I saved my all-time favourite for last. Dad used them like a weather vane and anemometer to tell the wind direction and speed as they blew back and forth across the field. During a telephone conversation Dad would comment nonchalantly, “I see the wind has changed. The buckets are blowing in the opposite direction.”
Mom and I sat on large concrete blocks outside the store but super close to the road. Blockhouse is a small community where everybody knows everybody. People driving past gave us some pretty weird looks. I have a feeling that when they got home they told their families that they had seen the strangest sight at the intersection. You’re never safe from surprises until your dead. They saw two hookers in Blockhouse in broad daylight.
I’m so old I can remember when the 8-track tape was cutting edge technology. Teenagers rushed out to buy them along with 8-Track players. The tapes worked flawlessly for a while. However, at some point, the tape would stretch or get tangled and the music sounded warbly. Their popularity was short-lived, but I am willing to bet there are thousands of them packed in boxes in basements. Do you have some?
Dad died in 2013 and I was determined to “clean up Dad’s clutter.” I filled dumpsters and my brother’s pickup truck with what I deemed junk. Dad’s blue twenty-gallon barrels and white five-gallon pails made up a large chunk of the junk. Then we demolished the barn and got rid of any that may have been hidden in it. I felt unspeakable freedom as the junk went out the driveway.
I am blessed beyond measure. I have a loving husband, two beautiful children, their spouses, four adorable grandchildren, one grand-doggy and one grand-kitty. My heart is bursting with love for my little family. I have recently returned from time spent with my daughter and her children at “Nanny’s other House” near Lockeport, Nova Scotia.
As that great philosopher, Jed Clampett, used to say, “Hot diggity dog!”
The school was abuzz with excitement. Everybody was talking about it. Drivers’ Ed. was coming to Lockeport Regional High School! I enrolled immediately, certain it would be a breeze. After all, how hard could it be to drive a car? What’s the worst thing that could happen? You should never ask that question because as my Uncle Herm used to say, The Big Ear is always listening. I would find out soon enough just how hard it was.
I chose “Bones and Muscles” as the first science unit each year because it was fun and got children out of their desks. Students traced the outline of each other’s body, cut it out, and then drew and coloured all 206 bones. (If we needed help to remember the number of bones, it helped to know that the number was the same as Alex W. address.) Happy chatter filled the room as each child completed the project.
In the minds of his grandchildren, he was a “cool dude.” Nobody’s Grandfather measured up to theirs. He bore no resemblance to the soft-spoken, sweet, gentle grandfathers of storybooks. No, Gramp had found the fountain of excitement. He saw nothing wrong with an eight-year-old running a wood splitter, a ten-year-old operating a chainsaw, a five-year-old driving his ATV or an eleven-year-old using a shotgun. After all, they had to learn sometime. Why not now? His grandchildren: Jason and Darcy Roache; Cindy, Jonathan, and Tim Roache; Jeremy and Allison Clark; and Maria Roache could write a dilly of a book about Gramp.
On Thursday of that week, I took Mom grocery shopping. In 1976, Shelburne had three grocery stores. We had to make the rounds of all three to save a cent on a loaf of bread.
I had planned to drop Mom off and to go down to Roseway Hospital to visit a friend who had just given birth. But just as Mom entered IGA, I spotted Glenn in the store.
In a split second, I abandonned my friend who had just endured 72 hours of labour and a gazillion stitches to bring this little one into the world. AFTER ALL, in only nine months, she could have another baby, but I had limited opportunities to meet the man of my dreams.
Earlier in the day, I had walked to the bank and stopped at MacDoos for lunch. I had locked the front door but not the back door. Had someone crept in and hidden somewhere in the funeral home while I was out? Nervously, I checked the washrooms outside the office. They were empty. The lounge area was empty. The visitation and chapel had no source of running water. Neither did the casket display room. Caskets? Was an intruder hiding under the lid at the foot of a casket?