PC's home phone

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME wouldn't be my cousin.

This morning, I told my cousin Rose about something that happened yesterday, and Rose's response was, "That kind of thing takes a special, smart, calm type of person. Just like you." 

I love Rose. 

She's my age and lives in Halifax. Our moms were sisters, and Rose is also the youngest of a big family though she only has sisters. No brothers.

And what a handle to get you through life, right? Rose is more than a name; Rose is a decoration. Say this out loud: "Have a nice morning, Rose" 

And have you ever heard anybody say, "Oh that Peter he looks at the world through Mary-coloured glasses."? I also know at least two Junes, and they're angelic. How could you not be, sharing a name with everybody's favourite month?  

But back to me, and why Rose said that stuff.

I told her that last Thursday I surprised my wife Helena with a new (reconditioned but still) and bigger iPhone. I was also pleased with myself for successfully transferring all the pictures and apps from her old unit to the new one. Helena was happy.

Until Saturday morning. 

That was when we realized that the part of the phone that made phone calls wasn't working.

"Phone?" I said to the little machine, "you had one job." Ha ha.

The repair job fell to the household IT department. By sheer coincidence his initials are PC.

I started at about 9:30 a.m. 

I poked and prodded and Googled and ChatGPT'd and finally decided to contact our carrier, Bell Mobility. After a surprisingly short wait, I found myself involved in a call with a tech in Manila. 

But just as we were making headway, I realized it was going on 11:00 and I had promised to meet up with my sister Norma who was visiting from out of town. The Bell person understood and gave me a hotline number for direct access for when I had more time.

The visit with Norma was wonderful and deserving of not merely a separate blog but a Netflix screenplay. The hours passed like minutes, and at 7:30, after Norma had left, I called the hotline.  Again, I got through to a Filipino woman named Max ("short for Maxima," she said). Max was professional, calm and so precise in her language it felt like she was standing next to me. ("Peter, is the little notch on the same side of the SIM card as the word Bell?")

After 10 minutes, Max said, "Try calling the phone."

My next words? "Max I love you!"

I don't really. Max and I scarcely know one another. But the phone worked and for a moment I knew that if Max had asked me for an RV I would have been like, "you want gas or diesel?"  

Which brings me to the point of this story: You know how, when people get bad service, they say "lemme talk to your boss?" 

I do that sometimes but I also enjoy telling supervisors when the person on the other end of the helpline does a terrific job. 

I'm not sure explaining to a boss how efficient one of the staff is ever got anybody a raise, but if you need a mood lifter, this is magic. 

A few years back, I asked a particularly helpful 1-800-help guy in India to put his boss on the line. I told the manager, who said thanks for going to the trouble, and then the tech came back on the phone. He told me the manager had shared my comments with the whole room and his colleagues all applauded. Was it the truth? Who cares? Sure made me feel great.

Saturday, Max assured me her manager would find out I was satisfied. She then asked if there was anything else she could help with, I said "nope," and we hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang. It was Max's boss, Mimi, reassuring me that she got the memo. Mimi added that Max had started this job only two weeks earlier, so the commendation was even more meaningful.

Mimi's call made my day. 

And that's what Rose was commenting on.

Fact is, I might be complimenting those help-line folks but in those situations, I'm the one who walks away happy. 

If you could bottle and sell a drug that provides the same relief as the feeling you get the moment you realize that:

a: Your call to the help desk isn't a waste of time; 

b: The person on the other hand of the help desk feels good about the exchange and,

 c: You can tell your wife her new phone works okay,  

you'd be a very wealthy... oh wait. 

It's already been invented. 

And now that I'm finished this blog, I'm going to have an ice-cold can of it. And toast Rose.

Daughter: One measly consonant away from laughter

BLONDIE'S PIZZA: That's the background for this pic. The 
Dundas Street eatery also makes great pizza. 

I just wrote a book. Sorta. By accident.

A year and a month ago, my daughter Ewa, who lives in Vancouver, surprised me with a subscription to an online service called Storyworth. 

Over the next 12 months, Storyworth emailed me a story prompt every week. I  wrote something in response to the prompts and at the end of a year, a hardcover book appeared.

That's it. 

I could have written fiction, (my late brother Ed, who figures very largely in this collection, once said I'm best at "non-friction"), poetry, or recipes. Or photos. Whatever I wanted.  

I opted for straight, true stuff, with no pictures.

Most prompts were questions like, "What was your best vacation and why? and "Describe a favourite pet." Try answering either of those. You'll be surprised at how easily you wind up with a fun story.

Of course I didn't have to follow the Storyworth suggestions, and good thing, too, because 100 per cent of my responses went off the rails early on. Somehow, for instance, the answer to the prompt "In what ways are you like your dad?" got morphed into a story about me accidentally visiting a Moscow brothel.

I'm pretty sure that never happened to my father.

Of course that's why me and Storyworth were friends. There weren't no rules. Zero of my stories ended up having anything do with the original prompts.

So between April 2024 and April 2025, Saturday morning after Saturday morning, you'd find me plunked down at the north end of our red couch,  with Iris Cat skritching her skinny neck along the side of my Dell laptop, as I typed out stories that I'd never before published, blogged about or shared on Facebook.

April 26th, 2025, I  hit "PUBLISH." 

Three days later, the elegantly bound hard cover Storyworth: Why Writing is ... Righting appeared on my porch. As you can see, Iris approves.

It was almost as simple as that and I recommend you give it a try.

IRIS BOOK OF TELLS: She puts
the cat into catalyst.

But the story doesn't end there. 

After the original Storyworth book was printed, it became clear that some others in my family wanted to find out what I wrote. I learned that any subsequent pressings of the original single book would cost upwards of $50 a pop. I wasn't going to ask anybody to pay that much for stories I could just tell them if they, you know, phoned me. 

So that's when Storyworthy: Why Writing is ... Righting got turned into a self published paperback, priced as low as Amazon allows. 

But I'm not here to sell my book. As I said, I advise everybody to try Storyworth.

And if you can somehow finagle it, have one of your kids pony up the $150 or so it costs to register.

When Ewa did so, she knew I'd be way more likely to complete the project because she paid for it. 

At work last week, I was talking to colleagues about this project, and mentioned more than once that as fun as it was, having the book done was a huge relief.

SOFT-HITTING HARD COVER:
The original Storyworth product

 That, I said, was that.

Except then I mentioned the thing to one of my co-worker pals, a Manhattan-based journalist euphoniously named Nataleeya Boss.

Me: "My daughter Ewa was the catalyst behind the book. Have I ever mentioned that my kids have spurred me on to new heights? It's the story of being a dad."

Nataleeya: "That should be your next book!" 

So much for doneness.

Friends to the Max

ART IMITATES MAX: This is ChatGPT's response to my request for a rendition of Max and
his new pal on the roadside near Burwash. 

In 1986, thrilled by the idea of working in the big city at a fancy magazine, I packed up my silver grey '78 Dodge Aspen and headed south to Toronto from my hometown of Sudbury.

As I was leaving, I stopped to tell one of my hippie pals what I was up to and I asked if he wanted to come along for the ride to Toronto.  

He--let's call him Max--said "sure" and hopped in. 

We were about 50 minutes south of Sudbury when Max and I got passed by a huge old sedan; the kind everybody believes dads drove in the '60s. We were right near a place called Burwash, which, at the time, was home to a recently shuttered provincial prison farm

Along the side of the highway were signs reading a version of: "Do not pick up hitchhikers." 

Once in front of us, the driver slowed down a lot. So I passed him. He sped up, passed me, slowed, and I decided enough was enough. 

I braked, steered to the shoulder and stopped. So did he. 

A slender guy with long dark hair and moustache emerged from the driver's side; Max all but leapt out of our passenger door and went to greet the stranger.  

After a few seconds, Max did a 180, and grinning, walks back to tell me: "He's got coke and wants to trade it for some weed. Open the trunk."

I had no idea. 

My pal was carrying a whack of grass. It was not something I was happy about, especially on this trip; with me heading to my new magazine job.  

Trafficking weed was serious. Instead of just stopping near Burwash, we could have wound up doing time there.

Here's what happened next. 

I said, "Max, if you're doing a drug deal, I'm outta here." 

He said, "Really?"

I said, "Really."

He said, "Open the trunk." 

I did. He fetched whatever stuff he had, shut the trunk and I watched Max and his new business associate get smaller in my rear-view mirror. 

That was the last I heard from him. For months.

One afternoon, I was in a place called Rower's Pub on Harbord Street with my new boss (and by then, friend) Jim Cormier and in walks tall skinny Max! The last place I'd seen him was Burwash. By the time we were in Rower's, I'd actually gotten to know Jim well enough that I'd told him a few Max stories. So Jim was sorta happy about his in-person appearance.

Max stood in the Rower's doorway holding a rifle. Max and guns were certainly not a thing. He was and I'm sure still is the world's most passive pacifist. 

Turns out he was carrying the hunting gun because it belonged to one of his pals and he was just delivering it. As friends do. 

Again. Good thing there were no cops around. But all that came of the Rowers encounter  was Jim and Max getting to know and like one another. They were both at our wedding a few months hence. Jim was with his girlfriend Cindy and I forget Max's date's name. I met her for the first and only time at the wedding.

I asked Max how he and she met. 

Max said, "I was walking westward on the north side of Front Street in front of the Royal York; she was walking east on the south side, you know,  in front of Union Station.. And our eyes met." 

Me: "Your eyes met? Front Street's very wide Max. It's huge!"

Max--with that same grin I recognized from the side of highway 69 all those months ago: "Right?"

I could write Max stories all day.   

After I described the old movie The Mission to him, Max observed "my favourite movies are the kind you would enjoy even if you are blind or deaf."  

One time, back in Sudbury, when I was a reporter at a newspaper called Northern Life, I was invited to a press conference to hear the recently returned-to-earth Canadian astronaut Marc Garneau. I invited Max. During the question period, Max raised his hand and asked "has anybody researched what astronauts dream about when they're up in space?"

I cringed. Oh Max. 

Garneau politely laughed and said, "No I don't think so."

That was 40 years ago. Last week, I Googled "what do astronauts dream about?" There's tons of material on the topic.

Max was ahead of  his time.

Why am I telling you about Max and the astronaut now? 

Because I think (hope) Max might see this blog and get in touch. And he'll give me something to write about. 

  

John School

"I think I may need some executive coaching. Is that one of the suite of services offered by Pete's Blog & Grille?"

PUTTING THE BILL INTO PLAYBILL: I swiped my cousin-in-law's
photo off the Facebook account of the little person on the left. Pretty sure.

That came from my colleague and friend John Schofield, about 70 minutes ago. He texted me the message just as he was stepping out for a lunchtime walk. 

I told him that we here at Pete's B&G hadn't yet fully developed our full "suite" of executive coaching services but I'd have something ready when he got back from his stroll. (That's where Johns go, right? Haha)

So here it is: 

10 tips guaranteed to catapult you to the very top of the corporation. In no discernible order, and with no proven results.  

10) Start close to the top. It's way easier to be appointed president if you start as vice president. 

9) Sucking up is under-rated. Do what you're told. That might be the single most important rule you'll ever learn in school. Nobody I've ever met in any context enjoys being told they're wrong, about anything. The only thing worse than being informed you're mistaken is having it proved to you, especially when others are watching. Just yesterday, I watched the excellent Netflix movie Whiplash about a (supposedly) 19-year-old drummer who defies his bully conductor only to prove to the world that he's as good a drummer as Buddy Rich. Elaine Benes would put it this way:  "Fake! Fake! Fake!" I suck at doing what I'm told.

8) Speaking of sucking up, my wife many jobs ago told me I spent a lot of time"sucking down." Time I could have put to good use polishing the brass's brass I used talking to the building-maintenance guy about Dustbane, that stuff Mr. Dorigo the St. Albert's school custodian cleaned up kids' barf with. It's a smell you don't forget. The Dustbane. Barf too.

JIM'S DANDY: Cormier would have seen through this cheap
excuse to run his photo just to attract readers. And
he'd have approved. (I think it was the baby's FB
account I stole this great pic from.)

7) Speaking of Dustbane, one of my personal executive role models is a late cousin-in-law named Bill McIntosh. Bill and his wife, my cousin Leona, had six kids, Canise, Keith, Helen Leona, Mary Frances, Norah and Laurie. I was lucky enough to spend a considerable amount of time at their cottage near Calabogie Lake in Ontario, and just down the road from their place was a Clampett-esque mansion that, legend had it, belonged to, you guessed right, the guy who invented Dustbane. But that's not why I look up to Bill. I loved hanging with him and his family because as a dad, he put his energy into relaxing with Leona and the six little McIntoshes. I don't even know what Bill did for a living. It wasn't a thing. But when he cottaged, he wasn't like, "okay kids line up it's time for our annual archery competition!" or anything like that. There were no mahogany-boat maintenace chores neither.  Time off from work was for relaxing with the missus and kids. Not sure why I mentioned that here.

6) Stay on topic. 

5) Wanna hear something funny? I was already on journalism job number four--at Chimo Media in Toronto--the very first time that any journalist I knew refer to what he was doing as a "career." It was another role model of mine, the late Jim Cormier. Jim was considering a move to another magazine and said "I have to think about how this would affect my career." I asked him to repeat it. Nobody in my "wingin'-it" universe had ever used that word before. 

4) If Jim were alive I know he would actually be at the top of his profession, because that's the way he rolled. Very smart, ambitious but kind, way too good looking, funny and likeable besides. So this tip should actually read, "be more like Jim Cormier".

3) And forget about the sticking to plans. 

2) And next to finally, if you're reading Pete's Blog&Grille for executive coaching advice, you might as well isskay ouryay areercay olongsay.  

1) Sorry. Thought I had 10. I was wrong. Godspeed (whatever that means) your career dreams John.

Stompin' 2.0

SUSSING THEM OUT?  Go to
Kurt Suss Music on Facebook

"Pips was a partially blind English bulldog with a protruding jaw that made him look like Mom when she was mad." (Dogman. by Kurt F. Suss.)

"...a protruding jaw that made him look like Mom when she was mad!"  I sure wish I had written that. 

Dogman's full of colourful story telling. And it brims over with love of dogs and love of family in equal measures.

I happened to meet the writer, Suss, a professional dog guy a few months ago. And every once in a while I get to know somebody I want to yell to the world about.

Okay okay. I've ever met anybody boring. True fact. Scratch any person's surface--never mind scratching, just ask--you'll get drama.

That said.

If Pete's Blog&Grille was a podcast, Suss would be a regular guest for as many weeks as it takes him to share the stories behind each of the songs on his two CDs.

(I'd have told you about these recordings sooner but  I don't have a CD player in the house any more. Just the car. I had to wait til I took a reasonably long drive, which was last week.)

Every song is about a Canadian legend. Or ghost story. Or obscure piece of history that you probably don't know.

Case in point, first time I heard Mad Trapper, I was northbound on Sorauren Avenue, which is adjacent to the street we live on. About 30 seconds into Dark Day in Saint Thomas, his lyrics actually made me, say, out loud, "Really?" 

And then, a second later, his lyric was "Yeah," as if he could have heard me. And then I got a bit blue. The song's about Jumbo the elephant getting killed in St. Thomas, Ont. I had no idea.

Another? Cloud 11. Hands up anybody who remembers the escaped inmate Donald Kelly who was making headlines around Ontario back in the '70s, as he outran the law. Cloud II was a tracking dog that got killed in the process.

WANT TO CONTACT KURT: Try 'Hey Siri! Who's the world's
worst self promoter? Or try isiscanine@hotmail.com.

Not all the songs are dark.

On the same album as the Jumbo song are not one but TWO bus songs! 

Two bus ballads!

My mom and dad have a bus carved on to their gravestone. 

Last century, a few weeks before I met Helena, my dad gave me my very own 44-passenger school bus because he had no use for it anymore. Who else do you know had one of those?  

But I digress. 

A Bus Just Like Neil's is a tribute to Neil Young's touring vehicle, and The Little Blue Bus is a Glace Bay, Nova Scotia, French fry place that, according to Suss's lyrics, even Stompin' Tom Connors approved of. 

Did I say Stompin' Tom? Are you, like me, thinking Stompin Tom 2.0?

Kurt would be chuffed. (Good name for a song: Suss got chuffed!)

He's a huge Connors fan and believes he  ran into the late singer long ago, before Connors was a household name. (Which he is, in Canada, in case anybody Stateside's reading this.) 

Recalls Suss: "I actually met him [Connors] once but didn't know who he was. I was 16 and dating a girl whose sister worked for a sound studio in Toronto. I occasionally helped out a bit with making sounds for TV productions.. Tom was there previewing one I think I may have even got him a pop." 

Suss can tell a story.  

Here's the thing. 

Suss told me he's on the lookout for more Canadian stories and legends to sing about.  

Which brings me back to that beautiful old bus I owned when I met Helena. 

Pop star Don McLean was a lonely teenage broncin' buck with a pink carnation and a pickup truck. 

I'll start by telling Kurt F. Suss,  I was all alone but I owned a bus.

I am on to something here.. 

Fearless (ish) Fred

THE TROUBLE WITH ANGELS: God knows who most of these kids are. I can name about half.

I love when stuff like this happens. 

See that arrow? It's pointing at Fred Bortolussi. 

A few hours ago, Fred emailed me this picture of his and my St. Albert's School grade one class on the steps of St. Clement's church after we made our First Communion. (I stuck the arrow in. Fred didn't.)

.

The pic came as a wonderful surprise. It's not like Fred and I stayed in touch all these years. We hadn't spoken since before the turn of the century. 

But Fred came across a recent Pete's Blog&Grille, responded very kindly and mentioned that he had a photo he wouldn't mind sharing. 

PS: Fred looks the same now as
he did in grade one.

The emails flew back and forth. I decided to share the communion pic and write this blog.

Except I early on realized I wasn't sure I could spell Fred's last name right. 

I did a search. And found a story and picture in the Oct.27, 2022 issue of the Kemptville Advance. 

The kid that the arrow's pointing at was recognized a few years ago as one of this country's best high school teachers. Fred won the  prestigious Baillie Award for excellence in Secondary School Teaching. From Queen's University in Kingston, no less. (Motto: We're Queen's and you're not. Haha.)

I'm proud to know him! 

It gets better: Fred taught at least one individual who shares my DNA. This should come as no surprise. The Ottawa Valley, where Fred lived all these years, is my paternal ancestral homeland and the Irish Catholic Carters bred like Irish Catholic Carters. 

My second cousin Sheila's daughter Jessica Kehoe was in one of Fred's high-school law classes.

Reports mom: "She  [Jessica] is now working as a Director of Human Resources for a research pharmaceutical company. I would say that career path is the direct result of the formative high school experience." Ladies and gentlemen? My cousin's kid. 

Back to Fred. 

We're talking about a guy who helped finance his education by fighting forest fires. 

And then when he was at Carleton University, on his first skydiving adventure, Fred's chute didn't open and he wound up getting caught in a tree. True story. They had to cut him down! (I was in Carleton's journalism program at the time and produced a short radio news item about the adventure. Journalism 102: Let other people risk their necks. You write about them.)

Fred is so unafraid of stuff that one day, he rode on the back of Ray Cote's motorbike from Sudbury to Ottawa and somewhere along the line, fell dead asleep, at highway speed. 

And then...if  that wasn't foolhardy enough, Fred Bortolussi spent the rest his career standing in front of groups of teeangers trying to tell them stuff  he thinks they should know.

The guy's fearless.

To a point.

Neither of us is dumb enough to try putting names to all those kids in the First Communion pic. You get one wrong you'll hear about it forever. So help me God. 

If anybody out there wants to weigh in, Fred and I would love to hear.

 

Hitting it into the park

For as long as I can remember, I've liked High Park. 

A BENCH OF ONE'S OWN: What
more could an old guy want?

Now I love the place. 

Here's why.

When I was 11, I worked as a page at the Ontario Legislature. During that time, I lived in the far west end of Toronto with my sister Charlene, a Humber College nursing student, and her beautiful room mates, Cathy and Barb.  

Because I was away from home, didn't have to attend regular school, got paid real money, hung out in the big city, commuted to work on the streetcar every morning with the grownups and roomed with three very cool older women, my time as a page is almost too precious to be believed.  

I sometimes think I peaked at 11.

On more than one Sunday, Charlene and I visited High Park. We occasionally rented a row boat; visited the zoo or just hung out. It was also educational. From the handful of hopeful young men who made it their business to chat up Charlene, with her blazing red hair and long legs, I got flirting lessons,

Fifty six years later, I live within a 10-minute leisurely stroll of the park. I've been in the same area since moving to Toronto in 1985. 

And I've probably walked (and cycled and drove and skated) around as much of the park as anybody. 

ED OF HIS CLASS: He spent countless hours in
High Park with us.

I remember exploring the valleys and wooded areas of High Park when Helena and I were planning our wedding 38 years ago. 

Later we took our kids skating on Grenadier Pond; we snuck wine in to watch the Canadian Stage Company's Shakespearean productions at the outdoor theatre; we check out the Cherry-Blossom-festival festival goers every April. The people are more interesting than the trees. 

When my son Michel was a preteen he played outfield in in the High Park Baseball League.  At one game, a baseball mom asked me which player was my son; I pointed to Michel, and she said "He's very good looking." Her female companion felt it necessary to add, "Yeah, and he doesn't look at all like his father."

When my daughters Ewa and Ria were finishing grade eight at the nearby St. Vincent De Paul School, their class had a picnic in the park. My role? I took any young person who wanted for a ride around the park on the back of my black 1982 Yamaha Heritage Special motorbike. Teachers might not like that idea now.

BENCH IMPRESSING: Musician, husband,
brother, nephew, son, weight lifter,
and pun lover Paul

Around the same time, the  community rallied to erect a giant children's play structure. All the families we knew pitched in money and a bit of sweat equity, and if you visit the playground today and search hard enough you'll find a fence post with Ewa, Ria, Mick engraved on it. 

If in fact you do come, we should go for breakfast on the patio at the Grenadier Restaurant, located mid-park. 

But before we hit the patio, I am going to insist we pay a visit to the two most important places in the park. 

They are also the reason I'm writing this story.

North of the restaurant, and steps from the main entrance, are two benches with little plaques fastened to them; one in memory of my brother Ed and the other for my nephew (and Ed's Godson) Paul.

City crews installed the plaques in mid December. And it should come as a surprise to nobody that the memorials are the work of my sisters Charlene and Norma. 

Charlene worked with the City of Toronto Parks Department to have Paul memorialized; Norma did so for Ed.  

Ed died Jan. 31, 2022. Paul passed away after battling cancer on Aug. 25, 2023. 

I don't have to tell you how much we miss these men. Or that I'm tearing up as I write this. So I'll stop soon. 

But you have to know something. 

When you apply to the City of Toronto to participate in the memorial bench program, the City can't guarantee where your memorial plaque will appear. You can request a certain park, but there's no promises. 

And you can certainly hope with all your might that two memorial benches will be located near each other but that'd be like asking to move heaven and earth. 

The fact that Ed's and Paul's benches ended up within laughing distance of each other, in a park so near to our hearts and our home, where both men spent countless joy-filled hours, makes me wonder if somebody in heaven did a bit of earthly finagling. 

I wouldn't put it past them. I am so blessed.

Breakfast at the Grenadier's on me