Hey George Clooney! I've got twin daughters! And advice for you and Amal!

Twenty six years ago March 1, my wife Helena spent the better part of an otherwise nondescript Friday giving birth to our identical twin daughters Ewa Frances and Ria Bridget.

TWICE THE FUN: Twice the puns 

Between that day and now, Ewa and Ria have become fully functioning humans. They read; they can add; they have all their digits and teeth. Our twins have social insurance numbers; they work diligently, play enthusiastically and help the less fortunate. Then there’s this--something their mom sweated seriously when the twins were tiny—Ewa Frances’ and Ria Bridget’s toilet training took.  

In the light of that success, last week our friend Emily Gayle Aitken—herself the mother of twins Nigel and Aiden--Facebooked me the following message: "Are  you on George Clooney's speed dial for advice for dads of twins?"

Twin advice for George Clooney. "What a great opportunity," I thought, "to show off."

Amal Clooney--the spectacular credit to the species who married George in 2014 only because he must have lost, as did I, my niece Jen Carter's contact details when Jen moved from Hamilton, ON., to Ottawa--is due with twins in mid June.

Acting on Emily Gayle's advice, I decided I could write a very clever blog about how Clooney's many roles have prepared him for this great adventure.

He was a doctor in "ER," a superhero in "Batman," and--my favourite--when he voiced Mr. Fox in the "Fantastic Mr. Fox," George learned how difficult it can be to give up his boyish ways and assume family responsibility. And I quote: 

BE PREPARED: To be outfoxed.  

Mrs. Fox: "Why did you lie to me?"
Mr. Fox: "Because I'm a wild animal."

Here's another too-clever-by-half example.

One time a few years ago, when Ria was in Kelowna, B.C., she called me in Toronto and asked me to Google-Map directions to some place in Kelowna! It's pretty funny, given that she has already traveled to more places on this planet than I have and she doesn't do it with guided tours, I'll tell you that much.

Something I've noticed about Ewa and Ria is that they seem to be absolutely fearless. My feeling is it's because they have each others' backs so securely. They were the first kids on our block to walk to the corner store by themselves.

But never mind that. Remember in "Gravity" Clooney miraculously appears out of space to guide astronaut Sandra Bullock's space capsule safely back to earth? That's sort of what I did with Ria in Kelowna.

I warned you it was clever.

You'll really like this one.

"The Perfect Storm." Does that describe one of those chilly winter nights when the infant twins are cholicky, crying, and poopy, and you’re so tired you’re thinking that you could fall asleep on the hardwood floor right beside the crib and you have to go to work in the morning and your wife is looking at you with tempered steel daggers in her eyes thinking “that stinking ugly S.O.B. gets to leave this house and go to a job where somebody else makes coffee and cleans the bathroom?” or what?

I could go on and on with this cleverness but I'll wind up—and not only because my grand-nephew Timothy Gordon Jr. once hinted that my blogs sometimes run a little long and he’s right—with this.

George? You don’t have to worry about a thing. 

AMAL'S MATE: A.K.A chopped liver 

Exhibit A: You married Amal. Clearly, you're okay with being upstaged by the people you surround yourself with. 

All  kids are upgrades of the moms and dads that make them.

Your twins will be smarter, better looking, more conscientious, morally superior and funnier than you and Amal put together. They will read your and the missus’ minds. They will have you wrapped around their every finger and toes to boot. They will know the punchlines to your jokes before you do.

(On that matter, neither Ev nor Ria picked up on my terrific pun when I posted a mention of your twins  on Facebook and spelled your named Cloney. They were probably busy having lives.)  

But my advice to you, George,  just stand out of the way, cheer them on and enjoy the show.

Every morning for the rest of your life, George, you’ll wake up amazed that you had something to do with these twin forces of nature.

Exhibit the second:  In “Brother Where Art Thou?” you proved you have no problem looking like a goof. That's definitely a plus. Knowing a bunch of songs is very helpful too. Finally: the band you sang with?  The Soggy Bottom Boys?  A lot of diapers are going to need changing, by George. 

Why safe driving just doesn't make any sense

DRIVING MISS-TAKES: I'm glad I've never made one.

About two hours ago, I was driving home and some man headed the same direction as me in the lane to my left and a few feet ahead veered right without checking his blind spot. I swerved to avoid an accident. He realized what happened and pulled left again.

I looked over and smiled. Accident avoided.

He wasn't a bad driver. He was neither an idiot nor a moron (as far as I know) and nothing bad happened. Unpleasant words were not needed; nasty gestures would not have improved the situation. Horns could be left unhonked.

He just made a mistake and now he's probably home having supper.

But it did remind me of something that did happen, Monday of this week, in fact.

My daughter Ria and I had to make a quick car trip downtown Toronto just as rush-hour was starting.

A jeweler whose store was at the corner of Yonge and Carlton streets (smack in the middle of Canada’s largest city) had repaired some earrings belonging to my wife Helena. He phoned to let me know they were ready. 

I cherish any time I get to be with my kids so asked Ria if she would come for the ride downtown and run into the store while I waited in the car. It’d save me finding a parking spot.  

She agreed. Sounds simple, right?

Except nothing is, right?

First of all, once we got downtown and headed south on Yonge, I realized that even though I’ve lived in Toronto 30-some years, I’d never noticed that part of Yonge was divided by a concrete flower-planter thingie. There went my plans for a quick you-ee in front of the store. I had to find my way

CRASH TEST PETER: (This blog gives me a  lame excuse
to print this photo  from when my son Michel and I
visited the Ford museum in Detroit.)

around the block so I'd end up in front of the place.

This was suddenly taking longer than planned.

Once there, I learned the jewelry shop is located in such a way that it's not only illegal to stop directly in front of the enterprise, it's also dangerous.  

And it’s winter. The streets are narrower. The roads, sidewalks and curbs are covered in two inches of sloppy slush (or as a friend of Helena once described it, puppyshit).

I pulled around the corner and stopped.

Ria got out. Cars, bikes and big trucks and pedestrians, some on wheels and some on walkers, some in pairs and some alone, were everywhere. Plus my windows were partially fogged up. I couldn't stay put.   

I inched forward, turned right and found myself facing down a one-way street that served absolutely no purpose whatsoever. I reversed and realized that if I backed into the exit-lane of a parking lot I would be properly oriented to fetch Ria when she came out of the store.

It all worked okay except some guy wanted to actually leave the parking lot, so I had to drive around another block and came around the corner again just when Ria got back to the street. She jumped into the car and said, “I didn’t have my credit card on me and it’s going to cost a bit. Can I get yours?”

I reached for my wallet. Because I was wearing a long winter coat, even that maneuver required some unprecedented twisting and tugging.  In fact I had to unbuckle my seat belt only to learn the coat's belt was caught in the door so I had to quickly open and shut the car door to get my wallet.  That meant doing a quick shoulder check to make sure it was safe and at the same time I was thinking,“What time did I say I’d pick up Michel?”

Ria jumped out  and I had to start wheedling around in traffic again until I picked her up again and home we went.

And I thought, “That's the kind of thing that should be on drivers’ exams: Real-world driving.”

And then I thought--or maybe even said, “Isn’t it amazing what good drivers most drivers are?” 

Consider: Every day, around the planet—the  VAST majority of drivers, not just a lucky few but almost EVERY SINGLE one—whether they're on some Peruvian switchback, lost in a suburb of Varanasi, India where no car has ever stayed in its lane for more than a second or two, or dropping a daughter in front of a jeweler in downtown Toronto, Canada, in the middle of a snowy afternoon—gets to where where he or she is going.

THE MINDBOGGLER? Almost everybody makes it home unscratched.

Unscratched. 

Mind-boggling. Especially because every last one of them is controlling what amounts to a really dangerous thing; and by dangerous thing I of course mean a car. 

Sure there're close calls like my friend up there in the first paragraph, but so what? We generally all make it.

Tall drivers, short drivers; short-sighted drivers, colour-blind drivers, hard-of-hearing people, angry types, Irish types, sleepy ones, stoned ones, in-love teenagers; out-of-love divorced folks,  lazy guys like me and arthritic drivers with muscles too sore to check their blind spots.

Drivers who just had a fight with their husbands and are so mad they think the guy in front of them is slowing down just to get them madder.

Drivers who can't read English.

Nun drivers who simply aim the car and let God steer.

People whose brakes don’t work so good. Drivers who feel it takes too much of their valuable time to flick a signal-light switch.

And far too many drivers doing exactly the kind of crazy wardrobe adjustments I like the one I was doing.   

While you’re driving, you’re talking, planning, singing, arguing, fretting, sweating, laughing, having to go to the bathroom or just plain lost.

The only driver who is not distracted is a robot. 

Plus you and all the other vehicles are barreling ahead, as Stephen Leacock would say, madly off in all directions.

The thing is, WAY MOST of them don’t get into accidents. Almost everybody makes it home.   

It just doesn’t make sense.

Or is it just me?

Fun for All and All for Fun! The campaign starts here!

Less than 30 minutes ago, my good friend Rodney Frost and I had a phone conversation about how there are people who, for some reason, want you to be working at something.

RODNEY: "Of course Brother Ed is right.

All. 

The. 

Time.  

For those folks—and they know who they are—writing at a computer or reading a book just because you wanna is never quite activity enough.

Very often, dads and moms fall into this category, and they ask questions like, "you just gonna sit there and watch TV all day?"

That kind of thing.

Me: “Interesting you should bring this up.  I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the subject, as recently as this very morning.  I’ve decided that after 60 years on the planet, I’m giving in to Ed.”

Rodney: “What do you mean?”

ME AND BROTHER ED: On left

Me: "My brother Eddie’s been right all along.”

Him: “Of course Brother Ed is right. But what’s he right about this time?” (Rodney constantly refers to Eddie as “Brother Ed”. Makes him sound like Brother Andre. Or  St. Francis of Assisi or, my personal favourite, Ethelred the Unready, who was a real guy by the way.)

Me: “I was just reading a story about Justin Trudeau meeting with the president of the American Chamber of Commerce and they were talking about how many thousands of jobs they’re going to create. Why do they want to put everybody to work? What’s so great about working all the time?’

Him: “Yeah. I know. You’ve got these people who want to take a nice 30-acre piece of farmland on the edge of town and build a factory so other people can go in there and slave away on an assembly line manufacturing some useless little items that end up on a dollar-store shelf.”

Me again: “Yeah, or else they’re like, “Hey! I’m going to dig a hole so you can crawl down into it and work in my mine!’”

Him: “Instead of jobs, why can’t politicians offer happiness? Or, perhaps, fun?”

Me or Him I forget which: “Exactly. Rather than people shouting ‘Jobs, jobs, jobs!’ they should be yelling 'Leisure, leisure, leisure!'”

The Other Guy: “Indeed. Why can’t they tell us they’ll try to make everybody comfortable so we can  do whatever we want to instead of working all the time?”

Brother Ed: (who’s probably in bed at his place at the moment) to my kids, frequently: “Your only job is to have fun.”

Me: “See what I mean about Eddie being right?”

Rodney: “Know what else is really funny?"

Me: "No."

 Him: "I was just talking to Lenore, and she said, ‘it's been a long time since Peter phoned looking for a story idea."” 

Me: “Goodbye.”

A Few Old Husbands’ Tales

BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL AGA: The niece whose picture I use cuz she's
way better looking than any of the other characters in  this story. (Aga also
plays an important part near the end.)

The elderly man standing under the street lamp was alone and sort of all wrapped up, hugging himself. I couldn’t blame him; it was February and he was out in a blizzard, waiting for a bus to come along. I was headed home in our nice warm minivan.

In fact I was going the same way his bus would, and I wasn’t in a rush so I rolled down the passenger window and gestured. He came to the door. I said “Man, get in you look like you’re going to freeze.”

He didn’t need persuading.

He climbed in, whipped off his gloves and shook my hand with both of his like I’d just told him he’d won the lottery. He said he was heading to Indian Road, which is just three blocks from my place.  He kept saying what a great guy I was to give him a lift and asked if I'd come in for a drink when we got to his place.

I told him I’d take a raincheck.

He also had a thick accent. And because we were in a neighbourhood known as “Little Portugal,” I asked if he was from the Azores.

I’ll never forget the conversation that followed.

“No,” he said. “Italy.”

Me: “Wonderful place! I've been a couple of times. I love Italians!”

Him: “Not me. Italians just wanna talk talk talk talk yak yak yak.  I like Canadians. Canadian men they no talk too much they just want start right away with …” and he looked me in the eye and made like an arm-pumping gesture and the little light inside my brain lit up.

My new friend thought I picked him up because I wanted to, like, bunga bunga.

I had to admit his logic was sound. It wasn't him who picked ME up. And I had emphatically told him how much I loved Italians. Thinking back I feel a bit bad for not being his type.

I  laughed and told him I was going home to my wife, so I’d just let him out at his place and maybe see him around the neighbourhood. I admit he was very gracious, and he added “you wife; she’s a very lucky woman.” (I'm not sure he really said 'very'. But sometimes she reads this blog.)

The more I write about the old guy, the fonder I’m getting.

  

But that’s not my point.

My point is, I like to give rides to strangers and I’ve never regretted doing so. I was raised that if I have a vacancy in my vehicle, I am happiest when it’s being used up.

Sure it takes people by surprise sometimes, but I believe in my heart that it’s good for my health.

Seriously. 

This topic came up this morning when I was talking to my friend Alex McKee, who turned 77 yesterday. He and I were discussing the joy one gets from helping a person find work.

There’s something innately satisfying about landing somebody a good job.

If it’s in their line, even better.  

Two years ago, (at 75!) Alex put this sentiment into action when he built—from scratch and right out of his own head—the non-profit www.millennialxchange.com—designed to link young people with mentors. 

That's what we were talking about when I moved and he seconded that watching somebody land a job that you got for them is good for your health.

Then I said, “so too is hanging around with young people.” He agreed there, too. 

I remember my lovely, generous and open-minded aunt Leona Carter say she loved when nephews and nieces visit. “It’s like a tonic,” she said. And now that I’m the age she was when she said it, I know what she’s talking about.

And don't forget. Guys like me and Alex, we don’t need science to know what’s good for us. 

We rely on what I call “Old Husbands’ Tales:” Things we believe rather know will make you live a longer and happier life. Like these.

·         Let cars butt in in front of you in traffic. 

·         Don’t gossip. A teacher I met once said, "keeping gossip inside and not sharing it makes you stronger." It's true! And of course by gossip I use my mom’s definition which is, defamatory information: dirt that  hurts. Contrarily, the harmless but good juicy stuff is called good and juicy for a reason; it's full of vitamins and minerals and makes the world a better place. But unnecessary dissing makes your organs shrivel up and hair fall out. 

·         Demand to talk to the 1-888-help-line-person’s supervisor. When you get good service, tell the boss.  I did this recently to a computer guy in India, and afterwards his surprised overseer put him back on the line. He was all excited. “My boss just told everybody what happened and now they’re all clapping for me!” I was happy and thought but didn’t say: “That and a fistful of Rupees will net you a small latte at the New Delhi Starbucks.” But still.

·         Eat something sweet first thing in the morning. I have a very charming and bright niece in Poland, Aga, and when she was visiting us in Canada, she made the following observation: “Uncle Peter. I notice you always eat something sweet at breakfast. Maybe that’s why you’re so happy.” She nailed it. Candy makes you happy. Happy people live longer. 

·         Always listen to your nieces. And nephews. They're the smartest people you'll ever know.

5 Things You Oughtta Know about Preachers' kids.

I Google-Imaged Preacher's Kid and got this. Guess I  better watch it. 

I’ve never met a preacher’s kid I didn’t like. 

This occurred to me earlier this week after spending a few days and evenings with a long-time chum named Jan De Pater whose late dad was a Dutch Christian Reform Minister. 

Besides Jan, I can recall six others: Jeremy Mahood, Mac Swackhammer, Sheila Stewart, Steve Burgess, David Dorazio, and, most recently, an unpredictable and extremely good-hearted public defender named Rob I met last summer in Nevada. (If anybody reading this knows me and is a preacher's kid and I forgot to name you, I'm sorry but not worried because near as I can tell, PK's are big on forgiveness.)

THEE-OR-ET-IC-ALLY, Roman Catholics don’t have preacher’s kids. If they do, they don't talk about them. Except Tom Day, a priest in Toronto’s infamous housing project known as  Regent Park. He adopted a couple of Vietnamese refugee children kids back in the '70s because nobody told him he couldn’t. He died--and if ever there was a person who got to heaven it was Tom Day--in 2010. Then there was Catholic Father Ted Silaj, in Elliot Lake, Ontario, where my first newspaper job was. He was a Catholic priest with count'em seven PKs. He was also married for 40 years. The catch with Fr. Silaj was, he got ordained a year after his wife passed away.

But back to the Protestants.

There’s been a ton of research conducted on PKs. And I've not read a word of it.

And since I was raised Catholic, there’s probably nobody on the planet LESS qualified than me to prepare, off the top of his head, a list of 5 things you should know about PKs.

But lack of knowledge has never stopped me from tackling a subject before, so here goes:

* They’re really funny. Wikipedia calls Steve Burgess the “Garrison Keillor of the Prairies” A few years ago he published a loving and hilarious memoir about growing up a PK surrounded by loving brothers and sisters and called it “Who Killed Mom?” One review deemed it “A Delinquent Son's Meditation on Family, Mortality, and Very Tacky Candles” He’s a gifted writer, good looking, he's making a living by writing funny stories and he's younger than me. I hate  him.

* PKs all border on something like sleazy. I mean that in the most noble of senses. A few years ago,  I was in the room when one of them--who in his teens played in his dad’s church orchestra--was asked, “Is it easy to get dates with the girls in the church?” The young PK’s answer: “Like shootin’ fish in a barrel.”

* They’re probably too honest for their own good. I’d trust any of them with my P.I.N. or car keys. They also seem be attracted to jobs where the money isn’t.

* Take my neighbor Sheila for instance. She has a house with a hedge; she has two beautiful smart daughters and a tall quiet spouse Richard who walks the dog.  In other words, Sheila presents as normal; she has a PhD in something. Her profession? Poet. She—like her PK colleague Burgess—is also a published writer. Macbeth Swackhammer curated museums.

*  They treat life like an experiment. Remember Nevada Rob from the first paragraph? I met him at that hallucinogenic arts orgy in the desert called Burning Man and seconds after making his acquaintance, surrounded by partying hordes who were far less-clad and far less-high than I was, Rob and I got right into the big issues: goodness, badness, the meaning of life. They're all like that.  PKs simply do  not do small talk. Small walk neither. Earlier this week, the aforementioned Jan De Pater told me he is sometimes glad he’s not a kid anymore.

“If I did the stuff I used to do,” he said, “I’d probably be in jail.”

I’ll leave it to him to explain that to his mate Elizabeth and their four kids.

I just realized something.

Church attendance ain’t what it used to be. 

I think I'll call Greenpeace. PKs belong on the endangered-species list. The world needs more of them, not less.

Where you Winsome and lose some. But mostly win.

See that smiling lady in the photo? She's Winsome.

Google tells us winsome means "attractive or appealing in appearance or character." And Google uses, as an example, "a winsome smile."

I took the picture about two hours ago. But it was more like 10 years ago that I first spoke to Winsome and told her she had the perfect name.

That was also the first time I went through the take-out lane at the McDonald's where Winsome works. And that visit didn't come long after I started working in this office where I am today; where I'm spending  this final  day, in fact. Come Monday, I'll be working  from home full time.

Over the years I likely visited Winsome's McD's a few times a month. But  I should add this: I've heard  that when a doctor asks a Canadian guy how much he drinks, the doctor usually listens to the answer and then doubles it to get a nearer-to-the-truth amount. It's probably the same when you ask a guy how often he eats at a McDonald's.

I'd like to tell you more about Winsome but when somebody's working the McDonald's pickup window, they're seldom in a position to converse, per se (Get it? Converse? Per se? Never mind.)

There  always seemed to be somebody behind me in line and McD's staffers don't get a lot of free time. Indeed, it's maddening that the rest of  the world fails to run on my schedule. But I'm pretty sure Winsome doesn't know my name and that I think about her more than she does me.

But something very nice happened between me and Winsome today.

Like I said. Today's my last day here. I spent a good deal of time cleaning up. I didn't want to take a long lunch so at about 1:00, I hopped into my Malibu, drove six minutes to McD's for something to go. (That always makes me think of my cousin Joe MacDonald. He told me that the guy working in the  kitchen at Gus's Restaurant near our house must have been named Tugo, because the order taker at the cash register out front would yell "two cheeseburgers Tugo!" But I digress.)

Cleaning up  before taking my leave

I got to the order window and told the order taker I'd like a Greek salad. Tugo. McDonald's salads are quite tasty and I'll never forget the first time I had one. Yes, it was at Winsome's; in fact, the day I ordered it, I pulled up to the takeout window, you know who opened it, handed me the bag but said "Hey! Look at you! Having a healthy salad! Good for you!"

Yup. I'd be lying if Winsome's heartfelt cheer of enthusiasm didn't affect my McDonald's buying habits from then on. I've eaten healthier since. And newsflash: McDonald's salads are just as palate-friendly as anything else they make.

You never can tell, can you?

So, after all those years, today finally arrived. I took my final trip to the drive-thru. I ordered a Greek salad, paid at the cash booth, then drove slowly up to the pickup window.

The sliding glass door opened, and yeessss!  Winsome!!

She greeted me like a long-lost cousin, albeit one that I was meeting in jail. We were separated by glass, after all.

I asked if I could take her picture. She asked why. I said I was moving on; that this might be the last time I visit her and I'd like to write about it.

She probably thought I was nuts but she said okay, then stood back and grinned a smile that I can state categorically was good for my health.

That is what I call winsome.

The Biggest Story I Never Wrote

A GIANT OF A MAN: Me, I mean. The guy who  didn't make the obvious joke.    

The only time I've been in a recording studio--the kind you see in movies--was about 27 years ago. I was on staff at a magazine called Influence and researching a story about jazz pianist Hagood Hardy. Hardy--best known at the time for an AM-radio hit called "The Homecoming"-- invited me in to watch him record a track on his new jazz album.

I remember thinking, "Wow I'm in the studio! This is like writing for Rolling Stone."

Hardy--a very generous and interesting guy by the way--was at his piano surrounded by a handful of other musicians. I, on the other side of the glass, sat  on a comfortable leather couch. Beside me was a gentleman about my dad's age.

I asked why he was there.

He pointed to the bass player and said it was his son Richard. I asked if Richard might have been on any records I'd heard. The man said he didn't know but then added, "You've likely heard me."

He said his name. "Bob Homme." It sounded familiar, but he then quickly did me the favour of not making me guess.

"I was," he said extending his hand, "the Friendly Giant."

I was awestruck.

I had just shaken hands with The Friendly Freaking Giant.

On the off chance you have no idea what I'm talking about, I'd have to think an American equivalent would be finding yourself on a couch talking to Captain Kangaroo, in civvies. Or Big Bird.

Friendly--star of the children's tv show "The Friendly Giant" was that big. And of course he wasn't. He was shorter than me. But never mind that.

I just wish they'd invented Selfies. I would love to have had a record of this event.

Everybody my age in Canada--and I'd wager this is one of the few times where "everybody" means everybody--can recall with great detail the measured camera pan of  The Friendly Giant show's molasses-paced opening sequence, during which the castle doors swung open, his huge hand reached down out of the top of the TV screen and set out the furniture for his visitors.

"One little chair for one of you, and a bigger chair for two more to curl up in, and for someone who likes to rock, a rocking chair in the middle."

That's the hand I shook!  The one that put all the little furniture in place.

I could go into any bar, retirement home or AA meeting from St. John's to Tofino and find most people in the room of a certain vintage will know Friendly's theme music, the names of the main characters including Rusty the Rooster who lived in a bag hanging off the castle wall and Jerome the genial but goofy giraffe.

After the opening sequence, the next 13 minutes were taken up by Friendly telling stories and then jamming with Rusty, Jerome or whatever little critters dropped by. Rusty also had the ability to find huge instruments in his bag that had no right to fit. I don't know how they got in there. In fact, if I didn't know better I'd think this story was about an acid trip.

Here's something Friendly  told me. The musical sequences? The ones with the guitar-playing squirrel and other talented critters-- were performed by some of Canada's top jazz musicians, including Moe Koffman--who were at the beginning of their careers and looking for quick gigs.

I'm telling you all this now because as recently as two days ago,  I found myself in the position of explaining the Friendly phenomenon to my daughters Ev and Ria, my son Michel and his fiancee Zoe and listening in was Michel and Zoe's son Mateus, who's eight months but mature enough I think to hear this important information.

The older four--all in their early 20s--hadn't known about Friendly but seemed eager to learn.

After I whistled the theme song for them and explained the opening sequence,  Ev asked, "why would a giant's castle have tiny chairs? Wouldn't it make sense for them to be big?"

I thought a moment. She had me. I told her she was right. Sort of shook my world but I didn't let on.

Later in the day, I put the same question to my older brother Eddie who was on the Sudbury High School Reach for the Top team and holds a degree in philosophy from Laurentian University.

I believe he's a specialist in Kant--and if you knew Eddie you'd realize that his being a Kant expert is such a terrific play on words it qualifies for a blog all its own.

To the small-furniture-in-the-giant's-house conundrum, Eddie stood by Friendly. "It made sense to have small furniture because Friendly was having little people in to visit!" All that Laurentian tuition paid off.

And these are the kinds of discussions we have in our house.  .

I must also report that when I realized who I was sitting beside, I did not--repeat not--make a joke about expecting him to be much taller.

In fact I think I might put that on my epitaph. "Here lies Peter Carter who, when he met The Friendly Giant, refrained from making the most obvious joke ever."

And that's the kind of thing we are proud of in our house.

What I'm not so proud of is I waited until today to report this important story.

My Hagood Hardy profile turned out fine, but the real story, which I failed to report until now, was my close encounter with the big guy.

Reminds me of the young reporter sent out to cover a new soprano's operatic debut but when he returned to the newsroom after the show, he told the boss: "There's no story here. The show didn't happen. Singer committed suicide just before showtime."

For the record, I've yet to be called by Rolling Stone.