Going cold turkey

MEMORIES AS MATTERS OF FACT: From left,
Kerrene Tilson, Rick McCutcheon, Sue Smith,
me, Patsy Holder

Forty one years ago, lunchtime at the Anchor Inn in Little Current, Ont., found me sitting adjacent to one Sue Smith, who had just moved to town to work at the Manitoulin Expositor newspaper for a spell. (That's how we editors measure time. Spells. An editor's blood type? O. I wrote both of those great editor jokes myself.) 

Here's Sue ordering a sandwich: "Chicken, with mayo, on white."

There's Peter, thinking: "That is the safest sandwich I ever heard of. Completely neutral. Anybody could like that sandwich." Vegetarians might take issue with the chicken part, but I didn't know any back then. Vegetarians, that is. 

Every time I eat a turkey or chicken sandwich, I think of me at the Anchor. 

Why am I going on about this now? Because it's the day after Christmas and I had leftover turkey for breakfast. When I eat cold turkey or chicken there's nothing I can do about time travelling back to the Anchor.

It's not just turkey sandwiches, either.

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS
AN OLD FRIEND: Ron Temchuk

I could be walking through the downtown Dundas West subway station after a Jays game but then spot an advertisement for a Teen Burger and wham! I'm in the back seat of a car munching on a Teen Burger, purchased by my buddy Trevor MacIntyre's dad. That memory is so strong and so positive that just thinking it makes me feel as carefree and relaxed as an 11-year-old boy going for burgers with his pal in his pal's dad's car.

Coffee in styrofoam cups? Welcome to Pete's Lunch, a block south of the garage where my dad worked and where we hung out as kids. 

Sometimes the garage guys sent us on coffee runs to Pete's, which was operated by an always friendly Chinese man whose real name probably wasn't anywhere close to Pete, and he let us kids play the pinball machine. Pete also had a way of mincing chopped onion into his burger meat, infusing them with a taste that I've tried in vain to replicate since. 

And that's what I think of every time I see coffee in a styrofoam cup.

Writing of coffee...one of the dozens of reasons I like going into our office so much--even though I don't have to these days--is because of my lifelong (so far, anyway) friend Ron Temchuk.

Thing is, at our office, we get free coffee. It's a perk. Ha-ha. 

And one of the flavours this free coffee comes in is cappuccino. 

FRIENDS HANGING AROUND: Beata,
(as in Beatanik) lives a few houses east.

I only have to gaze at the froth to magically start shooting pool, sipping cappuccino and debating big-picture topics like what is art and whether world peace is attainable with Ron at an Italian joint up Bronson Avenue near the house he and I shared with, at various times, Nigel Simms, Jan DePater, Rick Mayoh, Boris Hrybinsky and Stuart Ziegler (among others) when a bunch of us were going to Carleton University.

It's the tangible memory of these visits with Ron that I like about cappuccino, way more than the taste of the stuff. 

This is fun. 

Here in Toronto, there's an onramp that takes you from the eastbound Danforth Avenue to the Northbound Don Valley Parkway; a half-a-kilometre swooping downhill curve to the right, and every single time I head down I -- for some reason -- think about my brother in law Al MacNevin and his brother Dave. Included in that memory is an early '70s P1800 Volvo sportscar, cornering so rapidly the car was up on two left wheels. I don't know if anybody actually did that, or said it sounded like a good idea, or if it's all something I imagined.

All I know for sure is the imagery is so strong it makes driving down the ramp way more fun. The City of Toronto should rename that stretch of street the MacNevin Ramp. 

As I type at this moment, on the wall over my right shoulder hangs a pair of oil paintings that we purchased 20 years ago from an artist neighbour, Beata Hasziuk.

Shortly after we got the art, I was visiting my doctor, Mark Huryn, in his downtown Toronto office and I noticed a Beata painting on his wall, too. Mark's a great doctor. I once asked him if I might have adhd because I'm so impulsive and have a hard time meeting deadlines. His response? "You're married, right? You got a house, correct?  You're working? No big debts? You're probably fine." 

A JARRING REVELATION:
We allow cookies.

Neither Mark nor Beata have the foggiest idea how frequently I think about them, just because I'm sitting under the paintings. 

Beata's name also reminds me of beatitudes, so here's a new one: Blessed are the artists for they shall remind people of stuff forever. 

We have a ceramic Christmas cookie jar that every time I look at brings me to my aunt Kaye's kitchen. Kaye, my mom's younger sister, lived up the street from us and loved me like crazy and in her kitchen on a shelf, for as many years as I can count, she had ceramic cookie jar though I think Kaye's was a pig. 

I remember thinking "That thing is always on the very same shelf, every time we visit. I wonder why she doesn't take it down and play with it. I sure would." 

So now, whenever I look at our ceramic soldier, I am reminded that we should all have as much fun as we can, right now, because you never know, you might just wind up remembering this exact moment forever.

Look. You are definitely going to create memories. Might as well make them happy ones.

 

 

By the time I get to Reno

CONTRACTOR ZAID: Zaid was
Helena's first contact with
the kitchen renovators. (Photo 
taken in a kitchen that isn't ours.)

We just had our kitchen renovated. 

I'm sort of embarrassed at how ecstatic I am about the fact.

Had you asked me a year ago, "Would a fixed-up kitchen make you happy, Peter?" I'd be like, "Of course not. It's just a room."

Wrong.

Entering our bright shiny kitchen is a wholly unanticipated experience. I'm reminded of the  time I first stepped into the Sistine Chapel in Rome. I recall the moment as vividly as if it happened 15 minutes ago. My first thought: "Mom. You have to see this."

I won't describe our new kitchen in detail because I'm really bad at that kind of writing. Instead, I'll tell you how fun and satisfying the renovation was, from start to now. 

What follows are 5 reasons the kitchen upgrade here at Pete's B&G was memorable and uplifting. 

If you think I'm being sarcastic, we've never met.

1. Azerbaijan
   
   

   

    JONESING FOR
   ARCHEOLOGY:
   Emil floored us.

   Yes. The country. This being the first reason took me by surprise, too.
   
   Emil, the subcontractor who installed our new vinyl floor that I can now glide across in my socks, immigrated from Azerbaijan a few years ago. I've only met one other Azerbaijanian and blogged about her, too. 
   
   Back in Azerbaijan, Emil was a history teacher and took part in a few Mesopotamian archeological digs. "They're not," he said, "as exciting as Indiana Jones. You're always brushing and wiping little pieces."
   
   When the time came time to move our fridge (which hadn't been budged since we moved in), I warned Emil, "This might be like one of those digs. Don't be surprised at what you find."
   
   Then, when he did pull the appliance forward, we discovered a long-abandoned plastic serving spoon. I was like, "Look! They used tools!"
   
   Emil, clearly a gentlemanly scholar, laughed at my cleverness.
   
   A few days later I realized I'd missed a chance to channel my late brother Ed with, "That was no ladle that was my knife."
   
   

2. 

   CURIOUS KIERAN: He
   wanted to know more
   about Stompin' Tom!

   Stompin' Tom
   
   "Whose signature," Kieran MacDonald asked me the first day of the renovations, "is on your guitar?"
   
   Kieran--the MacDonald in MacDonald Contracting, the company we hired for the job--entered our living room to discuss next steps but noticed my six string, which has the late singer's autograph a few inches to the right of the pickguard.
   
   Kieran, who was born in Saskatchewan, has Prince Edward Island-born parents (like Stompin' Tom) and seemed eager to hear about how my guitar got Connors' name magic-marker'd on it.
   
   Curious people are always interesting.
   
   Plus he gave me a chance to brag about my guitar. Then and now.
   
   
3. The Kitchen Trio
   
   

   

   LIFE IN THE FAST
   DRAIN: Eagles' fan
   Constantin

   Whether you're talking musketeers, blind mice or magi, many of the greatest stories of all time involve three lead characters. (That "kitchen trio" headline was a failed attempt at a Kingston Trio pun.)
   
   While I'm not saying the appearance or personalities of home contractors is important, when the job is done on time and on budget like ours was--if the heavy lifting's done by charismatic, photogenic and entertaining chaps like Kieran, Constantin and Zaid--that's a huge bonus.
   
   To whit: While he was adjusting pipes under the sparkling new sink, Constantin let it slip that his conception coincided with his parents' attendance at a '90s Eagles concert. Constantin, is--surprise surprise--a huge Eagles fan.
   
   (Constantin's revelation sparked me to look up the chart-topper nine months before I arrived on the planet. Singin' The Blues. Go figure.)
   
   All three of the guys were great conversationalists. Or, as my wife Helena put it, "They listened to your stories and laughed at your jokes, Peter." 
   
   
4. Even this one
   
   "It's for good reason that the divorce capital of the U.S. is Reno."
   
   That hilarious play on words is one of those jokes that works way better written than told, because the city of  Reno is pronounced with a long e, unlike the e in renovation. 
   
   Also, most people under 60  likely don't know "going to Reno" was shorthand for a quickie divorce. Which means that before I could share my joke with  Kieran, Zaid and Constantin, I had to put it into historical context. More work for me,  I know. Still, they laughed.
   
   When I think about it, I provided those young professionals with so many important history lessons while they were hammering, painting, measuring, drywalling and cleaning up, I'm surprised the job went so seamlessly.
   
   

5. 

   READY FOR SANTA'S MILK&COOKIES:
   Baked here at Pete's Blog&Grille

   Breakfast in bed
   
   My terrific reno joke and the major kitchen makeover notwithstanding, Helena and I remain married. One of us, as a matter of fact,  just had breakfast in bed prepared by the other of us in our glitzy new kitchen.
   
   If I knew how give to MacDonald Contracting a five-star rating on Yelp I'd do so.
   
   Rather, I'll  sit here at our kitchen table, admire the shiny new room, do a crossword and be glad that we rescued that little old ladle from behind the fridge. 

All I'm saying is give Pete a chance

CO-SIGNS: Get it? Mary's on left, mine on right.

This just in!

My sister Mary has created and hung a peace sign out front of her house. It's a beaut and it's in response to a challenge issued by our hippiest sister Charlene to spread the word.

I made one, too, though now that my excellent friend the writer, comic and smartass John MacMillan suggested it resembled a Mercedes crest, I'll never see it the same again.

John Schmon.

I'm very proud of this effort at making the planet a more peaceful place.

Here's the funny part.

SISTER ACT: Charlene's & Bertholde's

Mary hung her peace sign on the front of her house and she lives in the same one we all grew up in.

A storey-and-a-half home my parents moved into sometime in the 1950s, I think.

1950 is to now what 1900 was to 1973.

I find those ratios really intriguing. Here's why: I first became aware of peace signs and what they stood for in the mid 1960s. So let's agree that's about the time we all started teaching the world that they should embrace peace and forget about war and sing in perfect harmony and like that.

SISTER'N BROTHER ACT: Alex's on left, Norma's on right

At the same time, I wondered why people my dad's age didn't "just get over" the second world war. It was so long ago.

Turns out that in the mid-60s, the second world war was just about as far in the rear view mirror as is the street party we threw for Y2K and I think we might still have some empties, if not guests, in the basement left over from the party. Twenty three years.

And there's me thinking the adults should have gotten over the war.

Now I think the opposite. They got over it way better than I would have. Way better. Lord I was naive.

Where was I?

Oh right.

FEARSOME FOURSOME: Hey meester
you want to fight my seester?

Despite housing a dozen Carters, innumerable strangers and overnight guests, dogs, cats, guinea pigs and at one point a live chicken leashed to our backyard clothes line; and despite parties--so many parties with endless loud music and drinking and singing; and funerals and weddings and more parties; our house was a peaceful place.

I cannot remember my parents arguing, there was absolutely zero what other people called "horseplay," and I can only recall one real fight taking place.

I was nine or 10. My older-by- six-years sister Norma had said something about my dad that I disapproved of. To teach her a lesson, I climbed up onto one of the upstairs bed so I could reach up and land a left hook on her chin,

"And a righteous punch it was too," Chatelaine reported Norma saying years later, in an account of the battle.

The worst part?

The only pain felt by any of the combatants was the sheer humiliation suffered to this day by yours truly because what Norma did when I slugged her was laugh.

I hurts to type the words.

That's the only fight I ever remember happening in our house.

Small wonder we're a bunch of pacifists.

Peace.

(No sisters were harmed in the production of this story)

Only going up from here: 7 Lessons I learned at Shania's knee

 HOW'S THIS FOR OPENERS? Talk; a.k.a. Nicholas Durocher, 
graduated from mom's basement to setting the mood
for Shania Twain's Queen of Me Tour. Photo lifted from
Beyondthestagemagazine.com 

Earlier this year, my sister Bertholde gave one of my other sisters, Mary, a pair of tickets to see Shania Twain here in Toronto, and Mary, God love her, gave one to me for my birthday. So, two days ago, Sunday, Mary and I attended the concert. The outing proved--as you might have guessed--to be one life lesson after another. 

Here're just a  few of the things I learned. Or was reminded of. 

Shania Lesson One:

If you're going to a concert, show up on time. 

Even when you've never heard of them before, try to take in the opening act. When I was in grade nine, I and my friend Rick came to Toronto for a Frank Zappa concert at Massey Hall. Opening for Zappa was some piano player with a weird singing voice that nobody'd ever heard of and few of us paid attention to. His name was Tom Waits. True story.

But back to Shania. The concert was at the ScotiaBank Arena, and though the event was sold out, I'd estimate half the audience didn't arrive until the opener--a performer who bills himself as "Talk"-- was almost done. 

Their loss.

Talk, who used to be Nicholas Durocher, took everybody by surprise and I bet nobody in the joint was like Rick and I were at that Zappa concert and thinking,"okay okay let's get this over with and on to main act." 

Talk was wholly engrossing, lovable and if you listen to Run Away to Mars you'll hear why we--the smart people who showed up on time--were glad we did. I don't know how these opening acts get picked but I know I feel about Talk the same way I felt the first time I heard Shania.

Shania Lesson Two: 

Crocs--the shoes not the reptiles that you'll eventually see but only after awhile--come in size 17! 

Halfway through his performance, Talk demonstrated a new sport that he created--the Croc Kick--in which he sees how far into the audience he can hoof one of his giant Crocs. Best part? He, who looks twice my height and weight--very sweetly asked the audience to return the kicked Croc "because I'm not rich and I'd like my shoe back. I wear size 17 and it's hard to get shoes that big."

Shania Lesson Three:

PRETTY LIAR: No. Not her. The song. That's the name
of the song. About her ex, I'm thinking. Well, me, too, if I 
told you I took this photo. I instead swiped it from
The Toronto Sun review. Photograph by Dean Pilling

Cussing's way more fun when done it's done by people who don't swear much. Like Talk. Talk, who until last year was playing songs by himself in his parents' Ottawa basement, said he found it hard to believe that suddenly he was playing"the f'n' Scotiabank Arena."  Except he didn't say f'n. Then he added, "Sorry. I didn't meant to swear. I try not to." An hour and a bit later, I was reminded of lesson number three when Shania performed Pretty Liar off her new "Queen of Me" album. Not only was she singing "Your pants are on fire, you're such an f'n liar"(though she didn't say "an" or "f'n") the lyrics were projected over top the stage so 30,000 people were all cussing right along. Mary and I agreed the song was probably aimed at her ex-husband Mutt. Imagine what it must be like to be him and hear 30,000 strangers call you out? Then again why am I surprised Shania swears? She used to live in a small village near my hometown of Sudbury, called Hanmer. And, well... everybody in Hanmer swears

Shania Lesson Four:

Crime, too, is more way fun when committed by people you don't expect. First, you have to know that time was--when you entered the Toronto Transit system at a subway station--you dropped your token into a slot and a turnstile gave you one entry. Over the past few years, the turnstiles have been replaced by electronic gates, which you open by scanning your ticket. As soon as you're through, the gate shuts, locked, behind you. When Mary and I headed to the concert Sunday, Mary was so excited she actually entered the subway station closely enough on my tail that she came through the gate on the same scan as me!  Do you have any idea how hard that is to do? I'm pretty sure she did it by mistake, but afterward we were laughing like stoned teenagers, and I said, "Mary I've lived in Toronto almost 40 years. I've ridden the subway at all hours of the day and night and with all manner of ne-er-do-wells and yahoos and in all states of mind including being really drunk but nobody has EVER pulled that before." Even better, there was a transit cop watching when it happened and he didn't say a word. I think he was in shock. I know I was. Turnstile leaping carries a $400 and change fine. Something just occured to me. I bet Mary's felonious behaviour was caught on  camera. Pray the clip finds its way to YouTube.

Shania Lesson Five:

LARCENY IN SPARKLY JEANS 
Me and my fare-evading big sister. Photo by
a woman walking her dog on our street.

If you ever meet her, Mary might tell you she's a retired nurse or hospital administrator or university teacher or some such but what Mary is is a 17-year-old-teenybopper. Not only did she evade the subway fare, Saturday before the concert we spent roaming Toronto malls in search of sparkly jeans, which she ultimately found at the Dixie Value Mall in Mississauga and then, once at the concert, from song one, Mary was on her feet dancing and yelling and singing along, including during the f-word song. 

Shania Lesson Six: 

As our late brother Ed said, "if you never say 'never' you can't say 'never say never.'" In April, 2016,  my generous and brilliant niece Jennifer Carter treated me to a Garth Brooks concert at Canadian Tire Place near Ottawa.  Along the drive from Toronto to the show, I was telling myself: "Peter. No matter what, you are NOT going to stand up and sing along, even during Low Places." You already know the end of this story.  Same thing happened at the Shania show. Except for the f word. I did not sing the f word.

Shania Lesson Seven:

She's still, at 58, got it. Twain & Talk put on an incredibly entertaining show that you can read about here, but more importantly, should you ever get a chance, go to a concert with Mary. It'll be unf'nforgettable..

There once was an editor from Limerick

 SCOOP AND STOOP:
Photo by another marvelous neighbour, Ashley Wood-Suszko

My friend and neighbour Taras Gula attended a conference in Ireland this past summer and returned with a bunch of local newspapers that he gave me and I can't stop reading them. 

The Connacht Tribune calls itself "Ireland's Best Local Newspaper." 

The Limerick Leader's motto is "Limerick and Proud." 

The Irish Independent is "Ireland's best-selling newspaper." 

The Dublin Gazette is simply "The Latest News & Features from the County of Dublin. 

These traditionally designed newspapers, with giant photos, screaming headlines and craftily written--as well as sharply local--stories, compete for attention like I do with my brothers and sisters. 

One of my many journalistic mentors, the late Peter Worthington, pointed out that my being the youngest of 10 probably made me a better headline writer.

So far my favourite is the broadsheet Limerick paper; it measures almost a full metre across. Opening the Leader is a commitment; bordering on real exercise. (Limerick's also the best place name anywhere, except for Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha!, Que.)

Reading the Leader reminds me of when I used to stretch out on the floor on my stomach as a kid to pore over the double-page-spread funnies in the weekend Sudbury paper. Except Dick Tracy. I never liked  Dick Tracy. Or Mary Worth. But it's sure weird that I remembered them, just now, just like that.

A CHURN FOR THE WORSE: Bill
and Mike's bog adventure

Don't get me wrong. I am not a guy to yearn for what are  innaccurately referred to as "the good old days." Like my dad used to say, "the best thing about the good old days is that they're gone." But I am savouring these old-fashioned newspapers' celebrations of everyday life; up close. 

Exhibit a: On page 77 (!) of the Connacht Tribune, there's the Keady brothers, Michael and Bill, with a four-stone (whatever that is) keg of butter believed to be over 400 years old that they found buried in the bog near their home when they were cutting turf. (And I thought the stuff in our fridge was past its due-date. Hahaha.)

Then this. The Limerick paper has a "Limriddler" contest: a riddle in the form of a limerick.  

Me, I'll give a free lifetime subscription to Pete's Blog&Grille to whoever writes the best rhyme about somebody from Limerick. It's really hard. I've been trying for years.

That reminds me. I myself have a free lifetime subscription to the Manitoulin Expositor, which, if it came from Ireland, would blend in nicely with this bunch. 

I've never been to Ireland but I sure want to go now.  

From reading these papers, I have a feeling that I'd meet a whole bunch of people who not only look like me (that's a bit frightening, come to think of it) but also who are inherently interested in every little thing.  

They find stories everywhere and don't have to look far beyond their own front porches to unearth rivetting yarns. In June, just outside Dublin, a member of the Turvey Allotments Association discovered  a rare "bee orchid" on the property. A bee orchid looks like a bee in a flower! Imagine that!

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN:
So I can tell you how much I
admire that newspaper of his.

Fact: These great newspapers all share the motto of Pete's Blog&Grille and that is, "is any one person inherently more interesting than any other? No! Is any single place more interesting than any other? No! Have you ever seen a more ridiculous motto than this one? No!"

Finally, do you have to go to Ireland to read newspapers like the Leader, the Independent, the Tribune or the Dublin Gazette? You most certainly do not!

The aforementioned Expositor and Niagara-On-The-Lake's The Lake Report ("Canada's most decorated community paper") which my lifelong (well, so far, anyway) pal Kevin MacLean helps shape are both world-class community papers that know how to make the most of and microscopically focus on local events and people.  

Social media like Google and Facebook can't hope to compete with this human-contact next-door-neighbour journalism. Journalism that seems to care about its readers' well-being.

It's not just information you get from newspapers like this; it's a sense of belonging and comfort. Reassurance.

Reaping information from Facebook and Google serves up the exact opposite sensations. 

Social media can no more replace good community papers like these any more than it can replace Kevin, Taras, Ashley or those four-century-old-butter-finding Keady boys.

 

Never the Twain I'll meet

HARLEY I'M HOME: Twain aboard her "flying horse." I think the singer
would feel at home on my bike, too.

I hope Shania--when she sees me in the audience next month--doesn't get thrown off her game. 

You know...like forgetting what rhymes with "under" or--worse--instead of singing "no one needs to know right now," she'll be like, "Helena doesn't need to know right now." (Editor's note to editor's wife: Just joking! Ha-Ha!)

SHANIA  TWIN CYLINDER: The puns
can only go up from here

But anything's possible, right? And a lot of people will have ponied up good money for the show. I'd feel horrible if I muck it up for them. 

I'll explain why in a minute but for now you need to know that on Sunday, October 22, my sister Mary and I will be attending the Shania concert at the Scotiabank Arena in Toronto. 

Mary, another Shania afficionado, had been given two tickets to the show by our generous big sister Bertholde and for my birthday, Mary graciously asked me to join her. 

I literally had to fight back tears and I would not write that unless it was true. 

I have the world's greatest sisters. 

Furthermore and I find  this next part hard to believe. I have never seen Shania live. 

I came really close a few times. One morning back in 2013 I was walking through a basement corridor of a Vegas hotel when I heard Any Man of Mine coming from an empty rehearsal space. At about 10 a.m.! Was that really Northern Ontario's own Eilleen Regina Edwards warming up?

SHANIA TWIN: I did not include Stacey Whitton-Summers
in this blog just so I could make another twin pun
but I woulda.

I followed the music, found the room and was greeted, proudly I should add, by a woman about my age who told me she was the proud mom of Shania tribute act Stacey Whitton-Summers, whose voice I was hearing. 

I just remembered. I also once met Waylon Jenning's brother Bo.

I got considerably closer two decades earlier. 

I was working for the Financial Post. A story assignment had me visit the central Ontario village of Midland and while there I was driving a rented car eastbound along highway 12 and heard--for the first time--on the local c&w station Kixx 106 --Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under? I remember the deejay saying that the singer, a newcomer to the country charts, Shania Twain, had recently performed at the nearby Deerhurst Inn, in Muskoka.

My discovery of Shania is a matter of public record, and we have a clipping of it somewhere in the house. Believe it or not, a few days after I got back from that trip, I was approached by a photographer and reporter with the Toronto Sun for a Man on the Street interview. (Who doesn't live for those moments?)

The reporter asked me what music I'd been listening to recently and I said something along the lines of "a new Canadian singer named Shania Twain."

Also working at the Financial Post was a woman named Patty-Lou Andrews. Not only was she my age, she was also Shania's personal friend and helping the rising star with publicity and the press.  

Patty Lou--to whom I immediately took a liking because my oldest niece is Patty Lou and I'm extremely proud of her--then invited me to go hear and meet her pal Shania, who was playing later that evening an hour away, in Hamilton.

Full disclosure? Andrew was single and I wasn't. 

An evening in a bar with Patty Lou, Shania and Peter was a terrific idea but so far out of the question it doesn't even warrant a question mark.

Staying home was the right thing to have done. 

Right? 

Right?

I would have liked to have tracked own Patty Lou and ask how the evening went. Did she perhaps tell Shania about a young editor who thought she was so talented? And then did she show the newspaper clip of my Man on the Street interview and then did they use that to help promote the darling of Area Code 705 to the absolute heavenly heights of stardom?

Am I partially responsible for Shania's success? 

I can't ask Patty Lou. Sadly, she died young, at 46, and Shania included dedications to her on a few albums.

I know. 

I'll ask the singer herself next month when we finally see each other.  

Unless--after she recognizes me--things go south.  

  

Doing the Iris jig

READING BETWEEN THE LIONS: It just occured
to me. Iris has always loved looking at books.
You don't suppose she can re...nahh...

This past Saturday morning, at about 11:00, my wife Helena and I were sitting across from each other on our front porch.

Our 16-year-old housemate, Professor Iris Cat--Iris to friends--strode out the front door and walked right between us, heading for the little patch of garden that she finds so comfortable and private. 

Scarcely had her little cottonball face passed our shins when this happened.

Helena said softly, "Iris."

Iris stopped, turned her head slightly but--and in less time it takes to count "one Mississippi" --realized what she'd done and resumed walking as if nothing had happened.

Helena and I looked at each other with that did-you-see-what-just-happened? expression.

Iris answered to her name. 

Ever since she joined our household on our son Michel's 16th birthday in November, 2005, Iris has had us believing she didn't recognize her own name. 

It was like that moment in an old detective movie, when the bank robber who'd been passing as a Presbyterian minister for years gets tripped up by a clever plainclothes detective, and flinches . 

Undercover Dick: "No disrespect Parson, but see the way that woman over there's standing? Reminds me of a poker game. Yeah, that's right. A strip poker game;  one night a lotta years back, in Baton Rouge. With a few of the saloon girls. After we knocked over the First National Bank." 

SEEING IRIS-to-IRIS: Forget about reading books,
what about minds?; Specifically, mine.

Robber: "It wasn't the First National, it was the Union Pacific!" Then realizing he'd given himself away, the bad guy tears off his minister's collar, with: "Dagnabbit! You caught me!"

After 16 years, Iris's jig--an Elizabethan word meaning joke, by the way--was up.

And why am I telling you this now? 

Because she just did it again; she proved she understands English.  

Thirty five minutes ago--at 2:30 p.m--Iris was supposed to have been on the examining table of the kindly veterinarian named Dr. Henry Skutelsky at the Roncesvalles Animal Clinic. 

Not that there's anything wrong with her. 

She simply doesn't want to go to the doctor and must have heard us mention the exact time of the appointment. She's been AWOL since noon. 

We've depleted the entire come-out-come-out-wherever-you-are repertoire.

I pretended to open a can of soup just to make the can opener sound. 

I shook the catnip treat jar.

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, PETER? Of
course she understands everything you say.

I even lay on the couch and pretended to crack a book. I'm currently three quarters of the way through Agatha Christie, A Very Elusive Woman, by Lucy Worsley; a surprisingly lively look at the famous crime writer. Dour and prim Christie was most certainly not. I wouldn't be be surprised if, at some point, the same woman who invented Hercule Poirot turned up in a strip poker game in Baton Rouge. But I digress. 

Typically, the moment I plop down on the couch to read, Iris emerges and extends her left front paw to take my attention from whatever it is that's keeping me from petting her. Not today.

We've looked in every open box, bag and container, including the Molson Canadian collapsible zip-up beer cooler. 

First thing I do most mornings is walk into the front room and pull open the window coverings and the zipping sound tells Iris it's time for her morning skritch. Tried that at around 1:20. No luck.

Often, but not today, Iris can be found sitting on the modem upstairs near the TV; Helena thinks it's because the modem's always warm but I believe it's because Iris knows cats belong on the Internet. She wasn't there, either.

LAST LAUGH: Iris always
gets it.

Here's the thing.  I know why she's hiding so well today. 

Back in June Helena and I were having a very non-judgmental cool-headed discussion about the bad old days and what sort of prospects aging housepets back then could look forward to. Or not. 

When I was young, ill dogs and cats were dealt with quite differently than they are today. I think you know what I'm talking about. 

This was a time when nobody ever paid real folding money for a kitten; in fact, frequently, finding homes for them proved quite difficult.

I figure Iris must have been in the room when Helena and I were reminiscing.  

And today she's hiding like she's never hidden before. Can hardly say I blame her.

I'll let you know when she arrives... oh wait, there she is now. 

The cat came back.