Giddy up a oom papa oom papa meow meow!

KEYBORED: Best example of pure (or should that be purr) 
research I've ever seen

I sometimes get asked about Iris the Cat. 

Short answer? She's fine.

Professor Iris Cat's turning 16 any day now. Iris came to us on my son Michel's 16th birthday in 2008. Because Iris is a pound kitty, we don't know her exact age. 

She's still healthy, pleased with herself, and active. Iris once in a while lets fling  a random loud, omnidirectional -- how shall I put this? -- string of potty mouth invective, but who, I ask you -- at least among those living in my house -- doesn't?

Mostly, life is grand.  Just yesterday Iris sat on the bottom step of our front porch and watched a parade of tykes from a local daycare centre march past our house on the way to the park at the end of the block.  

This, incidentally, is the most adorable parade you're ever going to witness. Pride, Caribana, Santa Claus, they got nothing on the daycare kids. About 20 of them, between one and a half and three and carefully watched over by a half dozen daycare workers, march hand in hand. No two kids have the same walking style; and they all talk all the time. Loudly. Sounds like a bunch of birds and chipmunks or something. What two-and-a-half-year olds have to discuss is beyond me. It's not like they've watched a lot of Netflix or read many James Patterson thrillers. 

But they all--daycare staff included--smile when they see Iris. 

Iris smiles back.

I admit she's getting on and not as quick to jump up on tables as she used to, but are you?

IRIS AS COPY CAT: Copy cat.That's a 
journalism joke. Reporters call stories and
 headlines copy. I didn't say it was a good
journalism joke.

Whenever Iris seems to slow down or have uncertain senior cat moments, Helena and I start discussing, in euphemisms but within earshot of Iris, how our grandparents dealt with aging house pets. That livens her right up. Iris I mean. Not Helena.

Sometimes after Iris enters a room she looks around and wonders why she came in, but again, who doesn't?

She's still pretty and in fact she's aged a heck of lot better than lots of other old white cats.  

Iris also greets me, same as she has for years, every morning, and--bonus points!--she has recently inspired her own earworm, courtesy of the Oak Ridge Boys' biggest hit.

Try this at home.

Sing the opening few lines but where Duane Allen sings "Elvira," you stick in "Old Iris." Do it more than twice and you'll think it's our Iris who's got "eyes that look like heaven."

And that's what goes through my head every single freaking morning of the week. "Old Iris."

Hi Ho Silver Away!

Your one-stop source for writing, fishing and investing advice

AL ABOARD! Patent on the rocking/fishing chair pending,
and that's patently ridiculous. (Lifelike illustration by the author.)

I once read that you should never write about your dreams. 

Some writing advice; such as the following, I can live with.

• Don't write italics because nobody reads italics; 
  
• Employ lots of quotes; 
• Lists, too;
• Stick to interesting stuff.
  
  

But write off dreams?  

As my good friend the writer Rick Mayoh would put it, "Hogwash fiddlefaddle!"

Dreams are often the high point of my day. 

In the early hours of Friday, July 26, I awoke from a dream about having John Lennon and Bob Dylan at my place for a sleepover and I was surprised they were both way nicer than I expected. (I know the exact date because I told my cousin Roseanne about the encounter in a text message.)

Also, my dead parents visit me on a more than weekly basis.

This past Wednesday, my late brother Ed popped by to ask whether I wrote friction or non-friction. 

Plus dreams can serve up life-altering opportunities.

Last night, my pal Marty Seto and I visited my brother in law Al MacNevin on Manitoulin Island where Al was demonstrating his latest invention: A gas-powered twin-cylinder wicker-yet somehow seaworthy combination fishing/rocking chair.  

 If that's not a million-bitcoin idea I don't know what is. 

YOUR GUESS IS  AS GOOD
AS MINE: How'd Marty 
get here?

"But Peter!" I hear you say, "Were you or were you not this very morning laughing with your neighbour Don because his electric garage door opener cacked out and you told him about the Friday morning your  garage door broke so you underwent a hasty $750 hosing at the hands of  a couple of 24-hour emergency garage door quote unquote experts who didn't speak English and whose receipts didn't have names or addresses on them? 

"And didn't you then tell Don that in 1985, you met a young man who told you he was going into the electric garage door business and you thought, 'Ha. Electric garage doors. As if they'll catch on!'" 

I also--since you brought up the subject--didn't see a future for bottled water or portable phones.

I forget what this story was supposed to be about.

But if you need more writing and/or investment advice email me. If you'd like to get in touch with Marty or Al, I can arrange that too.

But if you'd like to reach the fish, drop them a line. 

 

This just in from the governor general's john

TOUTE LE GANGLINESS: Lily Schreyer, moi,
Governor General (at the time)  Ed Shreyer, my boss and
 Expositor Publisher RickMcCutcheon and
former GG Roland Michener.

I just got and read a newly published book called Journalism for the Common Good: The Michener Awards at Fifty, by Kim S. Kierans, because I'm in it. 

On page 75. 

Me and my wife Helena. And our friend Rick.

Get this: "In Manitoulin, the Expositor team was thrilled to be invited to the ceremony at Rideau Hall. Carter and his girlfriend Helena, who later became his wife, took the seven-hour bus trip to join publisher Rick McCutcheon for the ceremony and 'to meet all the people I looked up to,' said Carter. During a bathroom break, Carter recalled running into Ottawa journalist John Fraser, who asked if Carter had his acceptance speech ready. 'Yeah, right, Mr. Fraser.'"

I love that. 

Ms. Kierans has me talking to a famous Canadian journalist in the can at Rideau Hall, in Ottawa, where the governor-general lives.

In another paragraph: "Carter, a gangly twenty-three year old."

TEXTBOOK CASE: If all history
books were this readable, my 
marks would have soared over C.

How she knew about my gangliness is anybody's guess. Kim Kierans and I have only ever spoken on the phone. Maybe I have a gangly voice. 

I don't know.

What I do know is, I've read page 75 over and over. I can probably recite it from memory.  

Then I thought, maybe I owe it to Kierans to give the rest of the book a shot.

I was right. 

This reminded me of the time I read Cherie Dimaline's novel The Marrow Thieves. I picked up The Marrow Thieves because I knew and seriously like and admire Cherie, who I worked with at Chatelaine, even though (or maybe especially because) one afternoon our boss Rona Maynard compared my and Cherie's management style to that of the Keystone Kops. I took it as a compliment. Anyway, I started The Marrow Thieves because Cherie was the author but finished it because the story was so gripping. (The Marrow Thieves then went on to be a best-selling award winner. Feels great when that happens.)

I started Journalism For The Public Good because my name was in it then finished the book because it was so damn interesting and easy to read. Being easy to read is huge, in my books. (In my books. Get it? Never mind.) 

JFTPG would be a valuable addition to any history course in the country.

MEETING JOHN IN THE JOHN:
Kierans' ear for detail caught me
by surprise 
 

Or maybe a course called, "How to turn a wooden-sounding subject like the history of a journalism award into a marvelous story."

Kim (I think I can call her that now) couldn't  produce a boring sentence to save her life.

And JFTPG is the retelling of some of the most important journalism; and by extension, significant events in this past 50 years. 

I personally forget most stuff. Really do. At the time something’s going on I think “I’ll never forget this,” but then I do. Just like that.

JFTPG was like a trip back in time to events that were really important that I had completely forgotten about.  

I'm not going to go all boomery here, lamenting the old days of journalism when newspapers were fat and everybody watched the same three news broadcasts, because I don't do that. The newer ranks of journalists work harder, faster, smarter and more effectively than their predecessors; i.e., okay, okay,  me, ever  did.

Same thing applies to hockey players and school teachers. They get better with each generation.

Textbooks, too, are livelier than they used to be  Exhibit A: Journalism For The Public Good.

JFTPG is an overdue reminder that there’s tons of terrific Canadian journalism out there. And a morale boost for people like me who've made it our lives. 

If you're reading this, thanks Kim. And should you ever make it T.O... 

One more thing. (And this is not why I wrote this blog but a case could be made for it. When I was 11, I worked as a page in the Ontario Legislature. When I told big people about it, more than a few asked, "and which page are you?" I now have the answer.