Category: Yarns that are true

Nobody told me they’d be days like this

Some days you should just stay in bed, where it is safe. This day was one of those days. I got up at 7 a.m., and noticed that we were getting sloppy snow. That is enough to go back to bed, but no, I had to stay up. From there, the dog wanted to go outside. She is a Teacup Pomeranian. When she came back in, she looked like a sponge mop on a dirty floor. Had to clean her up. The little feller had to go to school, but with the terrible weather, and the dark mornings we have been experiencing lately, I decided to give him a ride to the bus stop at the end of the lane. The dog wanted to go, and rather than listen to the bark of a Pomeranian (Which is hell on the ears, even when you are half deaf like me…My woman calls it ‘Selective hearing’, but don’t you think that if it was selective, I could tune out the dog barking?)

Anyway, here I was, my work lunch in one hand, the pom in the other, and the ground as slick as oil, and you guessed the rest. My two feet came out from under me, my neck snapped forward and my head crashed to the ground, right in the deepest puddle in the yard. (I had parked my car on the back lawn so my lady could get her car out if she needed it)

Everything I wore was soaked and covered with mud. I ran back into the house to change, and after a total wardrobe change, the little guy misses the bus, so I have to bring him to school. I end up getting to work late,and even worse, I ended up with a slight concussion. Add to that the fact that when I changed my clothing, I forgot to check the mirror, the entire back of my head was soaked with caked on mud. What a day! Tomorrow I plan to stay in bed…~~~

Never wear a moose on your head

Moose hunting is a very popular sport here on the island. Not only is it entertaining for those who love to hunt, (Not something I enjoy) but hunting moose provides for a winter’s food. As First Nations Newfoundlanders, we are raised to never waste anything, and I guess that is why my family choose to enjoy EVERY part of the moose. A particular fondness for the moose head is the reason for this story.

Back a few years ago, my uncle Tom (not his real name) applied for his moose license. He had always wanted to hunt, and bring home the year’s meat to his family, but being clumsy and not always a guy to make the best choices, his dad never encouraged him to use a gun. Every day I seen Tom walk to the mailbox in hopes that his license was there, and every day I seen him walk home depressed when it was not. Finally, one Friday, Tom got his license. We could hear him hollering all the way down the road, through the small community in which we lived.

On Monday morning, myself, my dad, and my two uncles, (one of the uncles being Tom) got ready to go hunting. We packed a good lunch and loaded our gear on the back of our quads and set off. After driving over 30 miles, we came to a lookout that overlooked a large marsh. From this point, you could see for miles, and if there was a moose anywhere, you would be sure to spot him.

Although we warned everyone to be quiet, Tom howled when he seen a moose. He ran over to the nearest tree and aimed his gun. A loud roar came from his firearm as his aim was perfect. We were surprised that he actually hit anything, but he did, as the massive animal fell to the ground. Tom ran down across the large marsh, with his gear on his back, yelling for us to let him do all the work. We looked at each other and laughed. The other guys continued scanning the marsh in search of another moose, and after a few hours, my uncle spotted a large bull moose approaching from behind the trees. He took aim, and shot the giant moose right between the two eyes. We all walked to the site where the moose should have been lying, only to witness what was the biggest scare and surprise ever. There it was, a large moose head (without a body), and right next to the head of the bull moose was Tom, lying on his back unconscious. We were horrified to discover that my uncle did not kill a moose, but rather, he shot the head of the moose that Tom was carrying out oh his shoulders.

My uncle thought that he had killed poor Uncle Tom, but luckily he did not; Tom got such a fright from having the moose head he was carrying on his shoulders shot, he passed out. Poor Uncle Tom will never live this hunting incident down.

When we got home, my dad took the moose head, and the other guys shared up the remaining parts of the moose; and Tom, he probably had to change his underwear!

Pine Beer and Bikers from Michigan

a few years ago, my friends and I found out what Americans were made of. This story began in my basement, and with our home made beer recipe. This was the summer that the beer companies all went on strike, therefore, no beer on the island except some Old Milwaukee crap imported from the states, not the strong, hardy beer we Newfoundlanders are used to drinking.

On this particular weekend, we decided to make our own beer. All the stores were closed, and we needed a brewing bucket. My friend said that his mom worked at a local school, and she should have plenty of plastic 5 gallon buckets lying around. When he showed up at the house, he had a white plastic bucket under his arm. The bucket’s label read “5 Gallons of Pine Sol.”

Before we had a chance to ask him if he had cleaned the bucket, the guys began the beer making process. I later asked him about it, and he replied, “How much cleaner can you be than Pine Sol?” Hey, we were thirsty for some beer, so what is the worst than can happen? It is funny how that answer to that question always comes back to haunt you.

Anyway, we mixed all the ingredients in the bucket, which smelled like Pine Sol. The boys noticed the strong smell, but guessed that the alcohol would probably dissolve any odors anyway. When all the ingredients were mixed, we sealed the bucket, being sure to cut a small hole in the cover of the bucket, and attaching a balloon to the hole. This allows air to circulate but not leave the bucket.

The weekend of the Shallaroo was just two weeks away, giving us time to bottle the beer and allowing it to ferment just right. (The Shallaroo was a local music festival celebrated in the Codroy Valley area of the province. The festival featured many local entertainers and a few from the mainland.) On Friday evening, the guys came up to the house, and together with the big plastic bucket of beer and about 6 dozen empty beer bottles that we painstakingly washed out, we began bottling our beer. One of the boys could not resist a drink of the warm ale, and with that, he almost threw up. “Tastes like pine air fresheners, the kind I have hanging from my rear view mirror in the truck” He said.

We began to worry. Here it was, just two weeks before the festival, and our beer tastes like pine air freshener. Like the brave Newfies we were, we said the hell with it, kept bottling the stuff, and stored the bottled ale in the refrigerator. (These were the days prior to my meeting my fiance, and beer was a staple in my fridge on numerous occasions.) One of the guys said “If we are ever out of beer, we will always have this stuff to drink”

We had a few parties at the house afterwards, but we always managed to stay clear of that beer, choosing instead to drink Whiskey or rum. One of my friends, who was either braver than us, or dumber, chose to drink the Pine beer we made. In no time at all, he was caught holding his stomach, crying out that he seen a bear under my step, only to find that it was just a garbage bag. He was hallucinating seeing wild animals that turned out to be household items. We blamed the beer.

On the day before the festival, the guys came to the house with their trucks, and loaded the alcohol we bought into large coolers and of course, the pine beer; anxious to get the weekend started. When we got to the Codroy Valley festival fields, we found a great site and began unpacking our gear. When our tents were set up, we opened our coolers, and carefully avoiding the horrible pine beer, we started drinking.

Just then, a gang of bikers came up along the road to the field where the festival was being held. One of them came over, saying that he was from Michigan. He bragged about all the Canadian beer they had. One of the guys informed us that the strike was over, and liquor stores began stocking our fine ale once again. Under their arms they carried each a six pack of beer. One of the bikers asked whether they could store their beer in our coolers, because they didn’t enjoy the thought of drinking warm beer on such a hot day. We reluctantly agreed to their offer.

Well, we didn’t actually agree to their offer, instead, we had our own agenda. My friend  had the idea that we store their beer, but we give them our beer, the Pine beer. “How will they know the difference?” he asked. “They probably never drank LaBatts beer anyway, maybe they will think it does taste like Pine Sol.”

As the night went on, the music played loud, and the entire field was filled with partyers, drinking and whooping it up loudly. Around 2 am, we could hear our biker friends in the site next to us, they were carrying on like they were insane. Several of them were heard in the woods vomiting loudly, but they kept drinking anyway.

The next morning, we were greeted by four very big guys, dressed completely in leather, with skulls and crossbones on the backs of their jackets. The biggest guy was as green as a cabbage, and with that, he said “We have to hand it to you Newfies. We noticed you guys drinking all night, we only drank about six beer each, and yet, you guys are perfectly healthy this morning, and we are running around like we drank poison.”

“We learned a valuable lesson today” said one of the bikers. “Your beer tastes nothing like our beer, but it leaves a fresh taste in your mouth and it kicks like a bull”, “We plan on buying more to bring to our friends in the states” they said.

We never told them that they drank beer brewed in plastic Pine Sol buckets. They probably did drink poison.

Living on the island

Every day I am more and more amazed at this island we call Newfoundland. I just read a news story that someone stole a cow from a farm nearby. Not just any cow, but a cow that was heavily medicated. One can only wonder if maybe, the thief figured that if he ate medicated cow, he would receive some sort of high.

We get many unique news stories in our papers, the funniest one I remember is this guy from Corner Brook, who held up a truck containing blood and urine samples. Apparently, he had to have a urine test in order to be eligible for a job, so he figured he take the test, and then steal and destroy all urine samples afterwards. The article read “Man Gets Caught Stealing Own Urine”. No wonder they write Newfie Jokes, we kind of ask for it, don’t we?

The island has many funny place names and communities. The community of Dildo has a yearly problem with tourists stealing their road sign. I guess the visitors want to actually prove there exists a Newfoundland town of Dildo. When I asked one of the Dildo residents why the community was named after a penis shaped device, he responded “I am insulted by that remark me son” He went on to say  “Dildo is named after the pond that sits outside the community.”  Of course I had to ask why the pond was named ‘Dildo’. The older gentleman looks at me in disgust and says “What are ye stupid? We names it that ’cause the pond looks like a big penis”

There are other communities on the island with strange names as well. ‘Joe Batts Arm’, ‘Jerry’s Nose’, ‘Deep Bight’ and “Conception Bay’ just to name a few.

Being cut off from civilization has its benefits, but it also has many drawbacks. Due to rising costs of ferry rides, trips to anywhere in Canada costs us a bundle; not to mention the extra hours spent on the ferry. It takes forever to receive anything ordered from the mainland.

For me, the number one benefit to being a Newfoundlander is watching Mainlanders (a Mainlander is anyone not from the island) get ‘screeched in’. Screech ins are ceremonies where visitors to the island are made ‘honorary Newfies’. The host of the Screech in has to be a natural born Newfoundlander. The Mainlanders have to wear Newfie Sou’Westers (Yellow rain gear worn by Newfoundland fishermen) and rubber boots. The mainlanders are then asked to recite a Newfie verse such as “Long May Your Big Jib Draw”. Anyone who does not properly recite the verse has to drink a shot of Newfie Screech. (Screech is a Jamaican rum that has been imported to the island. European sailors traded the rum for cod fish, which was plentiful back then and almost gone now)

Speaking of Cod Fish, the next step is to kiss a cod. Failure to kiss cod results in another swig of Screech. By the time all this is finished, the Mainlander (who cannot take their alcohol as good as most of us Newfs, and is terribly drunk by now) has to then dance to a Newfie Jig (traditional accordion tune) Once this is all finished, The Mainlander is now handed a certificate stating that they are now Honorary Newfoundlanders. The new Newfoundlander now has a few more screeches.

The great part of this ceremony is that no self respecting Newf has ever kissed a cod, but it is great fun getting silly Mainlanders to do so.

Yikkes! My dog has kittens

I had a weird childhood filled with weird occurrences. Take for example the time my dog had kittens. We took all precautions when we decided to get her. Mom argued that we didn’t need another dog, not after the last one, but we assured her that as kids, we would promise to take real good care of her. I promised that I would use my newspaper money to get her fixed, my brother promised that he would make sure she was well fed, and my two little sisters said that they would look after her and kiss her and pet her and….

So mom agreed. Dad was never a problem when we wanted a new pet, he loved them all. I remember at one time, when my sister was small, (is it only us newfies that refer to a toddler as ‘small’?) our cat had four litters of kittens in one summer. Tammy would walk around with two baskets filled with little kittens. Where was I..oh ya, our dog and her kittens…

Anyway, we got the dog, and she was female, which sent mom all kinds of negative signals. “What if she has pups?” she asked. Mom liked animals but I don’t think she loved them. She could take them or leave them. Dad, who was as excited as us kids were said that as soon as she was old enough, we would make that trip to the vet to have her fixed. (The dog never forgave us for that act of kindness).

We all worked hard to name the dog. At the time, Star Wars was just out, and there were these cute little creatures named Ewoks. One of the Ewoks was named Wicket, and so our little furry bundle of poop was then known as Wicket.

Wicket was a good little dog who got into the usual mischief that dogs with long coats of fur get into. Once she came home as stinky as a skunk. She was elated to smell the way she did, and we could only guess that she had gotten into raw sewage. Mom nearly dropped as Wicket ran from outside and jumped into Mom’s bed. I still hear the loud scream that my mom let out when a furry, messy dog smelling like sewage jumped on top of her in her bed. Poor mom. Poor us, My brother and I were voted to wash the dog. We used some of Mom’s old clothespins on our nose, and we each wore one of Dad’s sanding masks on our mouth, but even with those precautions, the stink was overbearing. eventually, with the help of a pair of scissors and two bottles of sunlight soap, the little dog was stink free. Ugly as sin, but stink free.

Wicket did many things that made Mom mad, but one thing she did impressed the hell out of Mom, Dad, and virtually everyone in the neighborhood. She had kittens. Got you interested now, don’t I?

Wicket was the kind of dog you did not want sleeping in the house. If she slept in your bed and you happened to move in your sleep and disturb her, she changed like Jeckyll and Hyde and came at you like a wild animal. Ask my little sister Cindy, who woke up do discover that the dog had clamped her teeth into her jaw one morning. Scary stuff. So the dog was sent to sleep in the old dog house we had built her.

I remember coming home from school once, to discover Cindy inside the dog house. Cindy had crawled inside the tiny door to attempt to put shag carpeting in the dog’s house. Cindy always had a soft heart for every animal, including bugs, flies, and fish, and of course dogs and cats.

One morning, we noticed a stray cat hanging around the driveway. Stray cats usually follow my dad around in hopes of moving in.This cat, who we named snowball was a strange looking feline who must have been inbred way too many times. Her nose was off centered and her face just wasn’t right. She was a nice little cat though, even though she was pregnant at the time. When Mom noticed that, we were forbidden to be nice to her, Mom figured that once we befriended this cat, we would be stuck with a litter of kittens that we did not want. So the cat moved in with Wicket.

Okay, we didn’t brag that our dog shacked up with a cat, but it was amazing anyway. One sunny but very early morning, we were awaken by the sound of screeching tires. I looked out the window to discover that snowball was no more. All I could think of were her yet unborn kittens. At least I thought they were unborn. When I ran to see if the little weird cat was alright, I  noticed Wicket washing what looked like balls of fur wrapped in sand. The cat had given birth to her litter in the driveway (I did say she was weird, didn’t I) and Wicket came to their rescue. At first I thought the dog was eating them, but she was actually cleaning them, like the mother cat does at the time of birth.

Here we were with four little kittens and no mother to feed and nurture them. My dad’s first instinct was to rush to them and take them away from the dangers of the dog’s sharp teeth and instinctual hate for cats. This was not the case, as Wicket guarded the little furballs with her life.

Things changed around the yard after this day. Wicket, who was usually silly and playful became protective over her kittens. A miracle happened as well, as despite the fact that she was ‘fixed’, she managed to feed the little ones. One morning, we noticed that one of the kittens grew weak. Wicket cared for the others, but neglected this one. We called the vet to ask what we should do, and we were informed that the mother cat focuses on the healthy kittens and leaves the sick to die. The vet went on to say that we should let nature take it’s course and let the mother cat alone with her kittens.  We tried to tell the vet that the mother cat was a dog, but she ignored us (probably guessing that we were crazy).

The vet was right, as the next morning, there were only three kittens left. The kittens were large for their age, and they did not act like cats at all. when Wicket barked at passersby, so did the little cats. Well, they didn’t actually bark, but they let out a sound that was definitely not a meow. It was more like a ‘MeowARK!!”

We loved playing with the kittens when Wicket allowed us to do so. Of course, we wanted to keep them, but we also had Mom to deal with, and that was not happening. When the kittens were old enough to give away, we placed ads in the local paper. We got a call from the owners of a farm in a nearby community. They had been looking for some cats to live in the barn behind their house. They wanted to know whether the cats liked to chase mice, as that was the reason they were looking for three cats. We made them promise to take good care of the cats, who we named butch, fido, and snoopy. We sure got funny looks when we told them the names of the cats.

A few years later, I met up with the people who took our cats. I asked how the little critters were, and I was not surprised with their answer. “What kind of cats did you give us?” They asked, adding that each time a car passed, the cats would run from the barn to the road, letting out a sound that sounded like a cross between a meow and a bark. They went on to say that they still had the cats, but that they did not chase mice at all, just cars, and that each time a pack of dogs passed by, the cats would join them.


Aspirin bottles, Bubbers and Plastic Cows

Raising a child allows me to use the lessons I have learned as a child.  Being accident prone, I learned lots of lessons. To say that I was an accident prone kid would be actually be quite an understatement.  Being a kid, I tripped, stumbled, and fell like most kids, but there was something more that caused me grief. I always blamed it on bad luck. It had to be bad luck when I got a glass Aspirin bottle stuck on my finger. I still remember that day, and my dad’s answer to the problem. We were getting ready for our evening prayer, (yes, we were THAT religious back then) and mom looked over to see a very worried look on my face.  I still remember struggling to get the damn thing off my finger, but yet, I cannot remember putting it on my finger…wonder how it happened?? Mom giggled as she seen the bottle on my finger, and she calmly left the room to get some hot water. While she was gone, my dad had a better plan (well, He thought it was a better plan), he came into the room with his trusty hammer and told me to put my bottle covered finger on the table.

Nervously, I did what he said, and just before he could swing the hammer, mom came to my rescue. “Hon” she hollered, “If you hit the bottle with a hammer, you will drive glass into his finger”. My dad looked dumbfounded as he realized what he would have done if she had not stopped him. Mom soaked my now swollen finger in a glass of hot water, and in no time, the bottle slipped off easily. This was a day for learning lessons. My dad learned that by hitting a glass covered finger with a hammer, he would cause more pain than we started with, and I learned that you should never put things like tiny bottles on your fingers. Dad also learned that Mom’s calm thinking was the way to go.

My brother also made the same bad decisions as a child. I remember him coming into the kitchen, with the same look  on his face, and muttering the words “Mom, I have a bubber in my nose.” He had been sticking pencils in his nose to imitate a walrus, when he noticed that one of the pencils came out without the eraser, or ‘rubber’ as we called them. Again, mom stayed calm and told him to blow, and pwef…out came the eraser.

For some reason, both my brother and I had the same fondness for chewing on plastic things. I remember once, I was chewing on the legs of a small plastic cow, when my dad looked over and yelled. I got such a fright,  I swallowed the toy. That little critter tore it’s way down my throat, to my stomach, and you guessed it, to a painful exit later that week. It was so painful, I later ended up at the doctor, and then back home with ointment that had to be applied directly to the injured area twice daily. Not sure how I can use this lesson with my son, but if I see him chewing on a plastic cow, I will be sure to warn him of the dangers. My butt still hurts just thinking of that day.



Stand back or I will kiss you, or The war against school bullying

Being the youngest kid in high school was as much of a nightmare as anything I can think of. I remember on one occasion, this girl used to tease me. I think I was fourteen or so at the time, and the girl, Susan, I will call her, was quite developed for a girl of sixteen, and she used this gift well. On one occasion, she sat on my lap and started teasing me. Being as shy as I was, you can imagine the color of my face, as I could feel my cheeks get warmer by the moment. Anyway, to make a long story short, she teased me and I got embarrassed. The worst part was that other students seemed to enjoy this teasing, as they pointed their fingers at me and laughed every time she did this. There was also a lot of name calling involved, and this experience had such a negative effect on my school work. I did not want to go to school at all.

This went on every day, until one of the guys in class got fed up with it. Now, I am not sure whether he got fed up with her teasing and embarrassing me, or if he got fed up with all the attention she was paying to me, and not him; but either way, he gave me advice that I would never forget. This kid told me that the next time she approached me with this behavior; I should jump on her and begin to return the teasing to her, give her a dose of her own medicine so to speak. I doubted that I could ever do this, but given the fact that she embarrassed me every day at school, I had to try something.

It was Monday morning, and just before math class, Susan walked into the crowded classroom. I remember sitting in front of the class, sweating and waiting anxiously for this moment to be over, and almost wishing that I did not have to do it, but sure enough, she strolled right up the aisles of desks that were lined up in the tiny classroom, and proceeded to sit on my lap. Just before she managed to attempt a fake kiss on my lips I took action. Right in front of everyone in the class, including a very surprised teacher, I did it. Holding my skinny arms tightly around her, I pushed until the two of us were on the floor, me on top, and I planted a good one right on her lips. This was the first time I ever kissed a girl, and it was quite obvious. I still remember the horror in her eyes as I ‘smooched’ her on the lips. I was surprised how long the teacher allowed this to go on, and how long Susan laid there allowing me to kiss her. I believe she was in shock. There it was, the hottest girl in school being kissed by the biggest geek in school.  In the next few minutes of what seemed like forever, I managed to learn to stand up for myself, against what I did not realize was a case of bullying. The teacher soon managed to pull me and my suction cup lips away from the frightened girl, and we returned to our seats. Right after this, the teacher proceeded to give a class discussion on bullying, and he made me the center of the topic, stating that bullying can come from either sex, and that it can be quite difficult to deal with. He also said that he did not choose to punish me for my wild behavior because in a way, I was dealing with bullying, by standing up for myself. She never teased me again. I never got too many kisses in school again either, but it was worth it.

I learned a big lesson that week, and that is to stand up for yourself whenever necessary. I also learned another lesson, and that was that bullying can come in many forms, from any sex, and in any location. I learned that bullying of any kind is extremely painful, and that dealing with bullying is sometimes a difficult thing to do.

I never thought that I would use this lesson again in my life, but a few years ago, I had a chance to pass this information on to a fellow who truly needed it. I had been attending a training program at a local college.  To protect the innocent, we shall refer to this individual as Paul.Paul came from a small island off the coast of the province, and it was obvious that he lacked the social skills of the others in the class. He was just 19, and despite the fact that he stood over six feet tall and he looked like a grown man, he ended up dealing with virtually the same issue I dealt with way back in grade school.

There was this girl, who we shall call Lisa, who teased him terribly each day he was in class. She would sit on his lap and blow him kisses, or talk dirty to him while he was trying to listen to the instructor. I often witnessed her do things that were well within the ranges of sexual assault, and she did them without reservations or respect. He would just sit there, red in the face, reaching out for anyone to help him. Too embarrassed to talk to an instructor, he tried to withstand the teasing, but in the end, I worried that he might do something drastic. We live in a strange world. If the situation were reversed, and a male student was doing these acts to a female student, she would have no problem reporting the issue, but when it is the other way around, it seems like society does not look at the situation in the same way.

When I really thought about it, Paul was experiencing the same situation as I was, despite the fact that he is 19, and I was only 14. With this, I proceeded to talk to him about it. At first, he told me to mind my own business and leave him alone, but I responded by telling him how I seen the situation. I explained to him that I once dealt with the same situation, and that I had to take action. Paul said that he often thought about telling the instructor, but that he felt that would be childish and someone might laugh. I went on to tell him that being a victim of sexual assault is not funny or childish, and that he needed to do something about it. Paul asked me what he should do.

I instructed Paul to take action, and that is what he did one Friday morning in the Human Services class. Paul sat patiently in his desk as Lisa entered the class. She was chatting to some other girls, and they were all laughing and p0inting to Paul. I could see his face redden, as he sat there, but just like a cat, he pounced upon Lisa, trapping her to the floor. He wasted no time in planting one right on her lips, and in minutes, she squirmed out from under him and began yelling to the instructor. “He tried to rape me!” she shouted, but the instructor paid no attention. At that moment, her friends were laughing and giggling again, but this time, their attention was aimed at her, and soon, the whole class were clapping their hands for Paul, who had managed to overcome this painful abuse and bullying. She never teased him again. I don’t think she teased anybody again. In fact, just a short while after this happened, she apologized to Paul, and they became good friends.

Breakfast and Diabetes

Perhaps the most difficult meal for a diabetic has to be breakfast. I was raised on the classic eggs (even though I hated them) bacon and toast. Now, as a diabetic, I am urged to choose healthier alternatives. Of course, this not only sucks, it is also confusing. Do I eat a fried breakfast? Do I eat cereal? What in the hell can I eat that doesn’t kill me?

Nutritionists recommend a balanced breakfast. What does this mean? For the answers to those questions, I used Google. On most of the sites I found, they recommended a meal consisting of mostly grains such as Wheat or Barley. How do I use this information? Do I find the nearest farm, and share breakfast with the cow? That’s the gist of it. On the other hand, many of the ‘healthy’ breakfast cereals out there claim that they provide all the nutrients and vitamins necessary for a ‘balanced’ breakfast. Did you ever read the ingredients on these things?   All the ‘tasty’ ones are filled with sugar. I used to love Capt’n Crunch, but I seriously doubt that this cereal is recommended for diabetics. I used to eat Cheerios, but again, except for the whole grain variety, sugar is the main ingredient. Even the ‘healthy’ cereals are filled with sodium, which is equally bad for diabetics, and for everyone in general. About the healthiest thing in some of those cereals is the toy inside the box! Oh well, this morning, I said to hell with balanced, and had a good old breakfast from my childhood…Pancakes….Beans and weiners…and Turkey bacon…see, I am still eating a bit healthy. Turkey bacon is low in fats and carbohydrates.

This just seen on Columbus Drive

Despite the windy weather, one man happened upon a Door with a ‘take me’ sign attached. As we drove by, we noticed this poor gentleman attempting to cross the busy road with his new found treasure. Despite his suffering, we had to laugh as he attempted to cross St. John’s busiest freeway carrying a large door, complete with knob. We expected him to take off as he wound and spun across the two lanes of bustling traffic. The guy should have purchased a lottery ticket, because apparently, luck followed him on this day….

Good communication is definitely the key…..

Then there was the time I was working on a student project that involved clearing and burning brush. We had to clear some land for the College, and burn the branches. It was a Thursday, and we wanted to get the job done for Friday evening. There were five of us working on the project, Calvin to cut the brush, Roxanne to gather it, Stanley to haul it to the burning site, Dwayne to start and oversee the fire, and me to rake the embers into the fire.

It was almost the end of the day, and we had a huge pile of brush. Dwayne threw some gasoline on the fire (a dangerous thing to do) and lit it. We were amazed at how quick the dry brush began to burn, and in no time, we had created a large inferno. We agreed to let the fire burn overnight, as it was set up in a large gravel pit with absolutely no grass anywhere.

The next morning, we arrived to find that the fire appeared to have gone out through the night. Dwayne immediately, without anyone’s knowledge voted to climb on top the pile of somewhat burned brush, armed with a plastic gasoline can, and pour gas on the pile. Unbeknownst to me, I noticed some embers that were still burning, and kicked them over to the pile and……BOOM

Despite the fact that we were working miles from home, Mom still says that she can remember the explosion. The pile burst into flames, throwing Dwayne at least 10 feet from where he stood. The plastic gasoline can looked like a crazy carpet, as the explosion flattened it out to a solid sheet of plastic. We were really lucky that no one was hurt, but this just goes to show what happens without proper communication…