Category: A Very Short Story

Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater. Huh, What is that? Well, back in medieval times a family may have had one bath a week. husband first; wife, second; children in descending age and then the baby – last. Same tub, same water, though somewhat putrid and brown.  Mother was always wary that when the water was subsequently thrown out that the baby was not tossed out with the lot. Hence the expression – “Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.”

And what about that old marital tradition of carrying the bride over the threshold? Well, again back in the golden olden days, houses, or cottages, had roofs of thatch. You can imagine the work in cleaning the floors. Just by the main entrance was a hold – for the thatch, or thresh, as it was called, and the hold a thresh-hold. It was customary therefore to carry one’s bride across this threshold so as not to soil the woman’s petticoats.

Many of our words and expressions have had their roots or genesis hundreds of years ago. Over the years these expressions or words have found themselves in our everyday vocabulary – some good, some bad, some laughable, some sad.

Consider this:

In the 16th and 17th centuries, everything had to be transported by ship, wooden ships of sail. Old wooden transports or scows with rotting timbers, creaking, expanding planks stretching with every yaw or pitch of the ship, every motion of the sea such that the caulking opened somewhat with the result that the ship’s bilges, lower deck and the holds were often times awash in seawater.

Now in those days, like today, the rich folk, the aristocracy, loved their gardens. They loved their great expanses of manicured lawns. Lawns without a single weed – uniformed carpets, emerald green and lush to the touch. Flowers of every kind – a horticulturalist’s dream. We have all seen these magnificent Italian, French and English country gardens. Unbelievable! Unbelievable that these gardens could be so spectacular without the benefit of modern day commercial fertilizers. Maybe so, but they did have manure in those days – huge shipments of the stuff. It was shipped in dry form because when dry, manure is very light and somewhat airy. Nevertheless dry manure shipped in these leaking ships posed a unique but significant problem. You see when dry manure gets wet it becomes heavier and the pungent process of fermentation begins of which a by-product is methane gas.
 
As the stuff was stored below decks in bundles you can see what could and
did happen. Methane began to build up below decks and the first time
someone came below at night with a lantern, BOOOOM!  Several ships were destroyed in this manner before it was determined just what was happening. After that the bundles of manure were always stamped with the letters “S period; H period; I period; T period, such that the sailor always knew what they had on their hands.

This precaution was not always heeded and on one occasion a number of ships in company experienced such a fatal, yet awesome explosion of methane induced fireworks. On historical account there was one convoy of manure laden ships that met a week of extremely rough weather.  As luck would have it, when the weather abated and the ships were back in company, at the most unexpected time “ KABOOM,” one of the ships exploded. It was such an awesome, awful sight to behold. The explosion was so spectacular that one seaman above decks in one of the accompanying ships was heard to exclaim:

“Holy S, period, H, period; I, period; T, period.” as the bales of manure so aptly labelled were flying everywhere. Asked later to explain the scene he so deftly uttered.

“It was like a shower.”

“A shower of what?” he was asked?

“A shower of S, period; H, period; I, period; and T, period.  It was all that he could muster.

Indeed a number of these bales even landed on the fantail of a ship some two miles distant.  So nervous and scared were some of the sailors on that ship that they could barely get the words out to explain the occurrence to their Captain. When asked what happened one of the sailors stammered:

“Sir: there was a huge explosion. There was S, period, H, period; I, period; T, period everywhere. The explosion was so strong that some of the bales marked S, period, H, period; I, period; T, period. hit the fffff fan – tail. It was unbelievable.”

A search for survivors was conducted. As luck would have it, the Captain and twenty of his crew were rescued. They found the Captain himself alone in the water in the midst of about 100 broken and destroyed bales. He was literally and figuratively found to be in the S, period, H, period; I, period; T, period.

Thus over the years, the decades, the centuries the acronym “S, period, H, period; I, period; T, period ” has evolved. You see many of the sailors in those times were illiterate – they couldn’t read or write. That is why the acronym S,period, H period, I period and T period was used. It was easy to pronounce and remember. Indeed over the years the acronym itself entered the English language. It can be found in the Concise Oxford English Dictionary (COED, 10^th Ed, 2002; page 1324). Many of the expressions found in the dictionary and associated with that acronym today go back to that very fateful and terrible event.

And what is the meaning of the acronym S, period, H period, I period, T period that were marked on those bales? 

Ship High In Transit!

It’s obvious!

Perhaps you were thinking of something else.

 

Originated by anonymous although embellished slightly by yours truly.

In many respects the South Pole at the turn of the 20^th century was an environment of no’s.  There was no point of reference.  There was no large geographical landmark announcing, “You are here!”  There was no large hole in the ground staked with a massive pole obtrusion or place name.  There was no marker.  There was no obvious tell tale sign that an objective had been reached.  There was no support for life. There was nothing there but wind: a wind so cold and bitter that it was life sucking. It was as if the wind gods had found a place on earth to vent their anger unabated.  A howling, deafening non – prevailing wind with snow and blizzard and drift that was constant only in its relentless power: a non-prevailing confused and chaotic maelstrom because there was no direction here – except north.  There was no warm southwesterly, steady westerly or an easterly.  Everywhere one turned one was facing north.  There was only the bitter north wind.  And coming from all directions!

 And there was nothing at the South Pole except a frigid, blinding white desert plain projecting a desolate and frighteningly yet awesome picture of nature – at its best and at its worst: a lifeless, broad, flat, monotonous stretch of frozen landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see – in every direction.  In the summer months there were 24 hours of sunshine but with it came an incessant blinding glare.  In the wintertime an eternal darkness fell over the land like a veil of silence in death:  a darkness that was made all the more eerie and dangerous with temperatures dropping off the bottom of the Fahrenheit scale.  And everywhere one looked it was always the same.  There were no distinctions: only wind and drift and snow and ice. 

The south polar plateau was an icy land that was both hypnotically breathtaking as it was nomadically restless.  Ice that was so pervasive, it was everywhere:  ice – in crystallized air;  ice – in frozen breath; ice – in frozen sweat; ice that was over a mile thick; ice that permeated and smothered every secret that the land may hold; ice that moved; ice that scorched a path across a barren landscape; ice that was so relentless and unwavering in its slow glaciated crawl across the south polar plateau toward the Trans-Antarctica Mountains; and ice that fell in precipitous icefalls, down expansive glaciers that were bordered by mountains over 15,000 feet in height.  Towering granite peaks, like sentinels, these mountains protected a high frozen polar ice prairie that was home to a non-descript geographical point of the earth that was the frozen underbelly of the world.  The South Pole was indeed cold and inhospitable. It was a terrible place.

And on this land of ice and snow, on this south polar plateau some 10,000 feet above sea level, tales unfolded in an historical context of polar exploration that have since become the source of legend and myth: legendary tales of survival, of leadership, of endurance, of courage, of success, of heart rendering self-sacrifice, of depression, of defeat, legendary myths and tales of men, of dogs, of ponies, of unremitting hunger, of disease, of death.  It is a place of storied heroism, of foolishness, of fickle and fate, of obstinacy and ignorance, of mental breakdown and stupidity.  It is a place of friendship, of camaraderie, of jealousy, and spite.  It is a place of majestic peaks, of icy crags, of hidden crevasses, of bottomless chasms, of pressure ridges, of untold beauty and horrific dangers and suffering.  It is the vast polar plateau, the Beardmore and Axel Heiberg Glaciers, the expansive Ross Ice Shelf, The Devil’s Ballroom, McMurdo Sound, the Western Mountains, Katabatic wind, Terror and Erebus, the Bay of Whales.  It is the playground of killer whales, the home of the Emperor and Adele penguin, the Weddell seal, Skuas and the Antarctic Petrel. 

For some men the South Pole symbolized gentlemanly fulfillment. The Antarctic environment entrapped them into an addiction of exploration and an escalating sense of superhuman accomplishment.  It instilled a sense of unbridled commitment and fulfillment to a cause that was of intellectual importance and of spiritual poetry and propriety.  Apsley Cherry-Garrard, one of Robert Falcon Scott’s men and author of one of the best south polar chronicles written “The Worst Journey in the World” (Cherry-Garrard, 1930) described south polar exploration this way: “Exploration is the physical expression of the Intellectual Passion”(Cherry-Garrard, 1930, page 577). Perhaps it was for men brought up on Victorian values: Victorian men who were intellectually nurtured on Browning, Tennyson, Dickens and Darwin, or influenced by Jowett (Hibbert, 1987).  But for many of these men there was also that adolescent like fearlessness and ignorance of the horrific dangers, subtleties and paradox that was the Antarctic.  Reading their stories, their fearlessness and bravado somehow undermined the intellectual passion and poetic romanticism.  For the Antarctic may be in one instant a beautiful thought provoking place.  But in the next it heralds a terrible, frozen death.  Its death knell is both unsuspecting and indistinguishable, but death nevertheless.   For the Antarctic environment knows no glory.  It knows no sense of gentlemanly conduct.  It has no sense of fair play or understanding of intellectual pursuits or passion. The Antarctic is not a positive place at all. It is an environment of no’s.

 

(c) Shakeyjay 2002

 

I don’t want to dwell too much on this place, this wet coast city; needless to say I got a job at a paper, cardboard packaging company that had an international flavour to it. My sister and her partner welcomed me with open arms and made me feel at home. In their old beater, they took me on day trips around the city and surrounding country side. I must admit that when the sun did come out on those rare occasions, the city’s natural, geographical setting was spectacular. Only problem was that these occasions were as remote as a west coast hippy’s tendency to find a job. Me, I worked.

I also met Sandy, my sister’s best friend and our next door neighbour’s oldest daughter. She and my sister decided to come out to the west coast with all the other hippies of this so called summer of love. Go west young dude, and dude-ess was the hippy siren call of the day. So, with a suitcase full of “tie dyes”, with hope upon hope and a restless thumb they all hitchhiked to the promise land.

Sandy lived in a commune in the south east end of the city. It was so cool she told me. Yes it was sooo cool, figuratively and literally, but also run down and shabby: ten of her closest friends living together under one roof. The only enterprising dude in all of this was the landlord. Yet his dependency of course was not the free spirited, enterprising skills of the inhabitants of his run down abode but the municipal government’s largesse of the day affectionately known by all of the caterers of the hippy commune crowd as “Welfare Wednesdays.” And commune is just a hippy expression and a Latin word for shithouse!

Sandy showed me her space, which was in the corner of a large open basement, damp, dark and dank, with just a dirty mattress and a blanket curtain marking off her personal territory: a bare incandescent light bulb her only means of artificial light.  It was sooo cool she told me. And you’re so square, uptight, so un-cool she would criticise me to no end. Get with the program she would insist. Her limited vocabulary was only limited by the amount of drugs she imbibed. The letter “C” was a predominant determinant of their nondescript and boring alphabet and part and parcel of the hippy dialogue and cultural landscape. What she didn’t tell me of course was the amount of times she was robbed of her food and money by her cadre of close but oh sooo cool family of friends.

But what did it for me in this run down abode of a dwelling was an incident that occurred while visiting Sandy. Sitting in the kitchen on the main floor, Sandy was making me a cup of coffee when suddenly the front door was kicked in by some scruffy looking Manson like figure dude of hippiedom, stoned out of his ever lovin but lifeless mind. His eye balls rolling and puffing out of his skull; his dirty unkempt beard gave him the impression of a crazed out Sasquatch, or a mountain man. Someone who hadn’t seen soap in a very long time! Foam seemed to be frothing out of the sides of his mouth. He was cursing to high heaven, tripping out I would assume, in the hippy vernacular. Paranoid perhaps. But what was really scary and sooo un-cool, was the sawed off shotgun that he was wielding in his left hand and forearm. I do hope to God he is right handed I prayed. I couldn’t move. I was gobsmacked. Just as well, as any movement by us in his direction probably would have triggered his aggression, and not in a good way.

And just as quickly as he entered, he turned and left, exiting out of the now damaged front door. Perhaps he had the wrong address I thought.  I almost shit my pants and when it was deemed safe I high tailed it out of there but not before I pleaded with Sandy to come with me. She declined.  “But Damian is sooo cool” she told me. Damian? Damian? Damian is sooo cool? Isn’t Damian a name for a devil? Like a Griffin, a devilish name? I thought to myself.  And with a sawed off shotgun as his calling card? These hippies are sooo prone to self delusion and self destruction. It must be the drugs I thought or the drinking water or the raindrops pounding relentlessly on their noggins.  More than likely it was the Purple Haze in the shallow recesses of their minds or the West Coast Bud where everyone, everybody, crazy or not, is your best friend forever, or buddy. I never returned to Sandy’s commune.

I do believe that in the two month period that I lived there, 60 days I think, that it rained for 59 of them. Exaggerating perhaps but it just seemed so. It was either raining or about to rain or had just finished raining.  And with the rain came the melancholy. And with the melancholy came the empty feeling of loneliness and with the loneliness and melancholy, and vitamin “D” deficiency, came depression. The suicide rate in this city was through the roof.

Then there was the game of all games: British Bulldog. I think every school on the planet that was tied to the commonwealth played British Bulldog. It didn’t matter if you could even spell it or pronounce it or even read it, especially in countries such as India, or Pakistan, Bangladesh. Oh you say British Bulldog you say. Okay. Let’s play you British Maha-raj-dog you!

This game could be brutal. I truly believe it was the foundation that made the British Empire great or the modern day commonwealth common. And if you were weak kneed, fragile, timid, shy, look out. This was one game where anyone’s, everyone’s disposition or nature, weak or strong, somehow manifested itself in very short order. If you were scared you might as well be wearing a sign that said: “I am scared shitless.”  Okay, let’s go after him. He’ll be the last one standing. It was an unwritten rule. This game was so profound. It provoked the leaders from the followers, the bullies from the bullied, the weak from the strong and the popular from the dispossessed. Too bad! That’s the way it was and was the life of a male elementary student at a Catholic School. Meanwhile the girls were playing May-pole. Or Hop Scotch! Sounds like fun to me!

 So, how did this game go?

Get as many guys as you could muster in the centre of the schoolyard by yelling out British Bulldog. Volunteer immediately to be one of the Bulls, that is, one of the guys in the middle of the schoolyard facing about one thousand of your closest friends who are lining up against a fence at one end of the yard. The aim here was that once the alarm was sounded by the Bull one had to run across the open yard enmass to the other side of the field without being caught by one of the Bulls waiting in the centre of the field of play, of course. Caught? No tackled was more like it. Today I believe they might call this “Capture the Flag” but for us it was a tad more brutal and neanderthal than waving some fag worthy piece of shitty pink or blue ribbon. Tackled, yes, but in those days the schoolyard at that time of the year, again late winter or early spring, was covered with course green-brown grass sprinkled here and there with rock hard but soon to be well textured mushy, smelly dog turds.  That was the whole point of the game though: to scare the beejeezus out of some of the so called geeks of the school.  And once you were tackled you joined your tackle-er and became one of the Bulldogs in the centre of the field. The last one standing was the so called winner of the game. In reality, and by our rules, the last one standing was the biggest loser.

This was definitely the preferred game for bullies in that it was an unwritten rule that the geekiest or so called weakest looking nerdy guy in the school would be the very last one up against the fence. His poor, pathetic perspective of his seemingly small nerdy world would be facing down 1,000 of his closest bully Bulldogs standing in the centre of the field waiting unabashedly to rein down pure unadulterated, adolescent terror on the poor lad. Fun? You bet! A tad mean and ruthless? Perhaps! Definitely. But it was a sure fire way to grow up.

And why would some seventy pound weakling agree to participate in such madness? Simple. At the beginning of the game there was strength in numbers so one geek would feel somewhat safe and have a somewhat secure but false sense of belonging standing there against the fence at the beginning of this melee, with 1,000 of his so called geek buddies.  Unbeknownst to him though it was the unwritten but agreed upon rule by all of the bully Bulldogs that the designated target would be allowed to run free and easy, again and again, bypassing the awaiting but increasingly growing horde of bullies who would manifest themselves into becoming this vast conflagration of idiots bent upon the realization that this was going to be the very worst day in the poor lad’s short life.

Interestingly, while some of the remnants, or targets, realizing what was about to occur in very short order, might turn and run toward one of the school’s doors. Those that did stick it out found out, somewhat ironically, and to their astonished astonishment and amazing amazement, that they earned the respect of some of the biggest bullies, louts in the school. They unwittingly demonstrated that they had the courage, the backbone, the stupidity to stick it out, get a little bruised perhaps, and wear that badge of honourable dog shit that every British Bulldogger wears on their sleeves. Interestingly, soon after, they relished the thought of becoming a Bulldog themselves: one of the guys, louts, idiots, Bulldogs, in eying down some other poor sod who had the misfortune of becoming a target. There must be some psychological determinant to explain away this form of activity, group think, mob behaviour, stupidity with security in numbers. How else can one explain how a horde of 600 Bulldogs ran across this field of death with idiots to the right of them, idiots to the left of them, and so ran the 600 idiots (apology to Tennyson). *

(c) Shakey Jay 2015

* “Excerpt from “I Thought I’d Died and Gone to Heaven”

One day in the fall I happened to be walking past our community recreation centre, which is adjacent to the old and unused tennis courts. I noticed that my good friend Ian was out there lashing a large pile of 2 x 4s together. Ian, being about 70 years old with knees as solid as chocolate mouse, appeared to be somewhat distressed.  Concerned, I went over to give him a hand. It turned out that he was just in the throes of beginning the preliminary work of constructing an outside ice-hickey rink for the youth of our village.

 

“Need a hand Ian.” I asked rather sheepishly.

 

“Yup.” Ian didn’t mince his words.

 

For the next day and a half I helped Ian construct the various frames required for the integrity of the side and end boards necessary for an outdoor hockey rink.

 

“That felt pretty good” I thought.  I was somewhat energized.

 

The following weekend a slew of men and women came together to actually put up the boards themselves. Before long our hockey rink took shape.

 

“Who are these guys and gals?” I wondered, aloud.

 

“That’s the Manotick Community Association” Ian volunteered.

 

Later that winter our village put on a Winter Carnival – “Shiver Fest” as it was called. It was great fun – outdoor and indoor activities where the whole community came out to put aside the February blahs and party, skate, gossip and play a little chin music.  A few days later I received a newsletter from the Manotick Community Association highlighting the success of the winter festival’s activities and thanking everyone involved who had volunteered their time.  Hey, I even received a honourable mention for my work on the hockey rink. I felt pretty good about that. Great stuff!

 

Now, being 52 years old one would think that I would know better.  But oh noooo, I was still as naïve as a self-assured, cocky, but unconscious teenaged dude. You see, I sent the association an e-mail thanking them for their efforts and offering my limited carpentry or grunt work services if the need should ever arrive. Well, before I could say “Community of Practice,” I found myself as a member of one of the association’s committees – the Hazardous Waste Committee to boot.  Crap, did they know something about my lifestyle that I didn’t? I must admit I did work for Imperial Tobacco a long, long time ago… I was their chain smoker!!

 

What to do? How can I get myself out of this?

 

“Look John” I said to myself. “You have always felt the need to belong to something – right?  Becoming involved with this community association may just be the ticket to your sense of well-being.A real feeling of belonging to a real Community of Practice, of purpose.”

 

“Yes, perhaps Johnny,” my evil twin added. “But the time, the time. You’ve been on these tribal councils before with Little League Baseball and Minor Hockey. The horror…the horror… You know the frustrations and dynamics of human nature. The process-ers, the naysay-ers, the chicken little-ers, the handwringers, the movers and shakers, the goody two shoe-ers, the workers, the – “I must be in charge at all cost-ers.”  “Yeah John, I know all that, but maybe this will be different”

 

“With whom on God’s green earth are you talking to??” my wife yelled.

 

I became engaged, a full participant. I was now a bona fide member of the Manotick Community Association – Hazardous Waste Committee dude. Hey, besides having a very, very warm and fuzzy feeling of belonging and community pride maybe I’ll learn something here and make some new friends.

 

About a month later I went to my first Association meeting. Ever so shyly, I climbed the stairs and entered the community hall. About 50 people had already gathered – talking, chattering, laughing, and making a whole lot of racket such that the noise level set off my tinnitus. Eying the forum for a familiar face, I noticed one of my old-timer ice-hockey colleagues, sitting by himself. I sauntered over and sat down beside him.

 

“Hey Vic, great season eh?” “No broken bones.”  For guys like us that’s a great season.

 

He laughed. Apparently Vic was a lurker, a regular here. He knew everyone:  their strengths and foibles, weaknesses and interests, everything.  He was a long time resident of Manotick so I figured he more than anyone else here could mentor me with the proceedings and nuances of the group.

 

Call to order. The Executive was up front facing us.  Manotick Mike, the president of the Manotick Community Association, took up the mic to call the meeting to order.

 

…Pause to note: There are two Mike Smiths in our village. One lives in the village itself and is the President of the Community Association. Hence “Manotick Mike”. The other Mike Smith lives just outside the village and runs his own business.  He is known as “Concrete Mike.” He is in the reification business…

 

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelch. Yikes, my tinnitus. I cried and cringed. Those squealing sound waves bouncing and ricocheting across that cavernous hall like those fingers scratching up the old school blackboard. Good gawd man. Small town or what?

 

Like Vic I decided to just sit back and lurk. I felt that it was safer that way as I did not want to embarrass myself with my procedural ineptness. Or perhaps I was just a little shy and self-conscious.

 

“They have an agenda” Vic told me. “First they’ll introduce themselves, welcome new members, blah, blah, blah.  You know, that introductory, nauseating stuff. – a real crock man”

 

Sure enough, I was welcomed as the Hazardous Waste Committee’s newbee (sic-k) volunteer. A round of applause.

 

“That always happens” Vic said. “Let’s make the sucker…. Oh I’m sorry John, volunteer, feel welcome – a real crock man!”

 

“Okay folks, on with our first agenda item – changes and amendments to our constitution” Manotick Mike announced. “Amendments to our charter.”

 

Vic leaned over: “Okay John, here come the process-ers.”

 

Vic was right as about three or four people tabled about 50 gazillion amendments. The process-ers and wordsmith-ers bogged us down.

 

“But we think ‘the’ should be changed to ‘those’. And delete ‘it’ on page 3, para 2 subsection 1, sub para (a) and add ‘these.’  It makes no sense in the context of this constitution, blah, blah, blah.”

 

Votes: Yay…. Nay….the nays have it, and on and on it went for about 1 ½ hours. Jeez, and only the first item of the agenda too.

 

“What on earth is happening?” I asked Vic.

 

“It happens all the time he said. A real crock.  We come up with a really great idea and concept – in this case Manotick community involvement – but the process-ers end up reifying the structural process of the group to such a degree and extent that it becomes abstract – no one can really understand what we’re talking about or doing anymore.”

 

“Hmmm, profound thought,” I thought.

 

“But here is where it gets interesting” Vic pointed out.

 

One of the process-ers put forth an amendment that stated that only those members who live within the 555 telephone exchange could be eligible to be president of the association.

 

“What is this?” I asked Vic.

 

“It’s a real crock man. That process guy is also one of those – I gotta be in charge at all cost-ers – type.  Manotick Mike now lives just outside the village. This guy wants him out so he can run for President.  A real crock” he added.

 

“Wow!” I thought. Brutal! And I thought this was going to be a friendly group!

 

The meeting went on for about 3 hours. I sat and listened and learned a great deal about what to expect from this group.  Sure enough, lots of discussion and heated debate from a few, but no action forthcoming – the naysay-ers and hand wringers.  Manotick Mike pleaded at times for volunteers.  What was interesting to me was that many of the volunteers who did come forward were individuals who had no apparent reason to volunteer in the first place.  It was a negotiated settlement on their part I would think. Ah, yes, the work-ers.

 

One lady got up and told us she was a member of the village’s Horticultural Society. She planted here, she planted there, she planted everywhere.

 

“I horticultured this, I horticultured that. I can horticulture up a storm.” She squawked

 

“You need flowers – I’ll horticulture them for you.”

 

“Must be the horticultural village idiot” I mused.

 

“No” Vic laughed, “She owns the village florist shop. What a crock of horticultural doo-doo.”

 

“Yeah” I added. “She should be planted – 6 ft under”

 

“Okay, so who wants to take the lead on our village’s main street beautification project?” Manotick Mike asked. No response.

 

Wow. What dynamics. It turned out that some lady who worked at the local senior citizens agency finally agreed to take on this initiative and accepted the role. I wonder who’s going to be breathing down her back?
“What a crock” Vic whispered.  “A hand-wringer for sure that horticulturalist.”

 

And on and on it went.  Yes, as a group we are just a little eccentric, a bit dysfunctional perhaps.  But you know what? We are a community of like-minded individuals who collectively want to make a difference in our town and in our lives.  We do practice what we preach and act on what we believe in.  Each and every one of us has the best interests of our community at heart – even if the process is torturous at times.

 

Teething problems? You bet. And while the group reflects the whole realm of human nature: emotions, foibles, strengths and weaknesses, we are all committed to a common goal of making Manotick the very best place to live in the Ottawa Valley. We’ll either have one heck of a time doing this as a Community of Practice, of Purpose or Resolve, or we’ll all slit our wrists in the process.  Nevertheless, when our collective knowledge begins to gel, watch out. There’ll be no stopping us.

 

“By the way Vic, what are you doing now that you’re retired?” I queried

 

“My wife and I have opened a pottery shop in the village”

 

“Oh yeah” I continued somewhat surprised. “Doing what? Making vases, bowls, jars?”

 

“No, crock pots. We make crock pots!!!”

 

I should have guessed.

 

Oh, and I forgot one other type of member. Those Betty Crock-ers!!

 

Me?  As a member of Manotick’s Hazardous Waste Committee, I’m currently up to my armpits in you know what.  It ain’t pretty but it is for the collective goo goo this doo doo