Reading the signals

OLD CARTER JOKE: "Is my left signal light working?" "Yes. 
No. Yes. No," (Clever photo mashup by the author)

This might sound weird, but one of my favourite sounds in the whole world — I find it soothing and peaceful — is when I’m in a car, and the only thing I hear is the clicking of the turn signal. 

That gentle slow rhythmic ticking is like a contentment tonic. 

Warned you it was weird.

Maybe there’s something in your life like that — the smell of lavender? A  melody?  I’d love to know.

Ever  time  I hear the tick tick tick tick of the signal light, I am filled with the  sense that life cannot get any better. Complete peace. Sort  of zen-like, whatever that means.

I just figured out why.

It starts with this: In addition to my four brothers and five sisters, I have a giant extended family. For instance, my mom’s brothers were named Angus, Alex, Hugh and Stellie; her sisters were Kaye, Bertholde, Peggy and Lillian. They all had kids. Kaye had Anne, Sandy, Greg and Joe. 

Angus had a son named Angus (Little Angy, we called him) and daughters Pat, Bernie and Mary. Mom’s brother Alex had a daughter, Glenda. and sons Andrew, Sandy, Jim and Don. Mom’s brother Hugh had Sharon, Deb, Cathy, Don, Hugh and Rod. One of my aunt Lil’s daughters — Bernie, Frances, Mary, Pauline, Janet, Joan and Rose — and I’m not saying which, got me into a pub for my first under-age beer. Bless her heart.

All those cousins and I’m nowhere near halfway done. I’m sure I missed some. You'll also be happy to learn  I'm almost at the signal light part.

CARTER FAMILY VALUES: Get together as often as possible.

Stellie and his wife Kaye had Hillary, Anne, Frances,  Merle, Stellie Jr., and Gerard. (Don’t worry. There’s no quiz at the end.) Peggy had Angus, Bert and Ulva and Ulva had a Peggy, a Beth, a Jimmy, a Tim, a Ruth, and a Carl.

My family didn’t reproduce, we exponentialed.

Think about this: Every one of them counted. Each kid mattered as much as the others. 

Does your sister have a child you adore? Imagine that times, oh, I don’t know, 158.

My mom also had a ton of first and second cousins. It was hard to keep track of who was related and how. But it didn’t matter. They were all worth being related to.

This is beginning to sound like the part of the Bible with all the begats.

My dad’s one brother was Ed and his sisters were Mary, Monica, Magdalene, Leona, Bonnie and Inez. Ed was dad to Frances. Inez was mom to Nancy, Mayme, Margie, Pat, Mike and Joe. My aunt Mary’s kids were Pat, Tom, Mary and Anne. Although my aunt Monica only had one daughter, Leona, she herself went on to have Helen, Mary Frances, Laurie, Norah, Keith and Canice. Bonnie was mom to Ed and Patricia.  

LET'S PLAY NAME THAT RELATIONSHIP:
Is the woman on the left (my mom's maternal grandmother)
my dad's Grandmother in law? 

My grandma  Carter had I think two brothers and a few sisters and they — as unfathomable as this might seem — appeared to love my father Tom— their nephew, as much as you love your nephews. 

One of my grandma’s brothers was Jim Vaughan. He lived in the farmhouse they grew up in, and he treated my dad like a prince which was the same way every single one of the people I mentioned earlier treated me; like a gift from God. 

My brother Tom used to spend summers on Jim Vaughan’s farm. They fussed over us. They spoiled us. They — pay attention  here — listened to us.

And you want to talk generous? My mom’s brother Hugh, also my Godfather, gave me a couple of  bucks every time I saw him. No reason.

That is how my life was. And is.

Much later when I attended Carleton University in Ottawa, my dad’s sister Mary, my Godmother,  doted on me as if I were her own. My aunt Leona not only lent me her car, she gave me gas and beer money.

But now we come to that part about the signal light.

When I was little,  my dad was self-employed and worked all the time, like a farmer. Other kids’ fathers got vacation time and went to DisneyLand or  cottages, but my dad, Tom, worked seven days a week and nights, too. 

AS THE LAST OF THE BUNCH I'm 
extremely thankful my parents
begat as frequently as they did.

I am not complaining, just explaining. But here’s the thing.

All those people I listed above were not only very loving, they were extremely visitable.

Most of my mom’s family were in Nova Scotia, Sudbury and Niagara Falls. Dad’s were primarily in Sudbury and around Ottawa.

Like I said, my father worked most of the time but when a family occasion called for it, we hit the road.

With my father behind the wheel.

The very first trip I remember to Ottawa involved a funeral for one of dad’s uncles and I recall vividly seeing that the guy in the coffin had a hearing aid. The funeral director —he deserves a Nobel Prize for funeral direction — was smart enough to leave the dead man’s hearing aid in as if he still needed it.

Mostly we went to weddings and funerals and a few anniversaries.

All the events involved eating and drinking.

Especially drinking.

The alcohol intake was so ubiquitous it wasn’t even a thing. The tinkling of ice in glasses and the bottomless supply of Canadian Club and beer never struck me as alarming or cause for concern.

I certainly don’t remember anybody getting out of control or stirring up trouble. For all the drinking, I do not recall one single conflict.

In movies and  TV shows, and especially on stand-up comic routines, loud family suppers were explosive events, best  avoided and characterized by arguments, nagging and tears even.

If they happened at our family gatherings, I was oblivious.

No fights. (I don’t recall my parents arguing ever, by the way).

From Niagara Falls and the nation’s capital to Halifax, all I recall is laughing, eating, drinking, making a fuss over the kids and more laughing.

Hang in there. We're almost at the end.

We almost always traveled by car. And the drive never took less than six hours one way.

During those drives, I am sure there was talking going on in our car but I don’t remember that. I do recall, though, that there wasn’t any of music. Radio between cities consisted of static, beeps and silence. Nobody had a tape deck.

During daylight, at least we could look out the window. Maybe even play a little game with the dirt on the windows, keeping a speck riding above the power lines along the side of the highway. Or if it was nice out, you could stick your arm out the window and let your open palm surf in the wind.

VROOM WITH NO VIEW: The endless highway
went on forever.

But after the sun set, the only thing we saw were the headlights of oncoming cars and trucks and there
were far fewer vehicles on the road than there are now, so frankly, after dark, the car was deathly boring.  

Again, I'm not grousing. Just that the later the night went on, the longer the drive seemed. 

The ride there, as Hank Williams Jr. would put it, got ‘teejus.”

No sounds, not much light.

But then. At some point--the click click click of the signal light.

Dad was slowing down and we were pulling off the road. We’d arrived. (Funny how I always associate it with left turns. I think that’s because we made a left off the Trans Canada into Ottawa.) It might have been a motel in the nation’s capital or Niagara Falls.

The long drive was over and we arrived at a place where I was about to be showered in love.

My wish for everyone is that they have a signal light in their life.

 

No place like Om

THE SANGHA SONG: Harpreet thinks I could teach a course
in funny.

Here's something I never thought I'd write: My meditation guru, Harpreet Sangha, asked me how I find humour everywhere. Harpreet says he thinks I have a talent for brightening up otherwise serious situations and that I might be able to actually teach other people how to do the same thing.  

I've since spent hours on the question, hours that could have been wasted on household chores, visiting the sick or exercising. And I found the answer.

At this point you're probably thinking, "'You just said 'my meditation guru?' Who are you and what have you done with Peter?"

But nope.

Harpreet Sangha. Doesn't have long grey stringy hair and or frizzy beard; in fact Harpreet's about half my age and possibly the most flexible person I've ever met or even seen. He can get his body pretzely or stand on his head and make it look effortless. He's all Adidas sweats and snazzy sneakers and he sports one souvenir tee I'm kinda jealous of; from Rishikesh India, which is like the Vatican for Catholics. Or The Brickyard for Indycar racing fans. 

Guruing is also Harpreet's moonlight gig. To feed his family Harpreet's a sales manager at the same company I work for. He writes a blog that you can read if you're on LinkedIn. 

But enough about the young successful, handsome agile, fit, very bright and good-hearted Harpreet

Back to me and my quest for the holy joke. 

Which started with Harpreet. In January of 2019, word went around our office that one of the sales guys was offering a once-a-week lunchtime yoga and meditation session. Everybody should try everything once (or as my late brother Ed said: "Once is research, twice is perversion.")  I signed up. 

The session met the only two criteria that dictate whether or not I continue with any activity: It was easy and fun.

 POSTER CHILDREN FOR MATURITY: My family at a memorial service for Ed

A month and change later, we were all sent to our room for two years. In my case I was sent to my son Michel's old bedroom, which became my office.

Harpreet took the lunchtime exercises on line, volunteering his time, so almost every Thursday around noon if you looked into Michel's bedroom window, you'd see me sitting with my eyes closed, sometimes even going "Ommmmm."  (I used to say that in Michel's room before meditation, too, but it was followed by "I God!" But that's fodder--see what I did there?--for another blog.) 

In August of this year, my deep-thinking friend and colleague, Jean Hammell asked a very silicon-valley question:  

"What would happen if a bunch of people at LexisNexis meditated 15 minutes a day, every morning for a month?" (P.S. Don't worry. I'm almost at the answer to the joke question.)

Our company, LexisNexis is a division of an outfit called Relx, which has--get this--about 33,000 employees around the globe. Harpreet, Jean, a lawyer and do-gooder named Jay Brecher and I spread the word about the 15-minute sessions and so, every workday since Sept., 1, thanks to miraculous  technology called Microsoft Teams, we can be found meditating online alongside colleagues in Manila, Dubai, South Africa, Colombia, England, the Netherlands, all over the U.S.A., and even downtown Carleton Place, Ont., which is where Jean lives. 

Most people, when I tell them about this experiment, say "wow!" or "amazing!" or "Is that really you Peter?"

But when I told my sister Norma, the very first thing she said was, "And I suppose everybody starts singing?" 

Norma was of course referring to that old '70s coke commercial "I'd like to teach the world to sing."

If she hadn't come up with a smartass response, I would have checked her I.D.  Because that's the way we Carters converse. 

All.

The. 

Time.

It's also the answer to Harpreet's question about finding the funny everywhere. 

All you have to do is grow up in a family like mine.

When you're raised in a three-bedroom house with a dozen or so kin plus an assortment of  boarders, overnight visitors or itinerant relatives, you joke to survive. Evolution weeds out the soft spoken and/or the  polite. If you weren't funny you'd starve to death. Or worse, not get laughs. And you have to be prepared to talk over other people and get talked over. Interrupting is not impolite, it's mandatory

It's full-time, this talking, not listening and performing verbal ledger-du main which is a word I've never even tried to use before but it sure came in handy there. Generally speaking, if you catch one of us in a rare moment of  silence and not interrupting, it's only because we're waiting for you to finish talking.

JUST CUZ: Rose'n'me. Back when the world was in black&white

To whit (I'm killing me here): Suppose my sister Mary is talking about re-upholstering furniture (a skill she picked up recently, much to her credit). It might look like I'm, whatchamacallit, listening. But no. I'm mentally Googling upholstery-related words so no matter what Mary says, I will respond with, "I guess that about covers it." 

Exhibit B: My first cousin Roseanne Rice. I'm the youngest of 10;  Rose's the youngest of seven. She lives in Halifax and any conversation with Rose is a tip-toe through a funny story minefield.

Here's me and Rose on the phone last week. We were discussing how we youngests feel we alway have to do what our older siblings and cousins tell us.

Me: "We don't have to do what they say you know. We can sometimes... "

Rose cut me off..

And then said five words that have never before been uttered or even considered by any individual who shared so much as a scintilla of Rose's and my DNA, and I'm going way back to the highlands of Scotland and boglands of  Ireland or wherever we stem from.

 Roseanne said:

"Sorry. I spoke over you."

I was like, "What did you just say?"

Rose. "That's right. I apologized for speaking over you. I've been practising with my sister. Isn't that just the sweetest?"

She started explaining but I interrupted.

Where we learn to do wishing well

STOLEN FROM MY GENEROUS COUSIN SHARON'S WEBSITE:
Insert your own "sharin'" pun here.. 

“Do you think,” I asked my wife Helena, “that wishing works?” 

 Helena: “Huh?” 

Me: “If you want something really really badly, do you think wishing -- with all your might -- helps?"

Her, with not even a nanosecond's hesitation: “No.” 

She then said she remembered wishing for lots of things when she was a little girl and most of them never happened. 

“So what?" I should have said at the time but didn't because I just thought of it now. "I’ve sure gone fishing a lot but way most times I didn't catch anything. Does that mean fishing doesn’t work? No, it does not." 

For the record, we were having this conversation just yesterday, in our black Volkswagen Beetle; a.k.a, the only car the very design of which makes people smile. We were stuck in heavy traffic on the expressway between our home in Toronto and my cousin Sharon Van Noort’s place in Niagara Falls. Sharon is one of my favourite people; she and her husband of 42 years, 11 months and a few days Rob run a flower business in a village called Virgil, Ontario, and I wish only good things for  them and their spectacular family for the rest of their lives. I'll tell you about the purpose of our visit in another blog but right now, that's beside the point.

I told Helena the wishing thing reminded me of a famous wishing experiment that she had probably never heard of before.

I filled her in.

PHOTO STOLEN FROM THE SMITHSONIAN: Just a bunch
of acid-heads trying to get some exorcise.

Back in the '60s,  a bunch of anti-war hippies thought that if they surrounded the Pentagon in Washington and concentrated hard enough, they could levitate the building 30 feet in the air and, as they put it, "exorcise" it. 

I am not making this up. A few hundred thousand well wishers (see what I did there?) attended.

As I understand it, the hippies hoped to ring the Pentagon but security officials didn't let them. Many believed the success of the levitation depended on the hippies forming a complete circle. That did not  happen. So, the levitation never occured.  As I said to Helena, "Who knows what might have happened? Right??"

Then she asked, why the heck would I know this? 

Easy answer. I had all sorts of older brothers and sisters and cousins who told me important stuff I needed to know. I knew about hippies before other kids my age did. And Woodstock and Lenny Bruce. I was (many might say am) the luckiest human who ever walked this planet. My family spoiled me something perfect. In fact, six days ago Helena and I were walking through the Courage My Love vintage store in Kensington Market and I spotted a little boy's cowboy shirt that resembled a get-up that belonged to five-year-old me. "When I was a kid," I commented, "if I wished for something I never had to ask twice!" 

She reminded me of that after I had finished tellling her of the failed levitation experiment.. 

Also, I should mention, by that time, traffic had cleared and we were back to highway speed, heading to Sharon's.

Me (I have to admit I was pretty happy about the traffic moving along and it showed with the way I was gesturing): "See Helena? See that? Back when I asked if you thought wishing worked, I was wishing hard for the traffic to clear up! 

And look!"

Her: "And I wish you'd drive with at least one hand on the wheel." I stopped gesturing. Resumed the 10-to-two position. 

Ha. About 12 minutes earlier, she'd said wishing didn't work.

 

Bring out your Ed!

FUNERAL DIRECTION BY MEL BROOKS: Alex, Mary,
Charlene, Norma, Bertholde, Me. I should have phoned them each
to ask if I could use this photo but to heck with that life's too short. (Besides, it
was Alex himself who told me once "if a family's got a writer in it, it's screwed.")

A guy on my street Wednesday asked if I think the universe, or God, or a deceased relative, ever sends messages. 

I said "You mean like one of my dead brothers? I have three, you know. Or our sister Mary Leona who died shortly after she was born?  Might she send me the occasional text from the other side?"

It was pretty clear he did not expect that  exact answer. (To tell the truth, I kinda took me by surprise, too.)

But it's true. Pat, Tom and Ed. Dead. And a sister, Mary Leona. My mom had 10 kids and only six of us are still, as one of my co-workers so artfully put it, "on the right side of the sod." The half-dozen live ones are in this great photo, taken in the cemetery where Mary Leona is buried.

Either my wife Helena or Alex's wife Brenda shot it, a few months ago. We were having a memorial service for Ed which really turned into a memorial service for everybody. And a fine time was had by all--dead and alive. We wouldn't have been laughing otherwise.

And something just occurred to me.

FOR HUENA'S SAKE: A quarter of a century later, I just realized whose
 words I stole to use for the opening of that story!

If I sound sort of casual about dead people, it's not a sign of, whatchamacallit, disrespect. I don't like them any less just because they're gone. So why not have fun with them? They'd certainly want us to.  

We miss the dead ones, but beyond that? 

Here's why this attitude comes so easily to me: I--and the rest of the Carters-- were raised with strong beliefs. 

Our mom, Huena, was a fountain of beliefs of all sorts and we (I don't think it was just me) drank them in like baby formula.  

In some homes, people grew up knowing which golf club to use  to hit a ball out of a sand trap, or which banks had the best mortgage rates. In my house, we knew that if you wanted to perform well in choir practice you prayed to St. Cecelia. Also, mom knew (don't ask me how) that if you sang your prayers they counted for twice the spoken versions.

If you lost your wallet, check with St. Anthony.

She had religious icons and assorted statues in every room in the house and she also instilled in me and at least two of my siblings and I could name names almost every superstition known to humans. In Huena Carter's house, beliefs were not beliefs, they were facts. Brick solid facts.

Think about what that does to a person.

I once interviewed, for Chatelaine magazine, the super-talented songwriter Rufus Wainright, whose mother was the songwriter Kate McGarrigle and whose father was the songwriter Loudon Wainwright III and HIS father, Loudon Wainwright II, was one of the best-read columnists in the world who wrote about his family for LIFE magazine. (P.S. I think I took Rufus by surprise when--instead of asking about him--I enquired about his granddad who was one of my role models.) 

But given his upbringing and genetic inheritance, is it any wonder Rufus can string phrases together? 

The Carters had as much supernatural stuff in our house as the Wainwrights had musical stuff in theirs.  

It should come as no surprise that one of the first features I wrote for Chatelaine--one of Canada's most respected sources of indepth journalism--was called "A ghost in your bedroom." I just remembered that among the expenses incurred in investigating that story were the ghost-busting services of a Feng Shui expert! The feature also mentioned my sisters' haunted apartment back in Sudbury.

So, the guy asked, do I think the universe, or God, or our deceased relatives sometimes send us messages? 

I think one of them sometimes write this blog.

Quote while you're a Ed

This is my favourite picture of my big brother Ed, who died in February. 

It was taken approximately 40 years ago in the southbound lane of highway 6 a few miles north of Manitoulin Island in Northern Ontario.

I shot and processed the photo; a fact I know for sure because I was a reporter at the time and that's what we did.

If you look closely you'll see there are two other guys in the picture, lying under the beautiful albeit broken-down black Buick LeSabre, trying to figure out what was wrong.

One of them was my brother Tom, who died about two years before Ed. The third? Not a Carter but a friend who quite possibly might have known even less than the rest of us what he was looking for.

As if he were beside me on my front porch where I'm sitting now, I can hear Ed: "You see people on the side of the road with their broken down cars with the hoods up, looking to see what's wrong with the motor, but do they ever look to see what the motor looks like when it's running right? Noo.."

I'm pretty sure I was driving the Buick when it cacked out, but I sure know it wasn't Ed. Yes, that's a beer he's holding in his right hand. Eddie left the driving to others. More fun for him. 

(Which brings me to another mystery. And here's how Ed might put it. "I totally get why we can't drink and drive; why can't we drink and passenge?")

But back to the present. 

I miss Ed all the time and channel him several times a day. What's more--and this sort of borders on the miraculous, two short paragraphs ago, I, without meaning to, sort of made up a quote that Ed might have uttered but didn't actually say. He would have totally approved of "why can't we drink and passenge?"

Which brings us to the upside of missing a dead person.. 

Ask anyone who knew him. Ed, like everybody who has ever lived, could be--I know you're going to find this hard to believe, and I hope you're sitting down--sometimes a little, um, you know, challenging.

As much fun as Eddie was, his idealistic buddy and fellow CUPW unionist Gerard van Deelen said the following at Ed's funeral, "James was a hardliner. And I like hardliners." (His name is James Edward. He was James at work; Ed at home.)

The wonderful thing about missing Ed and quoting him and thinking about all the stuff we did together is, as the great memories grow, the irritation fades. I think cells have memories and I remember with every cell in my body how much fun we had together but try as I might, I cannot conjure up the same physical reaction I had to his, whatchamacallit, vexiness. 

Eddie can still make me laugh but he can no longer make me mad. Same thing with Tom. And now that I mention it, my eldest brother Pat, who died like 30 years ago, too. Happy memories rule.

Grieving my brothers makes my heart grow fonder.

Look at that photo again. How could a guy with a life-affirming grin like that ever vex? And as I remember it, when the cops pulled over and told him to pour out his beer, Eddie was the anti-vex; the paragon of politeness in fact and he did exactly as he was told. Not sure how we got the car back on the road but I guess we must have, some how.

And--as Ed might say--"They all lived happily in the hereafter."

Roman's chariots: The most trustworthy car-care advice you'll ever get

PHOTO BY Roman's sister in law Brenda 

My friend Roman Stankiewicz said cars have souls, just like people. 

Roman was like, "If you say nice things about your car when it's within earshot, it will hear you. Your car will perform better and require less maintenance." He's right. People who gripe about their cars have more problems with them.

My trusty 2011 Malibu, about which I've never uttered an unkind word,  treats me very well.

Roman knew what he was talking about. More than once, Roman was named the top new car salesman in Canada. Imagine!

I asked him what his secret was. He said, "Know what it is Pete? Total honesty."

And I just figured out, approximately seven minutes ago, why I believe him so easily.

I first met Roman so long ago I don't remember; it was probably before grade one. We've stayed friends since. 

But here's something that has never been documented before. When we were in, like, grade five,  I, Roman, and two other guys, Mike Blondin and Trevor MacIntyre, invented and played a game in our front yard that we called knee football.

Knee football is played like real football but instead of standing up and running or walking, you stayed on your knees. 

DRAWING OF  KNEE FOOTBALL GAME BY THE 
AUTHOR: I'm not in the picture because I was on
the sidelines, sketching.

I can only imagine what our moms thought of the idea. We played knee football so frequently, on a 15 foot by 15 foot plot of grass in our front yard, that it's one of the things I remember doing most with Roman. 

Imagine four already short kids  trying to actually pass throw,  run and tackle each other, but on our knees. It sounds like one of those dreams you're really glad to wake up from. Or an acid trip. 

Here's a weird coincidence. We four knee football stars were also altar boys together, at St. Clement's Church. It sounds like we had a kneeling fetish but we didn't. It's just something I thought about now.

We also shot a lot of pool. 

Get this: In the Stankiewicz living room, where other families might have had their best dining room furniture, often with plastic protecting the chairs and tables, the Stankiewiczes had a regulation sized pool table. And an upright piano.

What else does a family need? 

The Stankiewiczes have their priorities screwed on straight. 

Roman grew up in a house one city block behind ours and to get there, we'd cross our back yard,  across the alley and then trespass though we never called it that, through Quinns' yard. 

I don't think I ever went to Rome's house via any other route. (Yeah, we often called him Rome.)

FOUR STAND UP GUYS WITH  KNEES STILL INTACT:
Me, Trevor, Roman & Mike

But here's why I think I believe everything Roman ever told me. 

Roman's older brother is named Peter. Peter was in my brother Ed's grade at St. Albert's school. 

Roman's other brother is Ed. 

Roman's oldest sister's name is Pat. My oldest brother's name is Pat. 

I don't think Roman's big sister Mary ever met my big sister Mary but they were not only "sister" sisters they are two of the smartest, most generous and funniest people I know. 

Roman's older sister Theresa was in my brother Alex's grade, and my brother Alex's wife is named Brenda and Roman's sister in law is also Brenda but not the same one.

See where I'm going here? When you're linked like this; you're not just locked together you're welded! 

I trusted Roman like one of my own brothers.

Anyway, long story cut way too short: Roman died this past April 4. Leukemia. I'm welling up with tears as I write this; And everybody who knew him loves and misses him.

But this is not an obituary. 

It's a story about how to get your car to last longer. From a very trusted source.

Edisms

My big brother Ed died Feb. 1 and I miss texting him because the following is the kind of thing that happened a lot.

A few years back I was in my seat on a plane heading for Vancouver from Toronto and we were still on the Toronto tarmac. I looked around at the other passengers and texted Ed: "Not only is there a school hockey team on board, there's a guy with an acoustic guitar and a nun.Wearing the old fashioned nun habit! This flight's going down for sure."

My text had barely left my phone when I got his response. Ed was that fast. 

When I read what he wrote I laughed out loud and the man sitting beside me asked what was so funny. 

I told him. 

His response when I reported what Ed had written? "I'd love to meet a guy whose brain works like that."

But before I share with you what Eddie texted me , with not even two seconds elapsing between his getting my message and responding, I must tell you about a book that came out a few years ago, titled Edisms. 

Edisms was a vividly illustrated and perfectly bound collection of texts that Ed had sent my daughters Ewa and Ria. 

They, with the help of my friend and graphic artist Tim Norton, made the random assortment of ridiculous texts  (e.g., "In Honour of Your Success, I have opened the Holy Can of Beer. And Poured" and "Is your Mexican hairless or did you shave him yourself?") look downright poetic. 

Scriptural in fact.

I figure some day a future archeologist will find a copy of  Edisms in a cobweb-covered abandoned tavern and it'll become a legendary mysterious text, widely quoted and maybe even made into posters. Like Khalil Gibran's "The Prophet" (Ed of course would at this point be like, "I preferred The Profit, by Khelog Albran."

NUN ART BY THE AUTHOR

That reminds me. Who here is old enough to remember that "You are a child of the universe; no less than the trees and the stars you have a right to be here" poster allegedly unearthed in some church in Boston or some such? It was called Desiderata. All the hipsters had posters of it and it actually became a hit song. Cue Ed: "I liked the National Lampoon's version better. Deteriorata starts off  'You are a fluke of the universe, you have no right to be here.'"

That, Mr. Seat Mate, is how Ed's brain worked.

All. 

The. 

Time. 

And no better evidence of it is there than Edisms, which Ewa and Ria and Tim produced in honour of Ed's 60th birthday, seven years and three days ago. A memorable party was held. 

And yes, I do believe that someday Edisms might be scripture. 

Which brings us back to to my plane ride and the nuns. Ed's response to my doomsday message?

This: "At least when you crash you'll go out with a bang AND a wimple." (See artist's rendering above.)

He had "wimple" right there at the forefront of his noggin where other people have real estate prices and interest rates; wimple had been sitting there, on deck, for years, waiting for me to deliver that straight line.

I still have a bunch of texts from Ed on my phone and they'll be there as long as I own the thing.