. They were seeing my bristly beard take shape. The reason that no one said anything is that they were disgusted and embarrassed for me. I knew it couldn't have been my manly beard that grossed them out. I must have forgotten to wash off last Sunday's gravy moustache.
I have witnessed James' brilliance. The smart ones seem to have a mastery of grasping the obvious, whereas all others look for hidden meanings and answers to questions that never needed to be asked in the first place. The past Sunday, the Nixon clan gathered at mom's for our traditional weekly feast (FYI - any time there's gravy involved, then it can be classified as a feast). I was sporting a week's worth of facial scruff. I had let it get to that point for two reasons: one was to see how grey I had become, given I have very little hair on the top of my head to gauge such things; the second was to see if more manliness would spur on more womanliness in Lynda. From my experiment I learned that I could give Saint Nic a run for having the snowiest looking beard and I also found out that Lynda is all the woman I will ever need regardless of how much hair I have or from where it chooses to sprout. I dare not say any more, as she has forbidden me to mention her in my stories. (When she starts to read them, then I'll stop. Maybe.)
A week into having a face that more resembled a bear than my usual baby butt complexion, not one person had said anything to me. Not my wife, not our best friends who were home from Ontario, not my brothers, my kids, my mother, nor my many close friends who had seen me just about every day since I gave my Gillette razor a much needed vacation. I was beginning to wonder. Perhaps all of those years of trying to go unnoticed while following drug dealers around had made me a virtual ghost. I know I'm not drop dead gorgeous or a radical dresser, but eventually someone had to look me in the face and blurt something out.
Finally, finally, finally, someone took notice. Yes, it was James. As I sat on mom's couch, basking in the glow of having 'gluttoned' myself on a few plate loads of gravy covered something or other, James saddled up beside me, put his little hands of my cheeks and exclaimed "Uncle Jim, you have a beard!" James lived up to his self professed genius. I was so proud of him. I was about to give him a huge hug but when I took a good look at his face, he was sporting a gigantic moustache fashioned out of Grammie's gravy. It was hideous. I could barely bring myself to make eye contact. I certainly couldn't bring myself to tell him. I didn't want to be cruel and hurt his feelings. I figured it best just to say nothing. After all, he's four. He'll get over it.
Suddenly, the light bulb illuminated above my head. It all made sense to me now. People were looking at me for the last seven days. They were seeing my bristly beard take shape. The reason that no one said anything is that they were disgusted and embarrassed for me. I knew it couldn't have been my manly beard that grossed them out. I must have forgotten to wash off last Sunday's gravy moustache.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Good Times in the Maritimes
"Please sir, put me anywhere except the Lock Up." Those words were spoken to me by a federal inmate who I was bringing back to Newfoundland for a court appearance. The inmate was a resident of Nova Scotia's Springhill Institution, courtesy of my former colleges at the RCMP's St. John's Drug Section. The Lock Up is the temporary holding facility for those awaiting court appearances in St. John's. The clientèle there are mostly those who were arrested during the previous night for any number of alleged wrongdoings. Alcohol is often a factor that lends itself to getting on the wrong side of the law, so the Lock Up also has a "drunk tank", where the inebriated can sleep it off - albeit, best done with one eye open! The Lock Up is like something from Middle Ages, minus only the rack and guillotine.
Having never visited Springhill Federal Pen, the few hours I spent with this guy were enough to paint me a nice picture. I believe his exact words were "I love it there." A world class gym, better than basic cable in his private room...I mean cell, and the best food my new acquaintance ever had.. I also learned that he had a rough upbringing and a very unsettled home life as a kid, so his bar may have been set a little lower than for what most of us would consider a decent life. Still, as a deterrent to a committing crime, it was clear to me that jail time was anything but, for this citizen. Our federal penal system managed to provide all of the comforts of house and home. So well, in fact, that it represented a better life than anything he had experienced previously. I got the feeling that he wasn't looking forward to the day that those steel doors closed behind him and he had to fend for himself in the world of free men. On that day a few years into the future, I pictured him standing in front of the doors of Springhill Pen, staring at the vastness and uncertainty of the world before him, then turning and running back to the cold steel door and hitting it with flailing arms while screaming "Let me in.".
Let's come back to the present. Eight years or so have passed since I first met Springhill Pen's #1 fan. I'm no longer a police officer but buddy still finds himself mixed up with some pretty serious criminal charges. Murder is as heinous as it gets. A few months ago, a physical altercation resulted in a man's death and my former travelling companion is alleged to have killed this person. Given the seriousness of the crime, he has been in custody in St. John's ever since. His newest home would be our provincial jail, located on the shores of beautiful Quidi Vidi Lake. What can I say about the aged and decrepit place other than it's a hole! Everything that Springhill Institution is, the "Pen" isn't. Couple that with the fact that he would be making frequent stopovers at the Lock Up as his murder case makes it's way through our system of justice at the usual pace of a tortoise, then I see buddy as being very dissatisfied with his accommodations. That was confirmed when it was recently revealed that he was planning a prison break. His efforts were detailed and advanced enough that he now faces additional charges of attempting to escape lawful custody.
So what do we take from all of this. It's probably fair to say that this is a very troubled individual. Long before I took him from the comfortable confines of Springhill Institution, he likely had caused his more than his allotted share of mayhem in our little corner of the world. Somewhere along the road travelled, he has seemed to come to the perverse realization that getting caught for a crime that carries a penalty of "2 years less a day" just isn't worth committing. Those crimes mean serving your jail time at one of our Newfoundland jails, most likely at the Pen. So unless you go big, you'll have to stay at home.
A conviction for murder could see him go away for life, which means 10 to 15 years in our justice system. If that befalls him, off he'll go to one of our federal pens. He's probably hoping for Springhill. The good news for him is there are even nicer places. Some of our country''s "best" criminals reside in town house style luxury that have all of the status and security that come from being in a true gated community.
If I were the Judge (now there's a laugh), as buddy was standing before me and I was finding him guilty of murder, I'd wipe the smile from his face very quickly. I wouldn't give him 10 years, 20 years or even 50 years. There'd be no Club Fed for him. I'd smash the gavel down and pronounce sentence - "Two years less a day, to be served at Her Majesty's Penitentiary, St. John's with weekends at the Lock Up." I can picture him now, standing at the cold steel door and hitting it with flailing arms while screaming "Let me out.". Now that would be justice served and a warning to those thinking of travelling that sane road.
In case you are wondering, eight years ago I dropped my friend off at the Lock Up. I was naive enough to try to find a better jail cell for him, but had no luck in doing so. It turned out that's where he belonged.
Having never visited Springhill Federal Pen, the few hours I spent with this guy were enough to paint me a nice picture. I believe his exact words were "I love it there." A world class gym, better than basic cable in his private room...I mean cell, and the best food my new acquaintance ever had.. I also learned that he had a rough upbringing and a very unsettled home life as a kid, so his bar may have been set a little lower than for what most of us would consider a decent life. Still, as a deterrent to a committing crime, it was clear to me that jail time was anything but, for this citizen. Our federal penal system managed to provide all of the comforts of house and home. So well, in fact, that it represented a better life than anything he had experienced previously. I got the feeling that he wasn't looking forward to the day that those steel doors closed behind him and he had to fend for himself in the world of free men. On that day a few years into the future, I pictured him standing in front of the doors of Springhill Pen, staring at the vastness and uncertainty of the world before him, then turning and running back to the cold steel door and hitting it with flailing arms while screaming "Let me in.".
Let's come back to the present. Eight years or so have passed since I first met Springhill Pen's #1 fan. I'm no longer a police officer but buddy still finds himself mixed up with some pretty serious criminal charges. Murder is as heinous as it gets. A few months ago, a physical altercation resulted in a man's death and my former travelling companion is alleged to have killed this person. Given the seriousness of the crime, he has been in custody in St. John's ever since. His newest home would be our provincial jail, located on the shores of beautiful Quidi Vidi Lake. What can I say about the aged and decrepit place other than it's a hole! Everything that Springhill Institution is, the "Pen" isn't. Couple that with the fact that he would be making frequent stopovers at the Lock Up as his murder case makes it's way through our system of justice at the usual pace of a tortoise, then I see buddy as being very dissatisfied with his accommodations. That was confirmed when it was recently revealed that he was planning a prison break. His efforts were detailed and advanced enough that he now faces additional charges of attempting to escape lawful custody.
So what do we take from all of this. It's probably fair to say that this is a very troubled individual. Long before I took him from the comfortable confines of Springhill Institution, he likely had caused his more than his allotted share of mayhem in our little corner of the world. Somewhere along the road travelled, he has seemed to come to the perverse realization that getting caught for a crime that carries a penalty of "2 years less a day" just isn't worth committing. Those crimes mean serving your jail time at one of our Newfoundland jails, most likely at the Pen. So unless you go big, you'll have to stay at home.
A conviction for murder could see him go away for life, which means 10 to 15 years in our justice system. If that befalls him, off he'll go to one of our federal pens. He's probably hoping for Springhill. The good news for him is there are even nicer places. Some of our country''s "best" criminals reside in town house style luxury that have all of the status and security that come from being in a true gated community.
If I were the Judge (now there's a laugh), as buddy was standing before me and I was finding him guilty of murder, I'd wipe the smile from his face very quickly. I wouldn't give him 10 years, 20 years or even 50 years. There'd be no Club Fed for him. I'd smash the gavel down and pronounce sentence - "Two years less a day, to be served at Her Majesty's Penitentiary, St. John's with weekends at the Lock Up." I can picture him now, standing at the cold steel door and hitting it with flailing arms while screaming "Let me out.". Now that would be justice served and a warning to those thinking of travelling that sane road.
In case you are wondering, eight years ago I dropped my friend off at the Lock Up. I was naive enough to try to find a better jail cell for him, but had no luck in doing so. It turned out that's where he belonged.
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