LATEST ARTICLES

Ferries and Berries

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
Ferries and Berries

Notes from a messy desk….

When did you last take a Saskatchewan ferry ride? Or spend an afternoon picking berries among the pines and poplars? It’s been too many years for me. This might be the summer to replenish the soul with some nature time featuring ferries and berries.

Because Prince Albert is the gateway to multiple lakes and the activities they offer, it’s easy to overlook other types of summer excursions. I mention ferries because I love their long history, and the fact that they’re still around, a valued part of our provincial road system. My swimming skills peaked at the level of beginner, so I’m not wild about being in deep water, but enjoy bobbing or gliding on the waves, and a ferry ride is just the ticket — without having to buy a ticket. Unlike a highway drive, riding a ferry slows you down, inviting a breath of nature in. It gives you permission to relax, unwind, experience the river’s sights, sounds and smells; to forget any nagging have-to’s for a while.

The river hill descent when approaching the ferry dock provides an opportunity to admire the view, and at the same time pray that your brakes hold. Next, you get to sit back and wait, possibly in a line-up of other cars and trucks, taking in the rusting leaves, river’s banks and those living skies your licence plate talks about, until the ferry is ready to board. If it’s on the opposite shore, you can watch it cross the river, then observe as the vehicles are let off, one by one. Maybe I’m easily entertained (okay, no maybe about it), but I find the procedure interesting, and a relief for highway fatigued eyes.

Once your vehicle is on the craft, parked and shut off for the crossing’s duration, the ferry’s mechanical workings make their own kind of music. Without competition from the automobile engines we’re so accustomed to, your ears might pick up the call of birds above, or the lapping of waves below. You could opt to sit inside your car for the whole crossing, but why not step out and stretch, lean on the ferry’s railing, peer into the river’s surprising swiftness, and allow the ceaseless prairie breeze to crate a beautiful mess of your hair? Ahh.

If you play your cards right, ferry excursions can lead to good berry picking spots down gravelled country roads and forest trails of dirt or sand, with bonus sightings of birds and/or other wildlife. I hear tell that some people actually make pies and preserves with the fruits of their labour. You people rock!  I inevitably come home from the berry patch with teeth stained reddish purple from eating the bounty raw. And, to my credit, a respectable amount of berries in a pail, to prove I did some productive “work”, not having spent the entire time snapping photos, wondering about the difference between toadstools and mushrooms, attempting to harvest and chew spruce gum (yuck!) and breaking new trails because the feel of walking on moss is neat-o man.

I try to “pick clean” like my elders taught me, so there aren’t too many leaves or creepy crawlies riding home in my pail. Once cleaned and washed, the berries make a great dessert, even if all that’s involved is sugar and/or cream to taste. Yum!

Or perhaps they’ll get turned into juice, or wait – how about wine – the better to toast summer with? Cheers to Saskatchewan ferries and berries!

                                                                      End

A job at The Bay

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
A job at The Bay

Notes from a messy desk…

Recently the news has contained reports of the Hudson’s Bay Company, in existence since 1670, closing up shop. Fur trade aside, “The Bay” grew to over 90 department stores across Canada, including one in Prince Albert during the 1970’s and 80’s. We also had the small store on River Street, eventually sold and re-named the Northwest Company. My personal experience involved The Bay at the South Hill Shoppers Mall.

For a shy teenager just out of high school, employment at a department store felt quite intimidating. What possessed me to apply there anyway? But I did, and – really? — they hired me on with zero experience! Yay! Visions of “What will I wear?” danced through my head alongside “How much money will I make?”  $2.10 an hour, as it happened; a few cents above minimum wage. “Yippee! Spending money!” thought I.

My enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by my parents’ annoying expectation that since I still lived at home, I’d kick in for expenses. Seriously? Pay to live where I’d always lived? It just felt wrong. But how could I argue, when my older siblings had been subjected to the same deal? So $100 of my monthly wage would go to keeping a roof over my head and food in my mouth. I crunched some numbers: a place of my own would run almost triple that amount, never mind groceries, laundry, a television to watch, etc. etc. etc. Apparently my parents’ terms weren’t so unreasonable after all. Agreement made.

The next couple of years in retail prompted me to grow. Timid little me not only got better at math and handling cash, but at conversing with strange people (ie. the public – sometimes strange indeed). I learned how to take direction as well as responsibility, and not only survived, but thrived. Before all that could happen, though, I had to enter through those big glass doors on my very first day.

Naturally I felt nervous, but also excited. My green jumper and white blouse looked fashionable and businesslike. Beige platform shoes literally brought me up in the world. Maybelline mascara, a gold barrette in my hair, polished fingernails – I was ready.

The employee lockers, bathroom, and coffee room were upstairs at the north end of the store. I was assigned to work with a lady named Lena in the tobacco and candy department, near the mall entrance at the south end. She and I, enclosed in a rectangle of glass counters full of merchandise, with a gate-like door and our own cash register, were in charge of smokers’ supplies, bulk candy, watches, alarm clocks, electric shavers, assorted costume jewellery, and more.

On that first morning, it wasn’t long before the sickly sweet aroma of wine-dipped cigars and Skoal chewing tobacco at one end of the counter, and the sugary chocolate smell from bins of mint patties, Slowpoke clusters, and Petite Oh Henry bars at the other end, met me and my stomach in the middle.

I was going to barf and that’s all there was to it. Covering my mouth, I made a beeline through cosmetics, purses, housewares, fabrics and furnishings toward the stairs. Then up, two steps at a time, and into a bathroom stall. Just. In. Time.

My Hudson’s Bay career was in the toilet. Things could only get better from here.

And so they did. Amazingly, I became accustomed to the tobacco and candy smells. But I still have an aversion to mis-shapen chocolate blobs full of peanuts, and God willing, I’ll never see another can of Skoal chewing tobacco.

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of every month.

It must be here somewhere

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
It must be here somewhere

Notes from a messy desk…

Have you ever had a day when your cellphone’s notifications just won’t stop pinging? It happened to me recently. I turned the volume way down and stowed the contraption in my purse to get a break. Blissful silence ensued for a couple of hours while I did some writing, picked up a few groceries, and returned home. After supper it was time to relax, and reply to any texts or calls.

You know that feeling when you reach for your phone in the place you always keep it, and your fingers come across… nothing? I had that sinking feeling. “It must be here somewhere,” I told myself, dumping the contents of my purse onto the table. No phone there. Shoot. Dang it all.

I dialed the cell using my landline, listening intently for a ringtone from somewhere in the house. Silence. I searched coat pockets, couch cushions, and every surface upstairs and down, then covered the ground from house to car, and all nooks and crannies within the vehicle. Nothing.

Picking up the landline again, I called Safeway. The service desk person asked around, to no avail. I thanked her and hung up. Then I lost it… and I’m not referring to my cellphone.

Deep breath. Think.

I had checked the time on my phone in the frozen food aisle, before snagging a container of that yogourt with the chocolate cookie pieces (purely for the calcium) and several other health foods, possibly including cheezy puffs, then swung through the pharmacy area for mouthwash. The price on the shelf didn’t match the sign above, so I snapped a photo in case there was a problem, and grabbed a bottle. The price was indeed an issue at checkout. I showed the cashier my photo and we got that settled. Then the lady behind me accidentally mixed her butter in with my order. That was fun to straighten out. But where had my phone gone?

I would drive to Safeway and see for myself.

The manager, a bright young fellow, offered to check their security video for clues. Off he went, leaving me to wait (im)patiently. And work on my breathing. I mean, it was only a phone, right?… Right?

A few minutes later he was back. The news was good – sort of.

The videotape had shown the cashier in conversation with myself and the lady behind me, regarding the butter mix-up. My phone was resting on the ledge in front of me. As the lady, engaged in the whole transaction, edged towards me, I moved along to make room for her. When our business was finished, she picked up my phone from the ledge and put it into her handbag. Before my very eyes! And it didn’t even register in this brain of mine! What the —-!

Alrighty. Mystery solved. Time to get my cell back. I called it from my landline numerous times that evening, but got no answer. Of course not – duh! I’d turned the volume down.

The next day, I was back at Safeway being That Problem Customer. Could they please somehow find out who the mystery lady was? The manager would try, but the store could only do so much, and I should report my lost phone to the police.

Okay. Off to the cop shop. Give a statement to the nice, patient constable. He’d work with Safeway about getting my phone back. Give him a day, he said. “Ha!” I thought. “Only a day. As if.”

Oh me of little faith. In under 24 hours my phone was ready for pick up at the police station. Hallelujah! I was one delighted P.A. citizen. Thank-you cards and Safeway cake all around!

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of every month.

Fan Fare

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
Fan Fare

Notes from a messy desk…

It was a dark and stormy night… just kidding. It was a breezy March day with a chill in the air, so I was tackling indoor chores and had turned the radio on for some distraction.

Hip hop and rap channels? Nope. Not in the mood for country twang either. The pop/rock selections had all been played to death (I like you, Burton and Randy, but Guess Who needs a rest). So I educated my ears with half an hour of classy classical, then tuned into a talk show exploring the subject of celebrity fan mail.

Famous folk get feedback via Instagram, Facebook and X-formerly-Twitter, but they receive plenty of pen-and-paper letters too. Some fans even send handcrafted gifts: beaded jewelry, macrame pillow covers, miniature mukluks for the stars’ pets. Possibly home baked brownies and Nanaimo bars. Okay, I added those last two because, well, snack attack. But still.

Apparently I’m poor fan material from way back, because never did I stitch, knot, or string together creations for the people my young self idolized. Twiggy must have felt the lack of appreciation, and for her tear-stained eyelashes I am sorry. The Beatles probably sought out the Maharishi Yogi due to my neglect. I offer a thousand apologies in lotus pose. And Michael Landon a.k.a. Little Joe (that hair! those eyes! his mischievous grin!) – I was remiss, and can’t go back and fix it. Sigh.

Being a rabid fan just isn’t in my DNA, I enjoy the music of Jake Vaadeland and the Sturgeon River Boys, but all they’ve received from me is attendance at the Rawlinson Centre and a C.D. purchase during intermission. Plus, I guess, this mention of them.

I’d better explain that Jake’s a Saskatchewan singer/songwriter who, at the tender age of 21, practically personifies a forty-something country star from the era of the Hanks – Snow and Williams – and their cronies. He and his small band are popular with lots of people alive in 2025. Which is ironic in my case, because I routinely rolled my eyes and left the room when Mom hauled out her Johnny Cash 78s and K-Tel Cryin’-in-yer-beer ballads.

What does it take to be a fan nowadays? Is it all pay-per-view and Netflix? Do you listen to podcasts and subscribe to YouTube? Spend hours on the internet clicking “like” and commenting on posts? And what about the merch? Nobody says merchandise any more. Order your t-shirts, licence plates, and fingernail decals online, no doubt.

If good fans enjoy awaiting home deliveries while glued to www.insertcelebrityhere, then I fail miserably. Too much screen time makes bespectacled eyes go funny, and repeated keyboard tapping stiffens arthritic fingers. As for merch, I’m trying to lessen the clutter in my life, not add to it. At last count I owned 11 ball caps and wa-a-y too many mugs.

Thanks a lot, radio talk show. Listening to you has brought me face to face with my feeble fandom abilities. All fan-tasies have been dashed. Time now to pry these knees out of lotus pose, put Jake’s CD on the boombox and drown my sorrows in several ounces of coffee with a shot of Caramel Cheesecake flavouring, in this “Best Sister Ever” collectors’ mug.             Kidding again… I own no such item. The mug actually says “Superfan”. Or “It was a dark and stormy night”. One of those.

There’s something about a train

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
There’s something about a train

Notes from a messy desk:

On a recent afternoon, having driven down the hill on first avenue west in our fair city, I was nearing 16th street when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a bright blue train engine and its attached lineup of cargo. My ears were treated to a long whistle blast, the continuous ding!-ding!-ding! of the crossing alarm, and the clanging, clunking rumble of rail cars on steel. Then there was the visual feast: flashing red crossing lights and a wheeled parade of train cars, from basic black tankers to boxcars splashed with carnival coloured graffiti.

My mind flashed back to years past, when my job was downtown and I lived on “the hill”. I’d learned the train schedule the hard way, by being stuck in traffic more than once at this very crossing, making me late for work. My boss, an old-to-me ex-military man, hadn’t taken kindly to my tardiness. I was already on notice despite having purchased, at his suggestion (okay, direct order), a Big Ben wind-up alarm clock with a bell mechanism on top. Unfortunately it also featured a small lever you could manipulate while half asleep, to stop the infernal racket. Given the circumstances, and being rather attached to my job and its regular paycheck, I found an alternate route to work.

Fast forward to retirement, and things feel different. Unlike the courier whose van was trapped in the halted traffic, I had no deadline to meet. I turned the car radio off and my eyeballs on, to watch with interest as the train rolled by. And kept rolling. For maybe 5 full minutes, although I was too mesmerized to time it.

I thought about my uncle, who had worked on the trains in the roundhouse on 15th street east, which is still an active operation today. I remembered riding “The Skunk”, maybe 3 cars long, to Saskatoon and back one summer holiday. I recalled the Centennial train in 1967, when we school kids single-filed through the boxcars’ historical displays; and years later, the crowds of constituents at the downtown railway station viewing Diefenbaker’s funeral train. Film clips about the “dirty thirties” popped into my mind, featuring unemployed men atop trains and clinging to the side ladders, seeking work down the line.

As the real-life moving picture in front of me kept rolling, a realization struck. There would be no caboose at the end. Its replacement, some little computer camera thingie, evokes no nostalgia or romance whatsoever. I’ve inspected a caboose or two in my time  (which totally doesn’t sound the way I meant it) at historical displays – with their cupboards and cots and pot bellied stoves, and just know they held volumes of untold stories.

Before the noise and lights quit and the traffic began inching ahead, I was a child again for a few moments, on a road trip with my parents and little sister. We were stopped at a railway crossing, with endless prairie to the left and right, counting the rail cars. Nobody was in a hurry. The sun had risen that morning and it would set again. Had it really been that long since I’d watched – really watched – a train go by?

Sometimes I put on a CD or YouTube video to take me through a guided meditation, to a place in my mind that feels right and good, a place worth returning to. This time the meditation, in the form of a train, had come to me.

Opinion: Can we talk?

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
Opinion: Can we talk?

It seems the world has two kinds of people: those who happily chat on the telephone and those who say “Don’t phone me to talk if you can send a text.” I’m torn. Sometimes a phone conversation is just plain nice to have. At other times it’s an annoying intrusion into a person’s activities.

I know a lady who lives some distance away and has stubborn health issues. (Thankfully, she’s even more stubborn.) Recently I called to see how she was doing.

“I don’t talk on the phone much these days,” she informed me. “I find texting works better.”  Fair enough. That way, she can carry on a conversation when she feels up to it, in fits and starts if that’s more manageable. The other day I sent a short text to say I was thinking of her. Twenty minutes later came the appreciative response, punctuated with a pink heart emoji. Was it the same as hearing her voice? No. But it beat waiting days or possibly weeks for that elusive “good time to talk”. And, I admit, I’m a bit of a sucker for heart emojis and cute smiley faces, especially when you know the sender would hug you if they could.

Still, humans sometimes yearn for a shot of full-on, back-and-forth, absorbing conversation. Bonus points if this involves two or more people in the same room. Extra credit for connecting at a coffee shop over indulgent drink concoctions (and possibly mini cheesecakes).

The conversational subject matter also matters. A topic that’s fascinating to me – “Looky here, a photo from Find-A-Grave of grandpa’s cousin’s tombstone!” may glaze your eyes over with boredom. Although I can’t imagine why. I mean, this is family history, people! Nope. Glazed like a doughnut. Sigh.

Then there’s timing. Early birds may forget that not everyone’s chirped up for some 8 a.m. telephone banter. Instead, they get “Duh? Is that you? Is it morning?” from certain individuals. Okay, from me.  In my defense, I try not to bother you early-to-bedders after 9 p.m.  Or fans of the Bold and the Beautiful during show time. I’d thought that program had followed the Edge of Night into a galaxy far, far away, but apparently I mixed it up with Star Wars. Easy mistake.

Maybe living through a pandemic brought the power of human connection, or lack of it, into my focus, or maybe it’s this “being a senior” thing, but I feel differently about conversation than I once did. I appreciate it more, even the seemingly mundane stuff between strangers, like “Thank you” when someone holds a door open, or “Oops! These grocery carts need signal lights!” to avoid an Epic Collision of the Wheeled Menaces. Simply remarking “Wow, what’s up with this wind?” to the couple you meet on the Rotary trail has a good chance of bringing some sort of response. And if you’re taking a stroll in that sort of February weather you’re my kind of breeze-blown, this-trail-is-here-so-dammit-I’m-going-to-use-it people.

Chatting in person isn’t always in the cards, for a hundred different reasons. We can’t necessarily talk on the phone either. We can text, but replies aren’t guaranteed. I’m grateful for any communication that works, whether in person or not.

And since it’s fun to message by keyboard symbol at times, and I appreciate your reading my ramblings, please accept the following colon-and-parenthesis smiley face as a thank you for this conversation. 🙂

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of every month.

Circling the New Year

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
Circling the New Year

It’s a brand spankin’ new year. We earthlings have made another trip around the sun.

Go us! Well, all we really had to do was keep our feet stuck onto a spinning globe while continuing to breathe for 365 days in a row. Still, because every year contains tests of a person’s respiratory and/or sticking powers, I say congratulations!

            With that part of our journey behind us, let’s tiptoe now into the possibly dicey (time to quit smoking?) sometimes pricey (buy a gym membership?) and in Canada definitely icy waters of new year’s resolutions. I know, I know, you don’t make them anymore because you never keep them anyway. But hear me out. A new year’s resolution is supposed to help us accomplish something that will improve things somehow, right? So what if, instead of resolutions, we just keep on going around in the same good-for-us circles where we’ve already built up momentum? New year’s revolutions. Get it? Here’s an example: you already walk your dog around the block every day. Just keep doing it in 2025. New year’s revolution successfully kept! How simple is that?

            Sound too good to be true? I dare you to try it. I’m going to. This year I revolve – ha! – to wear my favourite blue jeans at least once a week, just like I do now, because they are fun and make me smile. My apologies to friends/family who are sick of seeing them; maybe spin your own fashion revolutions! I also revolve to check my mailbox every single weekday. Like I do now. Except when there’s a postal strike; that would just be silly. (You did that too? Oops.) So what if the box is empty? “Check the mailbox each day, keep the flyers at bay.” Or should I say circulars?

            There’s nothing wrong with traditional new year’s resolutions, the kind that help you make positive changes, thus improving your life and perhaps the lives of others. In fact, I’m all for them, especially when they stick. I just think we can also build on what we’ve already got going.

            Every morning for many years, almost without fail, I’ve opened up one book or another of inspirational writings and read a page. Circling in on these books over time has actually made me less spinny instead of more wound up. Of course, my opinion on that is subjective and certain parties may disagree, but my spinniness level is not the issue here. The point is I’m trying. Some may say very trying, but whatever. Moving on.

            In 2025 I plan to keep going around in the circles that work for me. Sort of like an exercise circuit at the gym, but without the barbells and rowing machines, and full length mirrors in the harsh light of post-feast January.

            Who knows what all this revolving might lead to? As the little wooden plaque on the coffee room wall of my former workplace proclaimed astutely (until the boss took it down) “Blessed are they who go around in circles, for they shall be called big wheels”.

            Happy New Year!

Visual Confections

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
Visual Confections

There’s a weird looking light bulb mixed in with my stash of LEDs and incandescent regulars. It’s covered in gel-like shapes reminiscent of soft ice cream cones the colour of blue cotton candy. Just looking at it tastes good. Every so often I screw the bulb into a light socket just to enjoy the oddball shadows it casts on the walls.

Coming across the box of bulbs got me thinking about light. December in Saskatchewan is a month of darkness, the shortest day and all that. It’s the time of year when I sit in front of a SAD lamp every morning to ward off the effects of the non-cotton-candy-type blues.

Paradoxically, it’s also the month of extra light. Visual confections in a variety of colours and creative configurations pop up around homes and businesses along our city’s streets. They sweeten the landscape to and from work, school, appointments, and those fun events requiring reindeer antler headbands and brightly embellished sweaters so ugly they’re fabulous.  

If you’re one of the people who mastermind and erect these wonders of winter, I thank you! You make my December day – or night, as the case may be. I think back to the “twinkle tour” drives around Prince Albert with my elderly mom and one or two of her “neighbour ladies”. My job was to keep the car on the road while they gave colour commentary on the passing light shows and yard scenery. “Slow down for this one! Look! Up on that roof! Somebody sure put in a lot of work!”

You don’t have to tour the town to feel the glow. Why is it so comforting and peaceful to sit inside with only a scatteration of tiny white lights on an artificial tree for illumination? It must be primal, something in our animal brain saying “It’s okay. Rest. Enjoy. You’ll live to hunt four-footed food, beat on your chest, and howl another day.” And possibly eat turkey. Perhaps with those red berries cooked into a sauce. But I digress….

Back to the light thing. My grandma had it figured. She knew that if you surrounded a coloured bulb with a tin pie plate you got extra impact. And when you stuck a bunch of those pie plate concoctions on a sheet of plywood in the shape of a tree, switching them on at night – magical!

Unlike my creative and industrious grandma, I don’t do pie plates, or for that matter pies. I do however, own two pie plates. One of which is bent, thanks to the jumble of stuff it resides with in the stove drawer, where hope of successfully baked goods springs eternal. How are we back to the topic of food? It must be getting on to mealtime.

Anyway, I love all the holiday displays; keep ‘em coming! They inspire a person. In fact, I happen to have a great little addition to this light celebration in dark December, and I know just where to find it: in the hall closet, among the LEDs and incandescent regulars. Mmm, blue cotton candy ice cream cones, yum!

There is a P.S. to this column. Shortly after I finished writing it, a friend surprised me with a beautiful gift – a Himalayan salt lamp that cycles through a rainbow of delicious colours. Coincidence? Maybe. But now, dancing in my head among the sugarplums, are visions of a column about lottery winners….

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops.

Having a Laugh

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
Having a Laugh

It’s probably healthy to have a good belly laugh once a day, but sometimes that’s not an easy prescription to fill. Not until I inadvertently stumble onto hilarity and laugh myself silly do I realize how long it’s been since the previous belly laugh session.

            On some days, the glum days, absolutely nothing seems funny; not the jokey lady at the gas station (I’m glad my frustration with your payment device amuses you grrr) or the droll radio announcer (Ridiculing Saskatchewan’s fall “heat wave”? How is this funny?) or even my friend’s text notification sound – a loud duck noise that usually quacks me up (haha). The Facebook memes I’d screenshot for their great humour? Not funny a week later.

            Interestingly, wait a few days and those memes might once again make me chuckle. The material hasn’t changed, so it must be moi. Apparently one’s sense of humour comes and goes. Lose it for a while, that’s okay – it’ll come back again.

            I’ve been a sucker for funny stuff most of my life. Two favourite childhood books were about humour: a big hardcover called “Jokes, Riddles, and Funny Stories” and the little paperback “Jokes and More Jokes”. Things only got worse from there. I apologize retroactively to the relatives and friends I regaled with questionable juvenile comedy, because I was probably annoying as heck.                                                                                                

            Unfortunately, I haven’t fully “outgroan” that trait, so apologies in advance for future “punny” business. However, I’m not sorry I found the material funny. Kids’ lives are hard sometimes, just like adults’, and a bit of comic relief makes for a happier kid. That’s my theory, anyway. So maybe that pesky pint-sized joker in your life deserves a break. Or better still, a laugh.

            I mean, think about it. Did you never take heart from sharing a knock-knock joke with someone?  “Knock knock!…“Who’s there?”…”Atch”…”Atch who?”…”Gesundheit!” — or an elephant joke? “How do you know an elephant has been in your fridge?”…”Footprints in the butter.”  Were you never cheered by an episode of Bugs Bunny, Laugh-In, Bob and Doug Mackenzie, or whatever else your particular generation chortled at? Laughter just plain feels good, and not only for kids.

            Recently, despite health and travel challenges, my siblings and I gathered together for a day. Some serious conversation took place, which was a good and necessary thing, but the best moments were those where we laughed until the tears came. “Remember when the laundry soap didn’t rinse out of that load of clothes, and we had itchy underpants all morning at school? Hahahaha!!!”… Well, maybe you had to be there.

            But seriously, folks. Humour exists all around us, if we only look. A laughter fix might be right under your nose. And no, I’m not making fun of anyone’s moustache. There’s a reason the Daily Herald has a comic section – because people read it! Sometimes they even read it first.

            Of course, a few funnies won’t take away the world’s tragedies, fights, hurts and injustices. But life as a “groan-up” is often hard, and a bit of comic relief makes for a happier adult. That’s my theory anyway, backed up by that expert in feel-good warm fuzzies, Dr. Seuss: “From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere.”

            Hmm. Anyone else suddenly have itchy underpants?

Musical Notes

Lorna Blakeney
-
0
Musical Notes

Remember that musical instrument foisted upon you by the school system around grade 5? I mean the simple plastic recorder, that ear-splitting screech maker your parents sent you down the basement with at practice time, or better still, outside.

For the record(er) – see what I did there? — I have almost zero musical talent. I say “almost” because part of me deludes itself into thinking I can perform recognizable tunes on the thing even now. Yep, I’ve hung onto my vintage whistling contraption and still haul it out once in a while to torment the neighbours and start the local dogs barking.

I can’t sing for sour apples, so learning the recorder gave me a ray of musical hope. I was that kid the teacher instructed to “just mouth the words” when our class performed at an inter-school competition. To my credit, and presumably her chagrin, I sang loud and proud and off-key anyway. I hadn’t dressed up in my best white blouse and precision-pressed navy skirt just to stand in the front row with the other short kids and pretend to sing. Humbug to that, Mrs. Fifth grade teacher.

The singing gene may be weak, but the appreciation of music is strong. Nowhere is it written you can’t participate in the music scene just because your vocal chords wander down paths of their own making. The world’s performers need an audience, and some of us excel as listeners, toe tappers, head bobbers, and hand clappers. We give a mean standing ovation too. Audience members are not only valuable, but necessary. Maslow said it best with his hierarchy of needs: food, clothing, shelter, audience. Or something to that effect. Anyway, a good number of “bums in seats” is encouraging to any performer. Go bums!

It’s extra satisfying to attend a performance in your home town. At Prince Albert’s E.A. Rawlinson Centre it’s hard to get a bad seat. The place is small enough to retain a sense of intimacy, and hosts all sorts of shows. It’s not the only game in town either. Posters on P.A. area bulletin boards and social media may surprise you with their musical offerings. The Mahon auditorium in the John M. Cuelenaere Library has presented band concerts, choral groups and wow factor drumming – and the price is right, sometimes by donation. Local restaurants, bars, churches, clubs and other groups regularly offer something different if you’re so done with binge watching Netflix or flipping through the same old T.V. channels.

Alternatively, maybe you inherited the musical gene and are the entertainment. Hooray for you! I’m envious. How many guitars, violins, drums, keyboards and grandparents’ old harmonicas are hiding in our city’s garages, attics, and unofficial walk-in closets called “extra bedrooms”, languishing among the out of season clothes and abandoned treadmills? Um,  several? Or several hundred – those things multiply fast when you aren’t looking. And that’s not counting the grade 5 plastic recorders.

Speaking of which, I haven’t annoyed the neighbours and their dogs for a while. Something patriotic like “O Canada” perhaps? Or the folksy, mellow notes of “Early One Morning”? Some may remember that one as The Friendly Giant’s theme song. Played beautifully on the recorder, as it happens. If you’re too young to have watched Friendly on television, I suggest tracking him down on the internet.

Meanwhile, “Look up. Wa-a-y up. And I’ll call Rusty”.

12Page 1 of 2