Speed talking

There's always a story to tell and people to tell it. Every story takes time to tell. There are generally two speeds to story telling: Fast and slow.

An example of slow can be found in church. The priest reading the gospel decides to separate every sentence with the invention of new comas. All good books including the bible are not published until it have been edited. Editing includes the proper punctuation. Sounds easy enough. Do you follow? And you could follow and read along with the priest but you'll never see those extra comas. Why? Because they are not there! Jesus didn't put it in, so why is this guy doing it! The priest was like Captain Kirk. The bridge is the pulpit. "And Jesus said, (pause)to his disciples (pause again)I will make (surprise, keep pausing)you fishers of men" Wow, he got up to four words. When the verbal waltz was over I heard two words. To be truthful, I heard two words and felt an elbow. The elbow was my mother and so were the words. Wake up!!

People who talk slow and methodical have all the time in the world and because they do, they believe everyone around them have all the time in the world too. Um, no. Sarcasm is approved, encouraged and internal dialog accepted. You wouldn't want to verbally admit your freaking out inside. Oh shit! Not this guy. This could take awhile. In case you were wondering, My internal dialogs are always in italics. It just seems more fun. I wouldn't call it bold but it can be a little dramatic.  I got a flair for it,  I guess. 

When I engage with these type of people, I listen with a lean. In my mind I'm already walking. I look like that little guy at the traffic light in mid walk, trying to go. Unfortunately, the other guys is the flashing orange hand saying "Wait, stop, listen" Shit! I think, what if I just nod and do an about face and get the f out of dodge. Wait, there is no f in dodge. Was there an f? Did someone literally take it out? I wonder was it Fdogde once? No dummy, Dodge refers to a place not the truck. However, you could say get the f out of my dodge. That would work. Oh, I get it. Dodge is a town. Now they say, just get out of town. No time for dodge either. What a weird expression. Look at this. What is he going on about? No really. Would you listen to this crap! No, really! Why aren't you listening?  You could give him the orange hand. Would that be rude? Do I have to be rude? This the conversation in my brain. I've missed the whole conversation. I could have saved myself a lot of time but of course because I am Canadian I have to be polite, I ask,  "I'm sorry, what did you just say?" Shit! Here he goes again. I don't have time for this. You're killing me. 

There is another category of talkers. One I am familiar with. Fast talkers. Fast talkers are always against the clock and they have no time to talk, so they tell you their whole life's story in sixty seconds. The don't even have time to say, "What's up" opting for the time saving abbreviated "Sup"

I like to mumble and talk fast just because it makes for an interesting conversation. Just a heads up fast talkers and slow listeners don't mix. I have seen my far share of smiles and nods. Nothing says "WTF did that guy just say?" like a polite smile and nod. Some people just walk away from me and scratched there heads. Which I am fine with. I didn’t have time talk anyways. My biggest fear is when they ask me to repeat myself. Now I know two things. One, I was mumbling and talking too fast and I looked like an idiot. Two, I have to slow down my annunciation and pronunciation and try not to look like an idiot. I have to verbally go from fast to slow and insert extra comas. I should have said "I'll send you a text. It's easier and faster, trust me" They say communication is an art. Who are they? I say, I like to draw outside the lines a little. What's wrong with that?  There my Crayons. I'll do what I want. For this reason, I have a blog. This is what I meant to say the day I was talking to you, when you turned away clueless. 

There's always a story to tell and when I have time to think, I can slow down enough to clearly write down my thoughts. I find I don't mumble half as much on paper and I can really communicate what I want to say. I'll leave the rest up to you. Read this fast or slow or not at all. It was nice talking to you. The light is green. I'm already leaning. I've got to go.

The first snow squall

The first snow squall.

Written or embellished by:  Dennis Deschamps

 a song for 

Family and friend Christmas 2025

On the first snow squall the town folks did say

Watch how you’re driving stay out of my way

The roads and streets were an icy sheet

On a cold winters’ night of rain, snow and sleet

Snow squall, snow squall, snow squall, snow squall

A storm is coming it’s starting to fall

They looked up and saw a car

Stuck in the ditch he didn’t get too far

And up the road at a green light

Someone is texting stopping traffic in spite

Snow squall, snow squall, snow squall, snow squall

A warning is one thing

But it didn’t turn out so well

Snow squall, snow squall, snow squall, snow squall

On the second snow squall it was the same as yesterday

People still bitching, get out of my way

The streets were littered with ice, snow and debris

With abandon cars from a demolition derby

Snow squall, snow squall, snow squall, snow squall

A warning is one thing

But it didn’t turn out so well

Road Trips: Kejimkujik National Park and Historic Site

We bought a van and we did so for one reason: camping. Our first test would be at Jeremy's Bay Campground. Kejimkujik National park had many sites to choose from usually but because people were spending their hard earned money in Canada (boycotting America) we only had a few spots available.

The van had stow n go seats so it gave us enough room for a couple roll out mattresses. Setting up camp was pretty simple a dinning tent a couple of chairs and a fire. 

Luckily for us we were there a week before the fire ban. Things were great until it was time to sleep. There was a crying kid a few sites away who was always in trouble for something. His crying continued into the wee hours of the morning. I finally locked the doors and fell asleep. Then it was tinkle time. As I opened the door the ani-theft alarm started to blare and I couldn't turn the darn thing off. After a few minutes of frustration and yes, cussing, I got it to stop not before waking up the entire camp.  

I try to walk everyday so we looked for a couple trails. We had asked the camp office what trails to hike. It was narrowed down to two. They were countless others but these two in particular we decided on. The first was a trail that started just outside the camp office dubbed, Mills Falls Trail. It was a pretty easy trek than ran beside a flowing stream. The trail was inhabited with children and parents making their way to wade in the eddy's. I tried to get them out of photo shot as best I could. Eventually we turned around and on the way back I notice a familiar thing. If you didn't already know, bugs and I don't see eye to eye. There was a buzz around my head. They must have got the heads up from the deer flies from Wassi lodge in Ontario. I survived it and we off to better things. 

Day two of hiking with bugs and I don't mean bunny was a trail call the Hemlocks and Hardwoods.  It seemed intriguing to me. We were promised a boardwalk along the way. How long along the way we would find out. After a short distance we picked up a couple of friends. The bugs were back. We never invited them, they just kind of showed up. I quickly found out that if my pace was fast enough, they'd leave me alone. Behind me my partner wasn't having as much luck. This was suppose to be a shared experience. It was but I wasn't going to share my blood. Then we saw it, the boardwalk. I keep saying it was just around the corner finally it was just around the corner and so to was a three hundred year old tree. I found out an interesting thing. Hemlocks can grow in the strangest places, even over a rock. I found something else out. The longer you stay in one place the easier it is for bugs to find you.

I waited for him to catch up we both gazed up and I was off again and so were the bugs. It was at this time I noticed my partner wasn't having a good time. The bug were but he wasn't. I apologized for the rudeness and explained that he knew about the bug thing. I can't help it, he couldn't walk as fast as me. I would soon find out that he could but that's another story. 

The park was our hub for few days. Our home while we discovery more Nova Scotia treasures. I will leave you with my favorite picture. More #ontheroadwithdennyd Road Trip stories to come.

The call

 High school was in the rear view mirror of life. I was looking toward the future. There where a few bugs splattered to the windshield but I could see enough to get down the road. The journey was a painfully one, mentally and physically but I learned to grow while growing. That's the way it usually works. I had grown a foot in a little over a year. Puberty was delayed and the embarrassment of being a hairless adult made it hard for me to be intimate with anyone. I didn't know what urges where until the hormones kicked in. Still I loathed my hairless body. Today I am a sixty-six year old walking sasquatch.  Be careful what you wish for, I guess. Having no desire to fornicate, I decided to investigate a celibate life.  Every catholic family had at least one child destined for secular or religious life.  That child was me. 

My spiritual advisor and local priest Father Janise, help me with my spiritual journey. A journey that took me to Saint Peter's Seminary in London Ontario. They called it a come and see weekend. I meet some seminarians. Some of whom are now priests in my diocese. The tour started with a walk through of the seminary and I even got a chance to sit in on philosophy class at Kings College next door. All in all it was an interesting weekend but I didn't enjoy the interview at the end. The one question I didn't expect came out of left field. It wasn't like I was signing up that day. Why ask such a question. Are you a homosexual? My response was no. I was confused by the whole thing since finding out my Godfather was gay when they out-ed him in a Toronto paper. Of course when I was a young teenager I believed he was going to go to hell. I know better today. He was the nicest person you'd ever meet and he died way to young. Every time he came to town was celebration not because he brought us desert (which he often did) but because he brought his love.  I missed him so and you could say I have a deeper understanding for what he must of went through.  I left the seminary weekend with mixed feelings and I still wasn't sure what Gods plan was for me. 

In the meantime I joined a singing group known as, Faith Unlimited. We travelled around the county and played nursing homes, singing and dancing. I played guitar both in the group and in our church folk choir. I would receive more offers in the mail from various religious organizations. From Basilian to Redemptorists.  These magazines would pile up on my nightstand waiting for me to browse through. Frankly, it just made me more confused. I would often go back to the steps of grade school and look at the church across the street and wait for God to talk to me. You know listen to the whispers so to speak.

While I waited I befriended a girl in the group. I'll call her the girl in a hat because she worn one all the time. Apparently, she like hats a lot or maybe she was a fan of ACDC. Soon I was wearing hat, more like a cap. I couldn't rock it like Brain Johnson but I thought I was cool. That is until some other guy who had a cap just like me came around. I got dump at McDonalds. Funny how you remember things. I guess he wore it better than I did. So I did what I always did. I went to my room to write. This time it was a sad song but I got over her. I had other things on my mind. Higher education. 

Life after the lane

I'm finishing up some edits on my first book. "Life on the lane" might be a working title. The story about small boy who finally grows up and the potholed one lane where it all started. 

Now that I have grown up I have more stories to tell and more roads to talk about. I want to thank you all for liking my blog posts. You are my inspiration. I plan to share a new story weekly and some sidebars along the way including pictures from my travels, my morning meditation thoughts and maybe song or two.

Thanks for traveling...

#OnTheRoadWithDennyD

The intern

It was my last medical visit to London. Like most doctors’ offices it was a wait and see moment. This time was different. I was escorted to the examination room, and I waited some more but after a short while, a beautiful blonde entered the doctor's office. I assumed she was a nurse. She just introduced herself and she took my BP. She walked out and I waited for the doctor to arrive. I was hoping she would not return. I knew the checking me out process that happened every three months was about to happen again. It was embarrassing enough just being with my doctor. Suddenly, the door opened and in though it came my doctor but he had someone with him: the same blonde.  He told me she was an intern. That she would over seeing the examination. She was over seeing all right, and I was not overly pleased.

 I was glad she already took my BP because it would most assuredly be up now. I prayed I wouldn't have to go through embarrassment of baring all. I looked over at the table of doom and noticed it had a fresh piece off paper on it. And soon my naked ass would follow. I was afraid because my hormones were on fire. I don't know why I was afraid. You can't have a happy Johnny when you are scared to death. Put it this way and I hate to admit this, but I use to bring a lunch bag to school everyday and it wasn't just for food. I used it to hide my uncontrollable boner. It embarrassing to talk about. I used to have to sit in the back of the bus to give myself enough time to calm it down. Whenever this uncontrollable moment happened, I found that if I thought about the beautiful lady in the movie "the shinning" and how she turns into an old lady, while repeating the mantra "Grandma, Grandma" helped calm my unexpected enthusiasm. Luckily, the freezing cold ruler provided zero stimulation. Turns out shame is not a good stimulant. 

There they were checking out my junk. The conversation was about where I should be based on bone density and genetics. Apparently, they were pleased with my progress. I guess I had reached the summit of growth. After several minutes of dialog and prodding. I was allowed to put my clothes back on. They called me average, but I swear that day I was under average. I always wanted to be average guy. I was okay with that.

I thought that this would be the end of my embarrassment. Oh no. I had more fun to endure. Being the first to be diagnosed and treated for my condition, meant that my special case had to be documented. I felt like I was a math test, and the doctor had to show his work. No matter how they added it up the sum always equaled embarrassment.

I was lead through a maze of mortar and brink.  The dungeon eventually leads to a dark room. In that dark room is a photographer. The photographer is for me. She told me to go into the change room and strip down. I must have not known what strip down meant. Well, I knew what it meant but I was only somewhat committed. I entered the room clothed in a hospital garment. Under the garment; socks and underwear. She sent me back to make some adjustments. A sort of debriefing if you will. My ploy to hide the boys backfired. I was starting to panic. I stood in front her and was instructed to take the gown off. I flashed her and she flashed me. Then she said "Okay now profile" it was so cold in that room I'm sure the profile was a waste of time. My balls were in my throat. More flashes of my shrinkage and shame. I was thankful that she didn't take picture of my face. That wouldn't have been a good look.

When we started this journey, I was one foot out. I left my teens totally exposed. I have shared with you my all. I have so many great memories. Some funny, some embarrassing but all real. I am so blessed to be surrounded by people who love me no matter what. They have read my work and are my biggest cheerleaders.  A big shout out to my sisters and to my Partner. I love you all. Looking back, it will be sad to close this chapter but I have so much more to write about. I'm so glad I could bring you along as my passenger.

 On this road and beyond.

 Thanks for traveling with me. 

 Denny D

Learning to grow

I spent a week in a London Ontario Children's hospital. Victoria Memorial Children's hospital as it was known at the time. We finally were getting to the bottom of my stalled growth. I was the oldest kid on the floor. I was eighteen at the time. My predicament paled in comparison to the other kids on the floor. My room had four beds. Beside me was a boy dealing with leukemia and another who had to roll down the hallway like a crab, he had some kind of spin issue. I was just there to get tested. For what, we would have to wait and see.

I spent the early hours of the day being carted off to various tests. In the early evenings I would spend my time helping the kids do crafts and after, I flirted with various nurses. There was one nurse I like the most. Unfortunately, she was a one floor down. What was I to do? I soon discovered a tube at the nurse’s station. I had seen it in action, and I was impressed. I had an a-ha moment. "If I sent a note down would my honey receive it" I wrote it and she received it. It was all tubes and whooshes. I would receive little playful notes with hearts, x and o's. I think we finally got caught but it was fun. What wasn't fun. More tests. I was a walking pin cushion. After a week my endocrinologist Dr. Jenner, came in and said they had narrowed it down. I wasn't a dwarf, or should I say a little person and with the treatment I could grow. 

I was diagnosed with growth hormone deficiency. The result of underactive pituitary gland, known today as hypopituitary. I was one of the first in Canada to be treated for it. Growth hormone at the time was very expensive but luckily the London Rotary club help us out. 

My mother received her instructions on how to be a pain in the ass. Literally. Every morning I'd wake up and moon my mother. She was a nurse’s aide for years and I couldn't ask for a better caregiver. I'm sure she felt nervous shoving a three-inch-long needle into my butt cheek every day. She had to do it twice a day. Growth hormone in the morning and testosterone at night. She really wasn't a pain the ass but the needles, that's another story.

The growth spurts were painful, and I lived in a hot water soaker tub for a while. Just kidding. It was the only way to get a little relief. When I say little, I mean hardly at all. Was it worth it? I was blessed to be living at a time when I could get medical help, and I was even more blessed to have parents who cared so much for their little man. The thing that wasn't so great was going to London to document my progress.

Height and weight. You expect that but to see how I really measured up, they had to really measure me up. Every three months. Height, weight, hand and shlong size. That is no stretch and you can't stretch when the measuring device is a cold twelve-inch-long steel ruler. Shrinkage was involved and they didn’t care. I always heard the same "Hmm, you’re doing fine see you in three months" story. But there is one more.

In the next story I will be closing out my teen years with my most embarrassing moment ever. I will call it the intern. 

Learning to drive

I finished high school in January and had to wait until June for my diploma. I had some time to kill and a bucket list of things I wanted to get done. Number one; a driver's license. I could have gotten a license when I was sixteen. Maybe I just needed to let it grow on me while I was growing. The time off made it easier to get the deed done. After passing my beginners I was looking for a driver's school. Spence's driver school was my choice. 

I can't remember how many weeks it was, but I do remember learning to drive. Mr. Spence was a very nice, patient and kind man. I seem to recall that he drove an AMC Pacer or as we called it a greenhouse on wheels. He'd parked it across the street while we hopped into my mother's seventy-three, three toned (tan, brown and rust) Ford Maverick.  It had a 302 engine and was rear wheel drive. It was a small car with too much power and spinning out on snow covered road was easy to do. 

My instructor said, "if you can learn how to drive in the dead of winter you can drive in any weather" He was right.  We had it all: rain, snow and sleet. Every drive was an adventure. I learned to drive doing chin ups on the steering wheel. Luckily, my legs were just long enough to handle the pedals. After a few weeks of obeying signs, three point turns and parallel parking, I was ready for the exam. I paid my dues and thanked my instructor. I was ready. It was go time.

The driver's examination location at the time was on Wyandotte near Walker Road. I was warned that they were hard on young drivers. My only other options were Tilbury or Chatham. I was told that Windsor didn't give licenses to boys on the first try but I took my chances. 

I waited in the parking lot until some guy with thick black glasses and a clipboard came out. "Are you Dennis?" I gulped nervously. "Yes Sir" He got into the Maverick. I was glad I could use my mother's car. I was getting used to driving it. We drove around for while. My white-knuckle clinging for life hid my sweaty palms. We were driving down Giles Boulevard and things were going great until he said "parallel park" I had already nailed the three-point turn. The pressure was on. It's not like I didn't practice but it sure looked like it on this day. After several failed attempts we headed back. In my mind I knew I was going to flunk the test. When we pulled into the drive test parking lot he was adding up the results. I prepared myself for bad news. He signed his name on the bottom, ripped the page from the clipboard handed it to me and spoke. "If I were you, I’d park in the parking lot, Congratulations"

I now had a driver's license, five dollars, freedom and a mother who trusted me enough with her car. The five dollars would get me a quarter tank of gas. I had just fueled up at Beavers gas station on the corner of Rivard and Tecumseh Rd and I was on my way. The eight-track belted out Queens "Night at the opera” I had just passed by Jefferson. It was my first day driving. What a great feeling. Suddenly behind me I saw flashing lights and heard a siren, so I did what you do, I pulled to the right and stop to let him pass. Only he wasn't passing, he was parking. Parking, that is stopping, behind my car. What was I doing wrong? My heart sank into my stomach. There was only one reason for him stopping me. I suppose seeing some kid driving a car with his hands at ten and two and his nose at twelve might looks kind of suspicious. 

He walked up and knocked on the window. My sweaty hands cranked the handle. "Is this your car?" He barked. "No Sir, it's my mother's" "Do you have a license?" I think he was surprised when I handed it to him. "I just got it today" I said. He went back to his car and sat there a few minutes and after not finding anything wrong, searched for a just cause for pulling me over. He looked at the car told me to fix the body, or I would get ticket for the safety lane. I agreed. I knew that wasn't why he really pulled me over, but I smart enough to let it go.

Later that week the Maverick went through a transformation.  Now it was three toned Maverick with a hint of bondo, fiberglass and primer.

 

The Great Gerbal Escape

My high school was having a rodent raffle. Gerbils to be exact. My friend and I decided to buy tickets. The school PA speaker crackled to life in our home room. The PA didn't always work. It did one day when I did my Howard Cosell impression in the cafeteria/Auditorium.

Two students were play-fighting, and I called the fight just like Howard. The mic was a prop. So I thought. Little did I know the bout was being broadcast live in every room and hallway. I was a hit. People walked up to me and said how good my impression was. Now, back to the rodents.The speaker chimed in. The winner of the gerbils is Dennis Deschamps.  I jumped from my seat and headed down to the office to pick up my prize. Two gerbils. I was told they were the same sex, so I didn't need to worry about babies. Apparently, this was news to them. My mother, as you will remember, wasn't keen on anything with tails. Our family dog was the only exception. One time, we found a garter snake and brought it into the house to show Mom.  She screamed. My younger brother thought he could carry around a frog in his shirt pocket. It was just a frog. He hadn't had a tail since he was a wee tadpole. She wasn't impressed with the cute frog-in-the-pocket ploy. She wasn't very happy about me bringing home a couple of furry friends. I assured her that they would stay in a cage in my locked room.

I started constructing a cardboard maze and placed a piece of cheese as a reward at the end of the rat race. Inside the cage, a water bottle, wood shaving, and gerbil food finished their habitat. The two lived in rodent bliss. They must have wanted to share the bliss with others, so it was no surprise when I found a bunch of little pink babies. I had decided to keep that a secret, and it worked for a while. I learned a few things about gerbils. They grow up fast.  They don't like cardboard or having to race for a treat.

Then it happened. Mom opened my bedroom door and screamed as the rodents made a run for it. The afternoon when I got home from school, my mother gave me the look. I knew something was wrong. We didn't see that look very often. When we saw it, we ran for cover. "Get those rats out of here." That night, I brought my little furry convicts to the pet shop. The angry look softened, that is, until she saw Charlie the squirrel in the backyard. 

 

Canoe Imagine

Sundown at Kejimkujik National Park 

It was supposed to be a simple canoeing experience. That's how it started. We had spent a day in the pool at Saint Clair College learning to drown-proof. Apparently, it's a thing. Everyone had to fall out of a canoe and pretend they were lost at sea or on the lake. The good news. If you survived, they gave you a life vest. Drowning-proofing requires breathing, rolling into a ball, and floating. Wilson!!! Breath, tread, ball and float. Eventually, we all pass the test. Now, we were ready for the real test. 

One of our teachers lived on Pike Creek. Well, not on the creek. In a house.  The school had parked our supplies of canoes and flotation devices in the driveway. We were paired up, each geared up and ready to hit the water. That's when things got interesting.

I was paired with a teacher who was taller and much heavier than I. He was in the back. His job was steering. I had learned to steer while in the college pool. The sweep stroke and the J stroke, but because of our weight difference, I would have had a real stroke trying to steer the canoe with all the weight in front. For that reason, he was in the back. I weighed eighty-nine pounds. I wasn't too keen on finding out how much I weighed, soaking wet. We soon found out that that was a distinct possibility downstream.

Pike Creek is easily manageable, and paddling was effortless. The mouth of the river and Lake Saint Clair was a little more work. We paddled across to Peche' Island for a little excursion. It was delightful.

As the day went on, we had one last stretch of water to navigate. We didn't plan on the wind picking up from the west or the size of the whitecaps we had to paddle through. We soon found out that it is hard to control a canoe when half of it is not in the water. I could feel the fear behind me. The person I counted on to steer was freaking out. "Lean into it," He yelled. I was leaning into it, and I could barely get the paddle into the water. I was hanging on for dear life, lying across the front of the canoe, stretching to get the paddle into the water. Our extraction point was Pellette dock. On a good day, it wouldn't take long to get there. This was not a good day.  It was almost goodnight. I had my head down as I paddled and only looked up to see if we were making any gains. Sometimes, to make gains, we must endure pains. I was feeling the pain. My arms throbbed,  my body bobbed, and it seemed we weren't going anywhere. The waves were winning. But somehow, we managed to get to our destination. We emerged beat up but still alive. 

Years later, I was in a canoe with a girlfriend. We were paddling on the shallows of Lake Saint Clair. Things were going good, that is, until she moved. Over we went.  I immediately stood up. The water was waist-high. She immediately went crazy and started frantically yelling. "I can't swim, I can't swim." I looked at her and said, "Stand up." This is the same girl who thought going down the rapids at Elora Gorge on an air mattress was a good idea. Over they went, my girlfriend and another. She lost her mind. She did cause quite a stir when she stood up and found out it wasn't the only thing she had lost. Her bathing suit top was floating downstream. Before she even realized she was half-nude, she had a bunch of guys running along the shore to help her, or maybe it was to get a better look. 

Teachers Toast

One class I wasn't a big fan of was Home Ec. I had already learned most of what I needed to know from my mother and my sisters. Mr. Long, our teacher and chef, is dressed in white, from his paper chef's hat down to his shoes. He has two prominent features: a  Fu Manchu moustache and a wandering eye. For that reason (not knowing which one to look into), I never engaged in conversation. 

Today's lesson is breakfast preparation. Some kids are across the hall, setting up the teacher lounge for breakfast. Every place setting is decorated meticulously. There is a huge coffee urn gurgling in the corner. Teachers are hovering, waiting for their morning elixir.

 

I am in the kitchen learning how to paint lightly browned Texas toast with butter. Every slice has a round circle of yellow that never seems to reach the edges, stacked on a plate. I never understood why they gave us a paintbrush instead of a knife. I found this unacceptable. I have never spread my favourite spreadables thin. Edge-to-edge peanut butter and jelly. A paintbrush.  Why? I don't think anyone ever ordered butter and bristle toast, but I imagine it happened by mistake more than a few times. 

The next thing I see is scrambled eggs in a bag. My family is particular about eggs. The bagged egg thing wouldn't fly. It would fly if someone tried to serve the slop. Speaking of scrambled edicate, I don't like egg snot, so that little white umbilical cord gets forked and thrown in the trash. My younger brother hates slime or overdone. Half buttered toast and no yolk is a deal breaker. You can't dunk an egg ball. Back to school.

In front of me, I see a lard-infused grill. Scrambled eggs are poured out of a bag. Next to the eggs, hashbrowns sizzled with onions. When our meal prep was over, we carried the poor example of breakfast to the teachers' lounge. Breakfast was served. Luckily, they had coffee to wash it down. 

Humming

We have a rose of Sharon bush in front of our living room window. Every year it attracts humingbirds. Now the blooms are bursting with color. I patiently waited for this little guy to return. 

Expectation and joy brings colors to life. The fluttering of wings, the souls delight. To savor the nectar of a the new day. That is just the hummingbirds way.

A pane in the glass

One pane of glass. One red, white and blue basketball. And one frustrating day in the window repair business. 

 My father was very good at repairing windows. He had plenty of practice. Our backyard was our arena, our stadium and the scene of many sporting errors. 

Who done it?

It all started on our one-lane road.  Every homeowner could hear the crack of the bat and then the smash of a ball. Where it came from, no one knew. We split, leaving the bat suspended just above the dust cloud. Not a kid in sight. Who done it was an unsolved mystery. All they could see was the weapon, the bat, the ball and the glass now littering the living room floor.

Opps

Things were different in our backyard. A wayward slapshot way upstairs. Crash. A change-up and a foul tip. Smash. Today's error: a basketball. A hook shot, nothing but air and glass. Bang. Shortly after the initial impact we heard something else, my father cuss "Friggin Kids" It was the only f word my dad was allowed to use. My mother's favorite f word was "frost" as in wouldn't that just "frost you" I knew what frig meant but I was clueless to frost. It wasn't my father's first rodeo, not the first time he'd have to clean up after the clowns. So, with a fistful of fake money, he went to the only place that would accept it, Canadian Tire, for a pane of glass and finishing nails. I wonder if they had a supply put aside for him. Custom-made. Here comes Joe again. 

Hangups

Some of the blame should have gone to my grandfather, who thought hanging a basketball backboard from the bottom of the flat roof would be a good idea. Somehow, he forgot about the windows behind. Still, his heart was in a good place, even if the basketball net wasn't.

Careful

Putting in a plane of glass is a delicate operation. It requires a steady hand. Our old windows were surrounded with small wood mouldings. This is meant to keep the pane in place. Finishing nails are used to keep the moulding in place. Sounds simple. And it usually is. That is, until you miss just enough to hit the pane and crack it. Something my dad tended to do on occasion. "Friggin glass"

 

Eventually, we grew up, and my parents decided to spend our allowance money on new vinyl windows. These new windows had three panes. We never tested them for durability. Now, the only reminder of our sporting errors left are the dented hockey puck marks on the siding. 

 

Friggin kids.

One Little Robin

The other morning I sat in quiet contemplation which I do most mornings. I was sitting on the couch enjoying my morning coffee. I could  heard the chirp of a young bird. When I looked outside to pinpoint where noise came from, I saw a young Robin in our rose Sharon tree. The tree this year is larger than usual and provides just enough cover to protect my young friend. Luckily,  this tree is right infront of the picture window in our living room. So from the vantage point from the couch I can easily see him. I find the words living and room interesting.  A place to stretch out our wings and live. Everyone needs room to live. The rose of Sharon was a living room for my little feathered friend and I could see he wasn't strong enough to fly.

Thoughtful segways:

When legs are strong enough, hold on

When wings are strong enough, let go.

A bird will learn to fly but he must first learn to flutter, if not, he will never learn to land.

Soar when you can,  rest when you must.

But for now he is looks to skies for mom or dad. He is looking for two things: food and comfort.  And he is also looking foward to taking his first flight. While he waits he watches butterflies as they flutter happily above. I watch as he flaps his wings and hops from branch to branch. Once in a while Mom and dad come down. They didn't give up on him. He chirps with joy.  His belly is full and his energy is increasing. More flapping. 

He now knows someone else is watching. That someone is me.  I am also praying for the little fellow. I don't look too long. Every living thing needs space. I look out and sent out encouragement.  You can do it. I say.  Morning and night I look to see if he is gone. If he has survived and if he flew away.

The next morning I was sitting having my morning coffee on the couch but something is missing. There is no chirping today.  He is gone.  My yards, front and back are playgrounds for birds, butterflies, bunnies and unfortunately, hungry cats. I am worried about my young chirping friend.

Suddenly, I hear a familar chirp.

I look out the kitchen window and on the back porch looking right at me is a bird. The bird. He still has few extra feathers poking out here and there but he has survived. I am overjoyed. He hopped closer still, looked at me blinked his eyes as if to say thank you, then he turned around and flew away. 

He wasn't as graceful as mom and dad but young wings have to learn how to soar there own way. It was a reminder that angels are real but sometimes they need our prayers to help them fly. But once they learn to fly, they don't just fly, they soar. 

So strange I was just finishing up my thoughts on this story from the couch. A Robin just flew up sat on the window sill looked in pecked at the pane and flew away. I consider these moments "winks from heaven" proof that there are no coincidences, there is awareness and the blessings that come with it. 

I see you. I love you. Maybe God bless you. You got this. Stretch your wings. Soar.

 

Liver and Onions

I would like to say that my mother loved to cook. I‘d like to say that. But I can’t. She didn’t. And I can’t blame her. When you have seven hungry kids and a husband to feed, you cook based on necessity rather than joy.  She had the book. The pages were dog-eared like our Sears wish list catalogue.  She wasn’t buying it, and we had to eat whatever she made. I remember one day that went wrong. The story is called….

The shoe and the spud

My dad was a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. My mother thought that if liver was good enough for him, it was good enough for us kids. It is supper time, and I could smell the butter seared chopped onions and milk-drowned floured liver as it hung like a cloud above Buckingham Drive. We could all smell it. It was game over in more ways than one. If we had had clothespins for our noses, we could have kept playing. As I walked toward culinary doom, I could get a hint of a better dinner offering that lingered despite the overabundance of stink coming from my house. I could have had spaghetti across the street. Perogies down the road. Sadly, unlike that cereal parrot, I didn't want to follow my nose. But I had to. 

The dish

There I was sitting at the dining room table looking at milked death on a plate. My mother could have dredged it through candy, but I wasn't going to eat it. The glass of milk was placed in front of me to aid in digestion. Good luck. As I looked at my plate, I drifted off and wondered. Insert a thought cloud here.  Who had the idea to eat liver in the first place? I imagine a couple of guys from Quebec. Who kills a calf for da liver? Isn't da veal good enough? Hey! You know wat? Don't trow da liver away, maybe if we drown it in milk, it would be good too.  The thought cloud dissipates, and I’m back to the present. Nothing has changed except that now the liver has a friend.  I thought that liver was bad enough, but beside the carcass is a red potato. Who eats red potatoes? Maybe Dad. I try it and gag. Not me. 

To chew or not to chew

I sat there and tried to find a way to make my folks look the other way, while I offered the dog a sample. The dog took one sniff, yelped and ran to the other room. Okay, I embellished the dog thing for your amusement. You know what was not so funny? Chewing it. Gag reflux overload. I asked to leave the table and use the bathroom.  It was my only escape plan. I spit out the half-chewed liver I had hidden in my mouth into a wad of toilet paper and hid it in my pocket. I put the seat lid down, and I sat. And I sat. And I sat.

The escape plan

I was already told I had to eat everything on my plate.  All mothers say the same thing when their kids don't eat their food. My mother was no different. Starving kids in Africa would love to have this food. From the throne, I wanted to yell out. You're right, I bet they'd make a nice pair of shoes with this discarded milk leather.  I hoped she would forget I was in there. When it comes to kids and bathrooms, there is no fooling my mom. She had a keen ear. She could tell if water was running or not in a tub, a floor away. I don't hear any water running. The reason she never heard water running was that we're running up and down the hallway.

Pate’ over

Eventually, the hours passed, and I emerged from the throne of discontent. Luckily, my plate is gone. I didn’t even ask for a possible substitute. I went to bed early that night and slept through the rumblings of my stomach. I woke up the next day and ate toast with peanut butter. A much better culinary choice,  and I never ate liver again. I still can’t stand the smell of it. 

Waking up with mom

It's morning my father is either still sleeping or working. My mother never slept much so seeing her on the couch is no surprise. My father's restless feet were so bad that he could have been paid overtime for working in his sleep. My mother had to resort to the couch. The couch is covered in quilts and throw pillows, provides very little comfort at all.  No one sleeps well on burlap. She is awake and I can tell she is praying. She smiles and nods lovingly. 

Beside her is a flowery ceramic coffee cup. The cup has a word on it. That word is Meme' Grandmother. The coffee brand is called eight o'clock. I know this because I have to go to the A&P, grind it and bag it whenever she runs out. And because our house is the coffee shop for all wayward travelers, running out happens quite often. Surprisingly, the coffee tastes okay.  

 A steamy cup

One day, she was gifted a Mr. Coffee machine. It was probably a gift from my father and after forgiving him for such a practical and unromantic gift, she decided to use it. This new machine was a game changer. The sound of water dripping through fine ground beans and paper.  Hearing the last burst of steam as it escapes was almost enough to wake up even the most sluggish souls. Just a heads up, drinking eight o'clock coffee at five in the morning doesn't improve the flavor much. Still, anytime is a good time for coffee.

 Pre-Ritual 

To the side of the couch is a maple table. It is just big enough to house magazines at the bottom and a few choice items on top.  Four items to be precise.  A chipped ashtray, a pack of Matinee kings, a cup of coffee and a rosary. A Pope John Paul autographed copy. Okay, maybe not but the round box it came in had his face etched on the lid. 

The ritual begins

There is a lit cigarette laying on a clear glass ashtray. The smoke is rising, competing with the coffee vapors funneling up through a yellow stained lampshade. My mother has a rosary in her hand. I try not to distract her. She has a system and plans drags and sips after each decade. I am in the dinning room eating breakfast. I know she is done when I hear the TV turn on. 

 Daily mass

When she finishes her rosary, she turns on the daily mass. Live from Toronto or wherever. I sit with her and watch as she verbalizes the responses. This mass is not bad and it's over in thirty minutes. No standing, no kneeling, no commercials.  At this church we could drink coffee and instead of smelly oil soaped pews we get to sit on a quilt covered burlap couch.  The quilt makes it bearable and bit more comfortable. I start to think how cool it would be to have a church filled with sofa's so that the Chesterfield's and I (pun intended) could really enjoy mass. At least now when I fall sleep, I could do so in comfort. The best part. No priest to bust me.

 Joy

I will never forget the comfort I felt nesting next to my mother with my head on her shoulders watching mass. How safe I felt being cuddled in angel wings, the arms of my mother. That is, when the dog let me get close enough.

 

Road Trips. Cottom Ontario.

Road Trips: Auntie Aldoo's in Cottom Ontario.

On the road with Denny D 

Roads: Starting point.  Essex, Ontario, east down old number 3, to Cottom.

Cottom Ontario is a fifteen-minute drive from home. We dropped the top on the bug to soak up some sun for our short drive. We arrive at a place I had discovered a few weeks back. Auntie Aldoo's Kitchen is Cottom's best-kept secret. It is not a secret anymore.

There is a cute patio in front. This is where we are sitting today. My partner and I are enjoying a spinach quiche and a cup of coffee. I had to take a couple of bites before taking the picture. Yum. The combination of egg, cheese, spinach and flaky crust is delightful. The coffee is just as delicious. 

Here's the kicker. One of the girls wasn't happy with the two macarons she had baked earlier gave them to us on the house. She didn't need to twist our arms much. Thank you so much. I will just say #OMG_Yummy. Sorry, no picture. I devoured it too fast.

The witch decor is delightful, and the seating inside is very inviting. They even have a shelf with various games to play. I felt like I was at home, and the staff made me feel like I was family.  

This little place is full of big surprises. Thanks to the great people at Auntie Aldoo's Kitchen. See you soon. 

Click here for more info:

https://www.auntiealdooskitchen.com/

Road Trips. Brant Conservation area, Paris, Waterford and Simcoe Ontaro

On the road with Denny D

Camping: June 15th- 17th, 2025

Roads: highway 46 east to Kent Rd. 3 to Blenheim highway 3 to Delhi north on 4 to highway 24 North towards Brantford. Right on Robinson Rd. to the end and left at the bend on Jennings Rd. Welcome to Brant Conservation Area.

Day one

We arrive around 3 pm and set up camp. Maple126 is a great site. Lots of space and plenty of shade.  We have a simple supper: sushi and spring rolls. Enjoy a couple of beverages and snacks while playing Mexican train dominoes. 

Night one

My job is fire starter. It has been a great first day, and I am determined to make it a great first night. The wood is not the best, but I get it going. I am holding a long tree branch, also known as a fire poker. This stick has travelled across Canada, and if it could talk, it would have some tall tales to tell. We call it a story stick. It is passed around the campfire, and each person who holds it must tell a story. My brother-in-law tells the tallest tales. Smiley face emoji.

Day two 

We head north on 24 towards Paris, Ontario. The road to Paris has many roundabouts. We survived the many roundabouts, but it wasn't going to be our last, because around about the time we get downtown, construction turns us around again. I couldn't tell how we got there, but we made it. Thank you, GPS.

Paris

The downtown area is torn up with a fenced-in construction zone. The sidewalks are still usable, and some of our favourite stores are open. There are usually two things on my mind when walking in a tourist area. One, why do I need to buy this stuff? The other is ice cream or coffee. And in that order. 

Walk

I park the car on a side street and make a mental note. The coffee shop is at the corner. We start to walk and stop at the lookout at the end of the road. Look out could also apply to the construction vehicles in our way. We have a picture-taking moment. I take none. It was more of a been there, done that moment. We stop by a few shops. We are really looking for just one shop.

Ice cream

Chocolate Sensations is our favourite store in Paris, Ontario. We sometimes buy chocolates here, and we would have if we hadn't stopped by Picard's Peanuts in Talbotville. Our halfway point on yesterday's journey, and a place I highly recommend you check out. That's was yesterday. Today, we have only one thing on our minds. Ice cream. Not just ice cream. Kawartha Lakes ice cream. I chose a small bowl of Nanaimo bar ice cream. I have no idea what everyone else is eating, and I don't care. Yum.

Chocolate Sensations 👈 check it out

Coffee

On the way back to the car, we stop by a café. I ordered a coffee and must wait while they brew a fresh pot. I like fresh coffee.  Their version of fresh is not fresh. I add two creams; I take a sip. I add one sugar, take another sip. And when we get back to the camp, I baptize an oak tree. Yuck. Sorry, no free plug here.

Back at the camp, we play rummy-o, and I try to stay awake. I'm popping chocolate-covered coffee beans, wondering if I will survive the crash. I do, and I now have enough energy to get the fire going again. I wanted to get my Boy Scout badge back that got burned the night before. This time, more paper, more kindling. Same result. Luckily, the ever-present breeze stokes the lacklustre flames.

Day three

Antique shopping 

We decided to go for a ride, hoping our favourite antique shops would be open in Waterford. Unfortunately, they were closed, but my sister was able to buy some new pants at Main Station Collectibles. Be sure and check the store out. Great friendly staff and a huge selection of bargains. You can find them on Facebook for more information.

On the road again

We decided to head down Highway 24 to downtown Simcoe. We parked on a side road and went for a stroll. On the corner, we discover Kaley’s. My sister thinks it's Kelsey’s, but it doesn’t look like Kelsey’s. There is a lady inside who welcomes us in.  She leads us to the restaurant inside. On the other side of the wall, we find our seats. We order our drinks. Three glasses of water and one coffee. I took my chances. This time it was a good cup. There are many options to choose from. But we are all intrigued by one.

What'll ya have?

I have seen flights of beer and spirits, but soup? There was a soup menu on the wall offering five or six soup-of-the-day options. My flight is Tai chicken, cheeseburger and tomato. The presentation is so impressive. Three cups of soup on a board with crackers and breadsticks.  I can't recall what everyone else decided on, and to be truthful, I didn't care. I was lost in my own soup du jour experience.

Back to the camp

The day closed with supper and games. There was no wood left. We watched an old comedy movie instead. Well, not all of it, I was in and out for most of it. 

We woke up early in the morning, made a couple of coffees for the road, said our goodbyes and headed out. It was another great trip. 

On the road with me, Denny D. 

Reminding you:

The road to life may have many roundabouts and construction zones, 

but they don't have to lead to a dead end. 

Sometimes you have to make your own roads, and if you can't, use your GPS.