MY OLD MAN MOBILE!

It was late last summer. I stood there gazing upon my rusty, yet faithful old Ford F-150. It was time to make a change.

Most every Spring I usually performed a "backyard body job" of sorts on my old gray girl, but this, her sixteenth summer, was to be her last spent in my charge.

She'd faithfully towed my boat countless times back and forth to the lake. She'd carried hundreds of signs for  Severn Soundings Team. 

Most importantly, she  safely transported my most precious cargo of all. What? Of course our children, but more often than not,  my companion was Jackson,  my Golden Retriever. I say golden, of course, because of his breed's hair colour, but my wife might suggest that the golden part refers to my pampering treatment of him, but that's another story.

The old truck still ran good, but I had to concede that the body had gotten to the point of unworthiness for the road. I had, of course, for some time now been in search of a suitable replacement, but it seems that good used pickups are like "hen's teeth" and damn pricey when you do find one.

Turning to friends and family for advice it seems that everyone had an opinion. Donna, our office administrator, pointed out how happy I could be with a new Dodge Ram. My youngest daughter Jessie and her boyfriend (both making payments on new vehicles) are true blue fans of the Chevy line and all it has to offer. Overall, the consensus seems to be that I should, for once, reach a little deeper into my pocket and buy something decent. However, anyone that knows me well, understands that my preferred expenditures are  more towards cottages, watercraft, fishing equipment, scotch and cigars (in exactly that order). The idea that a person can get $40,000 or perhaps $50,000 worth of use/value out of a any new vehicle is one that is lost on me.

In the end I was fortunate enough to happen upon a perfectly good, but admittedly well used, 11-year-old Envoy SUV at a price I approved of. While it is not an actual truck, it is a 4X4 Limited Edition GFX model with all the bells and whistles one could want.






In its day it was a top-of-the-line vehicle, but as my style savy twenty-something children point out, it's day has long ago come and gone. So alas, I must endure the barbs and jokes about its full length swirly stripes and excessive chrome, rather than a modern blacked out look  and a dated boxy profile. What do I think?

It's not so bad really. As I listen to vintage rock tunes cranked up on my Bose sound system, relaxing on programmable, powered, heated, leather seats, there is warm sunlight streaming through the sunroof, but it still remains subtle and subdued thanks to the well tinted cabin glass of my luxury ride. I'm gliding down the highway in smooth and quiet cruise controlled comfort.

 I glance into the rear view mirror and see Jackson's grinning face hanging over the backseat. I'm thinking, "Hell no, this isn't so bad!" And then I wonder when is my car payment due? And then I remember I DON'T HAVE ONE! Hey Millenniums, who's savy now? 

A BOY'S BEST FRIEND!

JAX 

Some of the best relationships in life get off to a rocky start and then seem to "hit their stride" and blossom as you recognize the benefits of being together and what each of you bring to the table, both emotionally and in a practical sense.

No I'm not having a "Doctor Phil moment!" I'm referring to the friendship that has evolved from a tenuous first few months of having an infant in the house to what exists between a young boy and an old dog today. A dog tends to react to, and takes his cue from, whatever mood or atmosphere that exists within his pack (family) at any given time. This is the reason that it is said that generally unstable humans make for unstable dogs. Even the most stable packs with the most calm, confident, leaders suffer from a little instability when a new member/baby arrives. Even before baby arrives there are new feelings within the family that the dog senses and in his mind must follow suit, like great joy (and in our case great surprise), excitement, anxiousness, nervousness and perhaps a little apprehension.

JACKSON AND HIS MOMMA

Our dog responded by staying close to his momma whenever he could, his nature changing somewhat from his happy-go-lucky demeaner to one of protectiveness and concern.
So it was no surprise that when Jax came along his arrival did little to calm our aura. This little creature, thrust amongst the pack, brought with him sights, sounds and smells that were foreign and unwelcome to an adult male with very little in the way of maternal instincts or nurturing tendencies, and I suspect the dog didn't like it much either! (Just a little humour! Of course I meant the dog!)

Seriously though, the first interactions between infant and dog were few and were strained at best. The little guy made the old dog nervous, and whenever things went wrong, he was always the one to receive the scolding. Come to think of it, things often go that way with me too, when I am left in charge of keeping the young boy out of harms way.

INTREPID WOODSMEN BUILDING THEIR FIRST CAMP FIRE TOGETHER 

Now, I should say it this point that I, a veteran of  raising his five siblings before his arrival, am far better equipped to keep the boy safe than a golden retriever. (Well maybe not far better, but better at least.) Jax has grown from infant to toddler to young boy in his two and a half years of our family's life. Where there was once uneasiness and anxiety between the child and his dog, there is now understanding and a kind of friendship.

Our old boy, and perhaps "this old boy" as well, have reckoned themselves to Jax being part of our pack. We quickly learned that this young man is generally the centre of attention within the household. By positioning ourselves near the boy the dog and I often receive scraps of food, as there seems to be a never ending supply of snacks offered in the young lad's presence. Incidentally, close proximity to him also occasionally awards me with a shred or snippet of the warmth and attention that was once lavished upon me in my pre-Jax years, but that's getting off track and sounds like a good topic for a another post!


Yes, boy and dog seem more and more every day to be better friends and have more in common. At two and a half years of age Jax frequently exhibits behaviours such as afternoon naps, running through puddles, eating food off the floor, inappropriate public grooming and occasional howling for no apparent reason. Jackson displays these and as well continues one that Jax has thankfully mostly discontinued, a penchant for chewing his toys and eating the bark off sticks in the yard.

All in all Jax would say that it's nice to have a dog as a friend. Someone to eat your vegetables for you, someone willing to share his kibble and treats with you, someone to provide interesting terrain for your toy trucks, the list goes on.

I think that their one area of disagreement might be Jax's fascination with flushing toilets. It's a nuisance when you are trying to get a drink!

FAMILY MATTERS!

There's an old saying that, "You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family." And you can't pick your friend's nose either, but that's not where I'm going with this.

These days, when everyone seems to be a Facebook philosopher, liking and sharing each others posts, purporting to be a happy member of a wonderful Facebook family, it occurs to me that interfacing with your pseudo Facebook friends and family tends to be effortless and usually amusing. One merely has to scroll passed posts that are boring, displeasing, negative, stress inducing, or downright crazy or offensive points of view. Not so in the real world with your real family. Interacting with real friends and real family members, as flawed and imperfect as they (or you) may be, is tough!

Worst of all, having to deal face to face with disagreeable friends and family members sometimes forces us to question ourselves a bit, rather than simply scrolling passed the conflict. For this reason its easy to let ourselves slip into treating strangers like family and family like strangers through the magic of today's social media. When you think about it, that behaviour is hardly consistent with the glowing Facebook profiles that we have worked so hard to create for ourselves and profess to be the "real us."

Typically, our profiles and pages depict perfect pictures of perfect children, spouses, pets, jobs, pastimes, vacations and philosophies.
We re-post trendy words of wisdom that decree that we as "forty somethings" shall no longer tolerate negativity in our lives and shall surround ourselves with only positive, like-minded, forward thinking individuals (like ourselves of course).

The reality is that while this ideology is well intended and great advice in a perfect Facebook world, its practice in the real world is challenging at best and impossible at worst. We don't all have great bosses, co-workers, fellow commuters, creditors, hair days, and the sun does not always shine. You get the idea.

When it comes to family, whether they are blood, through marriage, or even become family by circumstance, we cannot be so lofty as to ignore, disown, or distance ourselves when the going gets tough. For one thing, this would be so unlike our social media personalities, right? There is some good in all of us. We sometimes just have to work at it to appreciate real friends and family. And there's just two things to keep in mind.

First, its a fact that you can't pickem!

And second, even in these modern times, family matters!  

MORE FUN THAN DISNEY!

There was a promise of +3 degrees that late November day. Not much of a promise, but a damn sight better than the last week, which featured full on winter type storms and lows of -15 at night. I was putting together a crew for a expedition of sorts, which would include a boat ride, a bonfire, some hot food around said bonfire, and of course, refreshments. Apprised of my intentions my dear wife offered the opinion that my plan for the day was both foolish and dangerous, but one that would not cause her concern. She said that her lack of concern was mostly because she doubted severely (as she put it) that I could pay anyone enough to accompany me into that frozen Hell. I got distracted by her choice of words (what did she mean "mostly"?), but then quickly recovered saying, "Pay someone? Why in the world would I have to pay a fella for a grand adventure?" She said, "You make it sound like you're offering them tickets to Disney World, when instead you are putting together a crew for a re-enactment of The Franklin Expedition." I explained that a "possum lodge" type group of  men like us find a day like this very exciting and it was like offering a day at Disney World!

At my age I think I know a thing or two about what men consider to be exciting. Now to be inclusive of all, I've been told that younger groups of usually unattached men have a very different idea of a Disney type experience. I understand it includes a raised stage, brass poles, and having plenty of dispensable cash on hand. I think we are getting off track a bit so back to my plan for the day.

The purpose of this trip of course had nothing to do with finding the Northwest Passage, but it did involve finding safe passage through an ice filled Lost Channel and rescuing one of my "tin boats" and the "little Merc" that powered it. We launched at an ice free Big Chute and headed east on our quest with a sturdy vessel, plenty of provisions and a well seasoned crew. Navigating around ice flows as we went we made good time until changing course and heading up into the slower moving waters of the channel itself.

The weather had changed its course as well with temperatures falling rather than rising (+3 becoming -3 and a snow squall coming in to make things interesting).

Progress forward became very slow, but being a swarthy bunch we pressed on. We were within sight of the cottage and the promise of shelter when, like the ill fated Franklin crew mired in heavy ice, we were forced to abandon our ship and continue on foot. Ice conditions were at that problematic stage (too thick to navigate by boat but too thin to support the weight of a crew member).

It was while I was witness to the exertions of the men between boat and shore that I made the following observation: generally speaking the more seasoned the man the more mass he seemed to have and the less likely he was to be "fleet of foot," which played a big role in how dry he was reaching the shore.
Eventually all souls aboard made it to shore and the relative safety of the cottage with varying degrees of success staying dry.

Undaunted, we set about to build a fire, winterize the cottage and rescue "The Shenanigans" from her icy prison beside the dock. No easy feat as she had gained a little weight since summer in the form of ice and snow filling her hull.

The little Merc? Well it was liberated as well, then travelled by sleigh, then boat, then the back seat of my truck to its place of wintering on a bench in my workshop. The crew members? Well we wound up getting warmed by the fire, having a hot meal and a friendly debate about who fared the worst on this excursion and of course the inevitable assignment of blame.

As with all endeavours it was not without adversity and I suppose responsibility ultimately rests upon the leader. What is it that Frank Costello said? "Heavy lies the crown" sort of thing?




Like the ill fated Franklin Expedition the unanswered questions were many.
Perhaps my choice of days to depart was flawed. Maybe the path taken through an ever thickening layer of ice should have been different. Even the order to abandon ship may have been hasty. Who can really be sure?

As I gazed at those gathered around the fire that day, through the jokes, barbs and differing versions of events, I was only sure of one thing.
Clearly, not a soul here would trade being at Lost Channel today for Orlando and a visit with Mickey!

GETTIN' OLD VS FEELIN' OLD!

A hot bath, a fresh shave and new hair cut gives a guy a little bounce in his step! It's a good feeling, and if you're lucky enough, like me, to have a little "youthful influence" from a certain toddler in your life, you might convince yourself that youth is a state of mind, not a physical attribute that slowly slips away from all of us.
As a fella ages he must however realize that feelin' good is just that, a feeling. It passes. Value wise? Let's see! The expression, "that and a buck and a half will buy you a cup of coffee," comes to mind.
On the other hand "gettin' old' is much more intrinsic, much easier to quantify, and tends to stick with a fella once it gets started. Then of course there is "feelin' old" which is different again. It seems to be more transient in nature and seems designed to nicely counteract that first, more agreeable, condition I mentioned, "feelin' good or youthful."

"Gettin' old" is that back/shoulder/neck pain that makes extended lounging on a bed in the mornings like a teenager completely unmanageable when your in your 50's. "Feelin' old" is when, despite his better judgement, a fella takes a moment to survey his image in the morning mirror and can't figure out for the life of him why Walter Matthau is staring back at him.


"Gettin' old" is when you hurt your back or hip sneezing or wrench one of your fingers tucking a "blankie" into the back seat of your truck for your dog to sit on. "Gettin' old" is realizing you forgot your change at home when you get to the coffee shop and then fumbling for your reading glasses so you can see instructions on the bank machine that's going to charge you $1.75 for the privilege of access to your own money! And lastly, "feelin' old" might be patiently standing in line with my fresh shave and my new hair cut and  having to listen to the young gentleman in front of me flirt with the "20 something" server. He was obviously in a much greater hurry than I this morning, as he had opted for a hat rather than a comb, a cigarette rather than a tooth brush and of course the customary pajama bottoms rather than actual pants.
Not being burdened by an actual job to go to, the PJ's I imagine are a comfortable choice, and judging by their predominance among the generation x'ers, a fashion statement of sorts. The statement it makes to me is: I have my "Playstation 2" on pause in my parent's basement, swiped a couple of toonies from the console of Mom's car and ran in here to snag something sweet before my next online adventure. Most of my observations about this young fellow are simply conjecture, but the cigarette part I can attest to as I had seconds ago watched him flick it over his shoulder into the parking lot with one hand on the door of the building. Well apparently the staff there did not share my disdain, as with a few grunts, chuckles and mumbles, looking up from his cell phone he flashed a smile and got a free apple turnover. Me, the old guy, well I got a frown and an "eye roll" and was charged an extra 30 cents when I politely asked for a double cup, as I was walking to work.

Oh well, such is life! Can't say I didn't occasionally enjoy the same preferred treatment in my youth as this fellow now. I guess the young man's attention made her feel good, and it will only be later, when she's counting her tips, that she may realize the true value of his momentary interest in her. Yup! You guessed it!
"That and a buck and a half will buy you a cup of coffee!"

MAYBE BABY!

I think it was Mickey Mantle that once said, "if I would have known I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself." We give it little thought when we are young, but at one time or another are surprised to discover that our journey in this life can be short, or sometimes an extended one; with many twists and turns along the way leading to both good fortune and bad.

This last year I had a revelation of sorts myself.
It started innocently enough. My bride and I had settled into a full fledged partnership, finished up our fiscal year, and generally pleased with the results of our efforts, took some time to relax.
Nothing extravagant. Just some time together, simple pleasures like some little day trips, a bit of shopping, some light reading, a great meal and perhaps a good bottle of wine to finish. It's unclear to me which of these activities contributed most to romantic inclinations, but my suspicions are that it was due to a little of each, and in no small part to our little reading group's assignment to read, review and discuss the hugely popular Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. Anywaaay, not to point fingers, but I have wondered in light of subsequent events whether there is any existence of a class action suit brought about by other, let's say mature couples, similarly wronged by the author, but I digress.

As I remember it, being blissfully unaware, we also enjoyed a carefree Christmas season (clearly a favourite of Brenda's). The new year brought its usual blessings, both our birthdays falling in February came and went, she celebrating hers, and me being nearly 10 years her senior, grudgingly accepting mine. It was only in the months to follow that there were hushed conversations about Sweetie's general health and some unusual, yet naggingly familiar symptoms that seemed to be occurring. Initially her and her closest confidantes laughed them off. There was some teasing that went on of course! "Welcome to the beginnings of  your golden age!" Chalking symptoms up to be pre-menopausal, she laughed them off and got on with the new year's business.



Jessie's Grad Pics (posing with one of her brothers)

It was still some time after our initial concerns that it became clear that some sort of "mishap" had occurred. Evidence of an alleged "perpetration," both circumstantial and physical, became abundant and undeniable, and of course all eyes fell to me. To explain, like any good mystery, we knew who was involved, and soon after when, that the how and the why? Well those are of course a little tougher to determine.

The how, so I'm told, was more a combination of blind luck and good (or bad depending on how it's looked at) timing as the odds of conception for us were something like less than a one percent chance.

Jax Douglas Moreau Born August 23, 2013

Some of my buddies likened it to a hunting accident where I have accidentally discharged my rifle into my foot, or more like both feet (as odds are my mobility is likely to be greatly impacted for some time). Like any hunting accident, my excuses were much the same as you normally hear. "I'm not sure what really happened...it was an accident...I never meant to do it...I never knew that there was even game in the area that was in season...it was all a blur as it happened so fast...I was only cleaning my rifle when it went off...I was certain my rifle was long since unloaded." Aaand probably the most damning part of my account of things, as I recall, having to admit that foolishly I had recklessly not bothered to take time out to "put the safety on."

When I ponder at the "why" part of something like this, both unexpected and unlikely and yet certainly blessed, I can only assume that this little interloper is all part of the grand plan that exists for Brenda and myself. Multi-tasking has always came easy to Brenda.


Re/Max Realtor / Multitasking Mom!

I just have to have faith that I am up to the challenge too! And like an aging ball player, hope I've done enough stretching and warm up earlier cause it looks like this game might be going into extra innings for us.

WATER WORRIES!

There's been a lot of talk these days about our great lakes.
There seems to be a heightened awareness that I personally have not witnessed before.

Whether its in the news, or at the water cooler, or brought up in meetings at all levels of government; the talk is that we need to preserve these waters as the national treasures that they most surely are.

It is something that our native peoples knew to be true long ago. They treasured them in a different way though; as they regarded them and all of nature as something to be revered. The wild inhabitants of the lakes and surrounding lands were worshipped as gods; and the attributes and habits of such creatures were studied and learned from. This is evident in stories and legends passed on through generations of native peoples, explaining everything from their moral values, to natural phenomenon, to even creation itself. I am not looking to seriously comment on religion, or the evolution of man for that matter. However, it occurs to me that these folks had harmoniously coexisted with nature and for the most part thrived for ten thousand years before we showed up....so they had to be doing something right!  
Discussions about preservation of the lakes and the quality of their waters invariably lead to debates about water levels, that seem to be in great decline these days.

Current levels seem to be nearing historic lows and the feeling of most, is that they will continue to decline.
The conventional thinking seems to be that man is responsible.... just as we are, for the decimation of certain fish and wildlife species and loss of wetlands. It would also follow that we are also responsible for the disappearance of hundreds of millions of gallons of water...
Dredging in the St. Lawrence, pipelines to the states and even a theory about a gradual tipping of a huge tectonic plate beneath the great lakes, have been sited as explanations for the low water conditions we are observing today.
I myself have no idea of the causes of this phenomenon, but being in the real estate industry, I have seen first hand the negative influence it's had on Georgian Bay waterfront land values. Putting financial impacts aside, I was always alarmed by the effect it had on the shoreline landscape and its natural inhabitants.

When drawn into these discussions, my Dad always took the position that these matters were beyond man's influence and that Mother Nature always prevails. He explained that it was nature's way;  using the example of something as devastating as a forest fire, that where one species fails, or is destroyed, another will flourish.

He reminded me that the water levels were this low and lower in 1964, at a time,when surely it could be argued that man's influence on nature
must have been significantly less than today.

But his best and most thought provoking point was that instead of wondering who took all of the water in the 60's or, in recent years, we should ask ourselves where all the extra water came from in the late 80's (a time I remember well) when water levels were about 5 or 6 feet above datum! Who dumped those extra millions of  gallons into our lakes? Was it big shipping business, or those nasty Americans? "No" he said, "again, it's just nature's way. She's all knowing and all powerful. Man can change the face of nature through stupidity and or greed, but nature will always prevail."



One only has to feel the scorching energy of the sun, or witness huge bolts of lightning during a thunderstorm, or see the devastation from flooding, or the winds of a hurricane, or tornado, to imagine the awe that our native peoples must have felt all those years ago.

Its not a surprise that they believed they were in the presence of a higher power.
The older I get and the more I see us, as a civilization arrogantly making all the wrong choices, in the name of "progress".....I'm beginning to think....that ...maybe they were...


  

CAUGHT ON CAMERA!

Well, we are nearing the end of another successful year. My "everlovin" and I have formed a new business model partnership that has worked out beautifully. Her business strengths mesh perfectly with my own strengths and weaknesses, each of us bringing something to the table, and in turn benefiting from the other. Because of this new partnership, I am once again able to relax and focus on trying to work and live by my old mantra of "working smarter, not harder."

This particular day's work seems to be largely consisting of compiling and organizing client lists and addresses and filling out Christmas cards with a personal message in each. As I mostly supervise such endevours, with the exception of her allowing me to be in charge of stamp application, I found myself daydreaming as I gazed through the window of our Coldwater Re/Max office at the falling snow.

The phone rang for me and it was a buddy of mine. Lets call him "Uncle Carl."
After some customary bantering he inquired if I had received a recent email from him? "Yes," I said, referring to the UTube video starring a young lady in a bikini who demonstrated a particular "talent" she had for manipulating her bosoms to the tune of Jingle Bells. I told him I was shocked and a little offended that he would forward something like that to me! "No you fool," he said, "I'm talking about the pictures of the September storm I was in on Gloucester Pool, looking out from Deer Island." "Oh those," I said sheepishly, "Ya, they were great."

That conversation got me to thinking, first about lively Christmas Carols, but eventually about the year's forays into the "great outdoors," sunny days of ice fishing for pike and pickerel, and soon after that, an awesome overnight trip north of Espanola for "ice out lakers," a couple of days trip portages into a secluded lake to "top water fish" for large mouth, and then there was the late fall adventure up to Gull Lake for rainbows!

I was idly meandering through the pics associated with each trip, scanning the "thumbnails," matching up pictures with the particular outings they were taken on, when I suddenly noticed something peculiar. At this time I would like to draw your attention to the following three pictures and their captions.

                                                   Carl and a nice large mouth bass!

                                            

                                        Carl hits the jackpot with this big mouthed beauty!

                                                      Carl gets biggest fish prize again!

Had I not stumbled upon these pics, there's no telling how long he may have gotten away with this clever ruse. It's perfect really, a trained fish that you simply call upon to impress or to perhaps (as the caption suggests) win a bet against the hapless participants of one of his "rigged" fishing derbys. I think that the evidence would suggest that I myself have been fooled, at least three times, by Billy Bass and his trainer, Uncle Carl! Lord knows I have bought the victor of these contests (Carl) more than my share of Wendy's burgers, and now I find out that it's fixed! I told him that I was onto him and that I just wanna know how "Billy" determines which bait is his? His only comment to me was, "Doug...the difference between you and me is that I like to fish "smarter, not harder!"

OF MICE AND MEN!

The engine roared to life! A fast shift and I was careening across the casino parking lot...a spray of sparks as the car lept the boulevard. Another shift, the tires hit the black top, screaming out their protest. A third shift, as I come off the first curve, the g-force settles me back into the butter-soft leather bucket, and yet another "chirp" where rubber meets road.

Man and machine, reacting as one, devouring the thin black ribbon of winding road that lay ahead.
A flash of uncertainty...wondering what my nemesis had in store for me next. Then the quiet confidence of my inner voice reminded me of a failed poisoning attempt, and machete wielding assassins that lay in my wake, unsuccessful in dismaying me from my mission.

Suddenly, another voice, familiar and welcome, yet strangely the tone seemed somehow annoyed. "Doug, Doug!" Not James. The road ahead faded and I found myself awakened in a darkened room, the first hint of daybreak creeping around window blinds.

"Marvin the cat has something cornered in the bathroom...a mouse...or bat...can't you hear that squeaking noise?" I listened intently, desperate to "not hear" anything and get back to my high performance ride and a night of danger and intrigue protecting "Queen and Country," but alas it was not to be. What I did hear was our teenage daughter Jessie stir, shuffle and sleepily ask Marvin to "scoot" as she made her way to the bathroom. Next came a scream and running footsteps! "A mouse just ran across my foot and into my room! OMG! OMG! Find him! Get him out!" Making my way to her room I wisely asked if she could describe him. "Any distinguishing features?" She was having trouble finding the humour in my request. "Little and grey and creeeeeeeepy," she wailed. "I think he was just a baby and probably hurt by Marvin's teeth and claws." At this point I'm thinking that this is mainly a recovery mission, and Brenda agreed, handing me just a mere napkin to retrieve him with.

I lay prone on the floor peering under Jessie's bed (the mouse's last known whereabouts). Gently probing through the typical teenage debris, when suddenly a flash of grey from within a discarded chip bag, and he was up and running right for me. Since mice are not normally man eaters, I can only assume that he was racing toward more sanctuary, and since he was grey, I'm sure the grey head before him seemed like perfect cover! A scuffle ensued, profanity's exclaimed, and mouse and man abruptly parted ways.

My sudden and hurried retreat from under the bed must have been less than graceful, but since the girls were screaming and running from the site of the attack, I think any squeamish or fearful behaviour on my part went largely unnoticed.

This was no injured baby mouse! This was a full grown adult male in his prime, full of vigor and fury! Not wanting to face the beast in an all out "him or me" confrontation, I decided to beat him at his own game, the very reason that he invaded our home, his quest for food. We generally keep a mouse trap set in the cold room this time of year, a kind of an early warning sentinel should our perimeter be breached (it seems to be the point of entry for the occasional interloper). But this being early in the year, and the creature so brazen as to make his way to the sleeping quarters of our troops, I decided a multi-pronged "shock and awe" retaliation best suited the circumstances.

I carefully planted the one trap from the cold room in Jessie's room, baited it with a piece of chewy good candy, and set off to the hardware store to buy more of the same. I guess the exertion of his struggles with "Marvin the Mouser," and his brief meeting with me under the bed, made this little fellow a bit peckish, because upon my return from the hardware store, there he was, bug-eyed and quite dead in the trap I had just set! A quick and decisive victory was mine!

Now I admit that this adventure pales next to anything that Ian Fleming could dream up in a book, or that I could conger up in a lucid dream, but it was still man and machine against a villain. Reality had me battling a little grey mouse with a $2 trap, while my dreams usually have me pitted against a super villain in a $190,000 Aston Martin. I suppose the theory is the same. "Shaken, not stirred? Yes, of course, as you wish, Mr. Moreau."

A TALE OF TWO LAKERS!

It was a sunny, early May afternoon as I recall. My partner Brenda and I were diligently absorbed in the matters of  real estate sales (well that's how I remember it anyway). I must have momentarily looked up and away from my desktop, perhaps to unkink my work weary neck, when I caught a glimpse through the window of a somewhat weathered fishin' cap above a somewhat weathered face directly over an "Old Guys Rule" sweatshirt.

After some polite exchanges and  inquiries as to how Brenda was doing, there was of course, the usual sympathetic words about the trials she must face with not only having a business partner like me, but puttin' up with yours truly at home as well. Carl's conversation eventually swung from an indepth analysis of my work ethic (or lack thereof)  to the weather, to fishing, to fishing stories, to a fishing story about "this time of year" a couple of years back.

It was an intriguing story about what Carl called "ice out lakers." It seems that "these very days" each year there exists the exact conditions on a lake up north required to put massive lake trout "on the bite," as Carl would say. He then casually produced a set of  fishing regulations, which he just happened to have, and low and behold there was just such a specimen of that exact species on the front cover! It was at that moment that I realized that it was Carl that was on "the bite!"

I sat back and watched the master as he navigated the conversation from when is it that Doug actually works a full day, to when was it that the poor boy had a couple days off, to the inception of the idea that a couple of days right now would serendipitously coincide with "ice out lakers."

I forget just who said what, or who's idea it was, or if there was any begging involved on my part, but my "everlovin" graciously volunteered to take care of things in my absence, and the next day found Carl and I in his Dodge Ram, boat in tow, headed north, grinning like a couple of Cheshire Cats!

Now, day one of the expedition went good, maybe too good. The trip up and subsequent launch of the boat went off without a hitch. The boat ran like a dream! The "skipper," well, as the song goes, "he was brave and sure."

One reason he was so sure of himself  was that he once owned a camp on this lake, so the place was right, the time was right, he knew the shore to troll and the depth and speed to be at. I had my first fish on before I figured out the correct use of the downriggers! The next hour of that beautiful, sunny day brought three more lakers, each one larger than the last!

Such quick success, of course, brings arrogance in even the most modest of men, so the decision was made early on that today would be all "catch and release" and tomorrow we would keep one each, and in this way I could keep my promise to bring one home for Brenda. I doubt if she truly cared, but the idea stirred an instinct deep within my male psyche that I must hunt/fish and provide much the same as my male retriever "must" find a discarded plastic bottle before returning home each day from our morning foray! He doesn't need a plastic bottle any more than I needed the fish! And I don't mean to compare myself exactly to a 100 lb. canine, after all I am taller and have somewhat better manners and hygiene, well  hygiene anyway.

A truly charmed day came to an end that evening at the motel when all of the fresh air, excitement and enthusiasm of the day, coupled with a couple of celebratory refreshments, eased me into a deep restful sleep, the kind of sleep that sounds a lot like a McCulloch chainsaw chewing through a hard piece of oak. At least that's what I'm told anyway.

The next day came, and with it, the anticipation of easy victory, but despite our best efforts, the effects of a cold front moving through could not be denied. There was a heavy chop on the water, a relentless wind that buffeted our boat making trolling speed erratic, and even a big sturdy boat like our trusty Legend lurch and list. The rains came in just as we wisely pulled the boat from the water and began our journey home.

Recalling the experience now, we had an awesome time, one that I'm certain is not experienced by many. I'm thankful for that! And in the end I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't get to hoist a couple of "lakers."

BRAKING POINTS!

As a younger man, I recall finding the value in a job well done, the completion of a task, the satisfaction of repairing one's own possession's, with nothing but the most basic of tools, a little know how, a lot of ingenuity and an abundance of free time. All of this, coupled with a near complete absence of funds, made me a DYI guy rather than have someone far more qualified do the job right! As far as car repair goes I suppose I've done my share.

One of my earliest solo endeavors would have been the time I changed a set of springs at the age of 16 on a car that was at least 16 itself. This, of course, was done in the front yard of my Dad's house armed with just the most basic of tools and youthful enthusiasm on my side. The car was a Pontiac Stratochief. I, of course, called it "The Stratollac," reckoning, I guess, that people might confuse it for a Cadillac.

I bought her for $75.00 out of the back yard of an older couple (in those days that meant 40+ years) from Victoria Harbour. Inexplicably they had left her there to languish! There was little wrong with that car that a bit of mechanical repair and a lot of "bondo" and fibreglass couldn't fix. By the time I was done grinding and patching, both rear quarter panels from back door to tail lights were "of my own creation." The resultant weight, and  possibly my "spring repair job," made her a "low rider." I was truly ahead of my time and didn't know it!

A perhaps less than thorough, but much appreciated safety check by a friend of a friend, and a form of insurance known as "unsatisfied judgment," and I was driving! I loved that old car, and it loved me back. Sure, we had our occasional spats, but I learned that she just needed a little more attention than some. Fluid levels, performance loss, and faint but recurring noises, were not to be ignored. The plans of an enjoyable evening could be squashed at a moments notice if she sensed the slightest indifference from you! Sound familiar, fellas?

Anyyyways...back to cars. As we all know, getting and keeping  a car "on the road" is a little more complicated than that these days! Speaking of these days...it was just the other day that we were discussing the need for some brake work to be done on my wife's car when my stepson  Jeff mentioned that he had done lots of that sort of thing all the time on cars during an auto mechanics class in high school.

That's when I felt that pesky "youthful enthusiasm" well up in me and I found myself suggesting that we just take care of the job ourselves in the front yard! Just like the ole days, eh! We checked the weather and tomorrow's  promise was a mostly sunny six degree day, which sounded not bad if you didn't think too deeply into the effects of windchill and how much gusts of 35km/hr would influence the atmosphere on the ground, under a car next to ten acres of open fairgrounds.

By the time we finished that "little brake job" Jeff was near his "braking point." Frozen fingers struggled to disassemble and reassemble cold steel objects as the long hours had passed, lying in what was becoming a sand dune around the car. We had sand in nearly every orifice (boxers had nothin' on briefs that day). Through grit filled eyes, a grimace on his face, and a single tear on his sand stained cheek, Jeff compared this ordeal to changing a track on a tank on the roadside in Afghanistan.

I marvelled at how he could make that comparison since most of his battle experience, that I know of,  has been leading combat missions against Taliban strongholds from the comfort of my couch in our rec room, using only his thumbs to wreak havoc on the enemy!

As the car was finally nearing road worthiness once again, we pondered the degree of difficulties we had encountered. My suggestion was to blame the weather, but Jeff said that the trouble was due to the fact that he was not used to working on "older" cars! Huh? We bought this thing in 2008!! How friggin' new were these cars that you worked on? And how was it that they needed brake work?
Twentysomethings today all feel that "newer" is somehow better, and feel entitled to have all new things. This is totally foreign thinking to me! Especially when it comes to vehicles!
Everyone knows that it takes at least a decade of use before a car or truck fully develops it's character. Just take, for example, my dear old "Stratollac"...