A Minor Hockey Story

It was etched in ink on the counter of the bathroom.
"My brother Joe is the best hockey player in the world."
At the time I was about nine years old. Even at nine I knew that statement wasn't true.
For starters, there was Davey Keon   and Henri Richard, .
Sure, they were older than me, and they both played in the NHL for the Leafs and the Canadiens, while I was in Pee Wee league in Port Alberni playing centre for the Alberni MHA Generals. And sure, we had just beaten the AMHA Aces 4-2 to take over top spot in the PeeWee league at the Christmas break, and yes, I had scored a goal on a scramble in front of the crease and assisted on the eventual winner. But still, there must be at least a hundred players in the world better than me in 1964.
I also knew that whoever wrote it would be in trouble because that was not something we were supposed to do - write on walls or counters. That ruled out Kristin; she would not have written it - even if she believed the statement to be true - because it wasn't correct to write on walls and counters. Regina was probably not the guilty party; she didn't seem to care much about hockey and so would have little knowledge of just where I would place in the rankings of the best hockey players in the world.  Besides, she was the one who showed it to me.
Tony couldn't write - he'd only very recently consented to talk. That left Pat and Bill. Pat was left-handed, the printing was not.
I am not sure what prompted Bill's glorious evaluation of my talents as a hockey player, but I knew I'd better clean up the evidence before he got in trouble. Which I did. Kindly, Regina not only showed me the writing, she helped me scrub it out, never once questioning its veracity, or complaining about the extra work.
I learned soon enough that hockey, though firmly embedded in my father's past, was not in my future.
Uncle Whit was coming to visit.
By 1966 I was playing Bantam house hockey at Queen's Park in New Westminster. The Bruins of Punch Mclean had not yet relocated from Estevan, but Queen's Park Arena already had a reputation as a rough and tough place to play,  a real hockey arena. If I could somehow get Uncle Whit to watch me play, maybe he could give me some pointers and ideas, advance my career in some incremental way.
Whit had coached in Flin Flon. Dad said he coached in Flin Flon "you know, the Bombers? Bobby Clarke, Reggie Leach, Ernie Wakely?" (Now to be fair, he didn't say Uncle Whit coached the Bombers, and to this day I can only find records of Uncle Whit coaching the Flin Flon Elks rep team.... (Over the years I have bragged to many that my Uncle coached the Bombers without ever checking on the veracity. Dad was good at helping us come to our own conclusions based partly on what he'd told us and partly on what we inferred as a result.)
In my mind, Uncle Whit was a reputable source, a hard-nosed, no-nonsense guy who would give me straight answers. He'd coached in Flin Flon.
Auntie Pearl was coming, too.
Pearl was a lovely woman who had suffered a stroke and Whit had adjusted his life to take care of her. Rumour had it that back in Flin Flon she would give each player, from the same spoon, a dollop of Beehive Golden Syrup before every period - each player except Bobby Clarke who had been diagnosed with diabetes. For Bobby, so the Ogmundson legend tells us, Pearl made two beef sandwiches on home-made bread - one for pre-game and one half between each of the next two periods.

My game was Saturday morning, 6:45 am start. I was glad it was the "late game" so maybe Uncle Whit (and Dad) might want to come watch. I didn't bring the subject up all week. I heard Dad and Whit talking about it so I really hoped they would be there.
Most days I got myself up and lugged my stinky beat up hockey gear down to the rink and got myself a 10 cent hot chocolate from the machine at the end of the game. As Tiger Williams would have said, if you want to play hockey you figure out a way to get there, you don't rely on others.
I got "mugged" earlier in the year by some guys who were hanging out in the park prior to an early 5:00 am start. They took my dime and my comb. Why they wanted my comb I will never know.
Early in the first period I spotted Dad and Whit sitting together mid level far blueline hunched over steaming styrofoam cups and talking non-stop.
Scoreless late in the first period, I'm on the forecheck just over centre. I poked the puck free from the left defenceman, cut in on an angle ahead of his partner, and crossed the blueline (yes, that blueline, right in front of uncle and dad), being chased, but one on one with the goalie. Room over the glove - I was a right-handed shot, he was a left glove goalie and he was giving me a spot to hit. From fifteen feet away I let go a wrister - Dad emphasized that slapshots were not the best alternative - and my follow through convinced the goalie I was going high. And I was. But the puck wasn't.
It slid along the ice. I'd mis-fired. My body language had convinced him that I was going high glove side. Too late, he reacted slowly to the puck sliding beneath him for the game's first goal.
"Great fake!" said one of my teammates in the ritual post-goal hockey hug. I looked up in the stands. The two men were huddled over their coffee, talking, talking.
Third period, score 2-1 for us, on the attack I slid a neat pass behind the right defenceman to a streaking left winger for nice tap-in goal. I look up. More talking, more talking, men huddled over fresh coffee.
Late in the game, up 3-2 I go to the front of the net, the "dirty zone" and fight off an opponent for a loose puck which I jammed under the goalie for what would be the final goal of the game. I look up. Men huddled, talking, still talking.
***
Breakfast. Sitting across from the Venerable Coach, Dad on my left, the two of them still sharing the endless conversation of adults. More coffee. Finally a break as Dad bent his head to his breakfast plate. I caught Uncle Whit's eye. "So what did you think of the game?" I asked, eagerly waiting to expound on my game, my two goals, my clever assist, my forechecking tenacity....
"Work on your skating," said Uncle Whit, who then turned and said, "So Barney, there was a fellow from the Pas who moved to Nipawin about the time...."
***
About a year later I was in the same New West Arena, playing in an older division where about half the boys - myself included - had not yet had any significant growth spurt. While on the boards, I was being pinned by a monster from Burnaby called "Wayne". Wayne was pushing his stick into my neck with his right hand while gripping his stick and the wire mesh (pre glass era) with his left. As he continued to grope for the mesh with his left hand, completing his decapitation manoeuvre, I realized that if I was not playing hockey I would not be here right now. That was my last year of hockey.
And Whit was right. I was a terrible skater.
Even in Bantam hockey I still could not stop quickly.  My stops relied on friction and gravity.  My whole game was perpetual motion. My opponents and many linesmen thought my endless circling prior to face off was a hot dogging psychological ploy.
I guess the only one being fooled was me.

Birthday, 1959

Jan. 25th, 1959

• Pope John XXIII proclaims 2nd Vatican council  
• First Boeing 707 Internal US Flight : American airlines begins first use of Jets for internal US flights from Los Angeles to New York on a Boeing 707 one way ticket costing $300. 
• Fidel Castro officially seizes power in Cuba after leading a revolution that drove out Dictator Fulgencio Batista.

It's my Birthday.

Sitting around the big table with the funny legs.

Newspaper all over the big table.

Everyone is sitting at the big table, lots of kids.

Except Mom... and Lloyd.

Mom and Lloyd are in the kitchen

Noisy.

Happy.

Mom is happy too.  She is smiling at Lloyd.

Lloyd is making French fries in a big pot.

"Hot, everybody"

"Watch out"

Lloyd dumps French Fries onto the newspaper.

He sprinkles salt from up high over the table.

So good to eat.

Drinking Freshie, eating French fries.

"More chips?" calls out a neighbour.

"Comin' up!" says Lloyd.

Mom smiles at Lloyd.

Lloyd smiles at Mom.

The Three-Wheelin' Captain

Dad brought home a three wheeled bicycle.
Of course, it wasn't long before he was modifying it to meet his personal needs.  Bigger rear basket, a wooden plank across the basket top - to serve the dual purpose of basket lid and child seat - a bell, handlebars raised and slightly bent backwards - "not so hard on the back" - a specially designed chain and padlock, and other changes too subtle to notice.
"You have to lean away from the turn," he explained, "not like a regular bike."
Dad travelled everywhere  on his new set of wheels; to the store for groceries, to the elementary school, ukulele stashed in the basket, to sing to the children in Doug's Resource Room, to take grandchildren on little trips, or to just cruise the neighborhood. "By gum, you can get a good workout on that thing," he'd tell us, drops of sweat collecting at the edge of his toque and gently falling from his nose.
Dad talked to everyone he met, everywhere he was.  Going to the grocery store, the mall, church,  we would wait in patient agony while he chatted away with some newly met person about the weather, hockey, or those sons of b*tches in Toronto who were ruining our country.  He knew family, and he knew some names of the people around him, but mostly his neighbourhood was filled with character descriptors that we helped him identify:

• "The Dutchman up the road"
• "John from Church"
• "Old Nick, the car guy who mumbles"
• "That guy with the dog"

Something that rankled him right down his spine was somebody who wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't say hello, wouldn't be at least minimally pleasant and courteous. I knew of three such people, though I had never met them
"You know that bench outside the old folks home near the hospital?" he would tell us, "there's three old buggers who sit there.  Sometimes two, sometimes just one.  Every time I ride by I slow down and say hello.  Not once, not even once, have any of them ever said hello back."

***
Autumn in the valley.  The wind carried a winter warning, but the sun's reminder was of a summer not quite over.  A good day to be outside.  A good day for a bike ride.  I was raking leaves when Dad rolled up the driveway.
"Hey," he was grinning.  "I'm gonna make those old bast*rds talk to me today."
"Oh?" I asked.  "How you are you gonna do that?"
"I dunno, I just will." And with that he was off, expertly leaning away from the turn at the corner of the street. Not long after, I looked up from my rake to see Dad pedalling hard, and grinning harder. He zoomed up the driveway and I met him as he braked to a stop.  He didn't get off his bike, but leaned into the handlebars, face wet with sweat, eyes shining, a grin pulling at both ears.
"Well, I made them talk to me," he said, barely containing a laugh I knew I was about to share. "Yeah?" I smiled back.
"Yep.  I saw there was only one there on the bench today.  I thought, by gum, I'm gonna make that guy talk to me.  So I slowed right down, rode right up to the bench, leaned over right into his face and said, 'So, how are you doing today?' 
He looked at me and said, 'None of yer f*cking business!'
"Ha! ha-ha.  I got him to talk, didn't I?" I laughed out loud.  We both laughed, hard.
"I've got to go tell your mother."
And down the street he went.

Lloydie's Day that Changed the World

- as told to Little Joe by people older and bigger......
Winter Harbour

circa 1955, late spring

Lloyd was always a big boy, even when he was a little boy.

This despite the fact that Aunties often called him "Lloydie" anyway.

It was not unusual, sixty years ago, in remote villages like Winter Harbour, BC, for little boys (and girls) to take on roles in their families that would seem incredible today. The isolation and hardship of life in the outposts of BC in the early 50's created need and forced contribution. While the story below may seem incredible, it was, in fact, so commonplace that it was seldom repeated, or often dismissed by the protagonist as, simply, no big deal.

On this ordinary day in Winter Harbour, nine year-old Lloydie was asked to go catch a dinner. "Go jig us a fish'" is likely what he was asked to do, something he had done many many times before.

Dutifully he went to the wharf, tossed in the jig boards and lures, unhooked the lines, and oared out into the harbour to a place where he had found success in the past. Soon he was out in the harbour, jig line in hand, smoothly stroking the water with upstrokes to coax a curious cod, or snag a lurking snapper. He kept an eye on a landmark to ensure he wasn't drifting too far with the tides. Every few minutes he would pull in the line and oar back to his spot.

He noticed he wasn't alone. Another boy, a bit younger, (we will call him P) had joined him on the harbour and was also jigging for his dinner nearby. Lloydie went about his business but watched him out of the corner of his big brotherly eye. The other boy soon snagged something, and it was big; too big.

P tried in vain to lift the fish with little result. From deep below the surface the fish was making his escape, and he was taking P along as well. P held tight as the boat shifted. P refused to let go of dinner, and stood up in the boat to make use of his legs in the struggle; mistake.

The weight shifted below him again pulling him forward and slamming his forehead into the starboard gunwale. Into the water he fell, face down. He was still.

Lloydie ravelled his jig line and oared over to his floating neighbour. With a tug he lifted and rolled him into his boat. He turned the boy's head sideways, gripped P's ankles, and began pushing his knees into his chest, a method of artificial respiration commonly used in his time. The action had the desired result; P spit up sea water and began wheezing, coughing and crying as he recovered in Lloydie's boat. P's boat had already begun to drift on a tidal journey southwest to Quatsino Sound.  Lloydie silently lamented that a good jig line had been lost.



Once P's health was assured, Lloydie rowed steadily towards the drifting boat, secured it with a tie line, and headed for the wharf. He tied up both boats, collected what remained of P's fishing equipment, and took P home and left him with his mother.
He then returned to the wharf and set out to complete his original purpose; jig a dinner. After landing fish to feed both families, Lloydie rowed back to the wharf, cleaned the fish and delivered the first to P's house. The other he brought home and settled in for dinner and another quiet Winter Harbour evening.

Later that night a knock on the door announced the arrival of P's mother, with a story to tell to Lloydie's mom, and a delicious Three-Egg white cake for all to enjoy.

P went on to become a founding member of the most influential environmentalist organization in the world.

Lloydie, after a stint in the navy and jobs in welding, returned to the world he understood best - fishing.

Rafted up with friends..Alex "Nasty" Simmons (Viewpoint)..Walter Kempton (Sherry C)...Larry's boat in the middle....Lloyd "Oggy" Ogmundson (Monashee II)....Ken Barnes (Twilight Star) -
photo by Larry.

Alberni Days of Wine and Roses

Editor's note: The following story is true.  Conversations are remembered, paraphrased and, at times, completely manufactured.



Dad was finally home from a long fishing trip and he couldn't stop talking about it.  Predictably the mood and atmosphere would always change when Dad came home; not better or worse, just different.  Different routines, different conversations, major pancake consumption the first Saturday after his return. "How many eggs you want?" instead of "It's time to get up" for example. But after this trip he came home different; he couldn't stop talking about the movie he had seen. 

On a layover in Prince Rupert he and some of his commercial fishing colleagues went to the movie theatre to see James Bond Agent 007 in the movie From Russia With Love. It was exciting to hear of the car chases and the gunfights, partly because of the inherent excitement, partly because it was way out of character for anyone in our family to view a movie like that.  I back checked the last few editions of the BC Catholic and Western Catholic Reporter, newspapers that we had in the house to see if the movie was on their approved list.   I was concerned about the moral equilibrium of my beloved father.  How would he explain his behaviour to the Father Brazeau? to Bishop De Roo? to Grandma?  to Mom?  I had a pretty good idea it might not be an easy task when I saw the ad for the movie in the Alberni Valley times.



Mom didn't react the way I thought she might.  I thought I detected a tiny bit of jealousy, of envy.  They were partners in life but her man had enjoyed a spectacular evening without her. 
"When are you going to take me to a movie?" she asked with a half-smile.
Dad hardly missed a beat.  "Oh, I don't think that's your kind of movie," he assured her.
"Not that movie.  A movie we could both enjoy."
You could see Dad's wheels turning inside his head. 

click click  Going out for a movie was not a common event. 
click click  What about the kids? 
click click There's always a need for something to get done. 
click click  There just wasn't the opportunity to get away for a night. 
click click  It was an unnecessary expense. 
click click  This wonderful woman deserves a night out.

"Well sure," leaning forward to hug her, " you pick us a movie." "I will," she smiled. It usually made me feel awkward when they kissed, Dad always seemed to make such a big deal about it. This time I didn't feel awkward, more relieved and a bit excited.  I really hoped Mom would check the BC Catholic before she settled on a movie. I was prepared to help if she asked.

It was announced that Mom and Dad would be going out for a movie and somebody would be coming in to watch us while they were out.  Alberni had one movie theatre with one screen.  I obsessed about what movie they would pick and quickly ruled out a number of the popular ones at the time:
Cleopatra - possible, but not in town
How the West was Won - Dad yes, Mom probably no.
It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World - No - too stupid for their tastes
Tom Jones, Move Over Darling, Love with the Proper Stranger  - Definitely not on the Approved List at BC Catholic newspaper for any of them
Son of Flubber - Now showing at the Alberni Theatre but only if you take the kids
The Birds - No (But we did watch it as a family many years later.  Still one of the scariest movies ever but not Date Night stuff)
Hud - not in town, probably not on the List
Lillies of the Field - Mom loved Sidney Poitier, but not showing in town.

Dad really came through - they were going out of town to see a movie.  The big night came.  Dad entered the kitchen dressed in a suit.  Mom looked like she had changed her hair somehow.  They were not going to be home for dinner.  Off they went.  I imagined them having fish and chips in the restaurant we went to in Parksville.  They seemed to be gone forever, but were home the next morning when I got up. I didn't ask if they had fish and chips for dinner. I also didn't ask if the movie was on the BC Catholic Approved List - at least, I don't think I did.  I know I wanted to.  She told us that the movie they had gone to see was from 1962 .  Jack Lemmon and Lee Remick.
As advertised :



and also as advertised:

Once I knew what movie they had gone to see I spent a lot of time and energy over an extended period of time trying to sort out in my mind what prompted them to go see this movie.  I never
bothered to ask.  It seemed enough to know that Mom and Dad had gone on a movie date, probably had fish and chips, and, to listen to Mom tell it, they had a wonderful evening. For the next long while, Mom talked about the evening and the movie with visitors and company a lot.  She declared it to be an exceptional acting performance by Lee Remick, and, although the story subject matter was gritty and tough, she enjoyed her evening immensely.  She may have said once or twice that it was her favourite movie.  I sensed that going out with Dad was the real reason she enjoyed the movie.

Imagine, Mom and Dad on a date.

Ambush on Cherry Creek Highway

“…no-no… you’re dropping it way too late. Watch.”
The big boy held his hand over my hand while I held the dogwood bud firmly between my fingers.

“See you wait until you see the front and let it go. By the time it gets under us the bud will drop onto it. Do this one with me.”
He held his hand in place and we waited. I focused. I hardly breathed. We waited some more. I heard the growing sounds of an approaching car. I could tell it would soon be at the top of the hill on Cherry Creek Highway, and directly below us, perched high in the dogwood tree that overhung the road.

Everything slowed down. I could feel his hand move, releasing the bud; my mind floated with it in a perfect dive onto the middle of the windshield. I could sense the impact even before I could hear the dull “thwack”.

I had been trained to stay very still in case the occupants of the car pulled over. Some assessed damage, some scanned the roadside for causes or culprits. Once in a while a one of them would look up into the tree. Reactions varied.

At times, if the lead car of a group was hit, the following cars had to be careful to brake hard enough to avoid the cars ahead. The big boy and his friends had trained me to appreciate screeching tires.
This time the car slowed, but continued down the road. I was eager to try again. I plucked a fat bud from the branch above and waited, listening. The next car was on the wrong side of the road, but I used it to mentally time my drop, which I practiced again and again in my mind, in real time, while I waited. I wasn’t waiting long.

A long red sedan came into view at a good speed and I switched into auto pilot. The bud was away before I knew what I had done. My belly warmed upon impact, a flush of warm woozy pride floated to the top of my head and I had to re-grip my branch. “Good one,” whispered the big boy, while I pressed my lips together in pride and lay very still.

*****

Bill wanted to try.

It seemed like every kid in Morgan Crescent wanted to try. Suddenly, I was an expert. I wasn’t sure about the protocol involved in this enterprise. It wasn’t my game, I had only just learned it. But if I could learn, so could others, they reasoned. What could be the harm in having six or eight boys dangling from a tree over a highway pelting car windshields with dogwood buds?

Behind our house in north Port Alberni (Alberni it was called then) was a small forest between us and Cherry Creek highway. We knew every tree, trail and hiding place, and it seemed enormous to us. If we hid during a good game of Kick the Can, there was a good chance we would never be spotted. We owned the space, we felt safe there. While my school of sniper trainees found vantage points to observe and learn, I climbed the tree. They knew to keep still, and instinctively sensed that being on the ground during this phase of an operation meant they were more vulnerable.

|It became apparent that my skills as an instructor were greater than I could have imagined. My first drop was successful, and seconds after the car had gone the boys were scrambling up the dogwood tree and, when it became too crowded, the maple tree that grew beside it. They couldn’t wait to get in on the action.

The next car passed without incident; so did the one after that. The third car was lucky that the boys in the maple hadn’t yet figured out that dogwood buds would be hard to find there, so they had to let the third car pass without a toss, and the neophytes who had buds hadn’t yet calculated drop rate yet.

More time passed without a car. Impatience grew.

The maple tree gang had time to scramble down from their perches, fill their pockets with low hanging dogwood buds, and resettle into their nests. Impatience grew further. “Dropping” was the name of the game I had learned, a patient, scientific (and apparently solitary) enterprise. The game was quickly morphing into “Hurling and firing” amongst the majority.

After a few near misses and some outright misfires everything came together at once. A long, white-over-yellow sedan reached the top of the gentle hill, and was met with an enthusiastic volley of dogwood buds. The effect was immediate.

Two large and angry men exploded from the car. I froze and lay still as I was trained. Bill just below me did the same. We were the only two who followed protocol. A stream of little boys scrambled down the trees and bolted the trails with a good head start on the two large men. Bill and I watched as the two men passed below us, ran into the woods towards the pack, yelling obscenities, and shaking their fists.

Bill began his descent when they had passed us and their backs were turned. I followed close behind, trying to climb quietly but quickly. At the bottom of the tree I headed to the highway and ran past the dogwood and the maple before doubling back into the woods. Bill was not behind me.

I panicked and crawled up the little hill on the side of the road to see where he was and peek in on the action. Bill was running as fast as his four year old legs would carry him, straight down the trail, in the most direct route to home and safety. His path was within ten feet of one of the large men, who turned and, to my horror, scooped up my brother and dangled him from his shorts. I rose from my hiding place and started walking slowly towards my brother. I could see some of the Morgan Crescent kids still watching from their hiding places, others were likely nearly home by now.

“You kids are gonna get it!” the man hollered. “If I catch you doing this again I am going to boot your ***** up to your eyeballs!” Bill dangled, but turned to listen politely to the man, who gently set him down. Without looking back he continued his run down the path towards home. I joined him.

A Dog by Any Other Name

We had a dog when I was very young .  She was a Dutch barge hound, probably crossed with something else, and her name was "Snussi."  She looked vaguely like the one pictured above, but a lot grubbier and a lot wetter.  She was, to the best of my recollection, a "good" dog who didn't demand a lot of attention.  She wasn't particularly cuddly, which was appropriate because she was also particularly smelly.  She lived outdoors and shadowed us as we wandered in the yard.

I knew at a very young age that everything had a specific name.  That mattered dearly to me for some unfathomable reason, and I fully expected everyone to see the world the way I did.  Our dog had a name, and it was Snussi. 

Big brother Lloyd at fourteen already  knew two things - he knew I was very particular about being right, and he knew more about dogs than I did.

"Her name's not Snussi," he teased, " her name is "George".

"No, it's Snussi."

"No, it's George."

"Dad says her name is Snussi."

"Ok, watch this - Here, George."

To my growing horror, Snussi  wandered over to Lloyd.

"Here, Snussi," I cried out desperate to correct her before she forgot her name.  She altered direction and headed my way.  Relief passed through me in a wave.

"Here, George," brought the dog back on a bearing for Lloyd.

"No, Snussi," I cried desperate to save the dog's self esteem.

"Joe, she doesn't know her name, she just knows 'Here' and goes to whoever is calling."

"No, her name is Snussi."  My face felt warm.

"Watch - Here, Zeke."  The dog came to him and he patted her neck.  "Call her."

"Here, Snussi." The dog dutifully waddled over to me.

"Here, Frank."  Back she went to Lloyd.

Hours later, alone in the back yard with my thoughts, and our dog.

"Here, dog,"  I whispered.

We looked after a boxer named Teddie for a short time.  Too short, in my mind.

Teddie was playful, good natured and protective.  He quickly became part of our "pack" and greeted us with enthusiasm every time he saw us, whether away for a day or an hour.  Mom really liked the dog, but he wasn't around long.  My strongest memory of him was seeing him tied to the unfinished shed at the back of the house in Alberni.  He also liked to lick our faces, which tickled and felt disgusting at the same time.

Teddy the black Labrador retriever lived near us in New Westminster.  He wasn't our dog but he spent almost as much time in our yard as he did in his own.  Teddy and I would wrestle, Greco-Roman style trying to knock each other over.  Wrestling matches with Teddy got very physical, but he never bit, snarled, or raised a hackle.  He liked to play more than fetch and he was great company.  I don't think we fed him but I am pretty sure he ate when he was around.

Tiki was a Samoyed who came to live with us for the last half of her life.  She was affectionate, rather lazy and suffered from hip dysplasia.  She arrived after a former girlfriend convinced me that she was going to be put down if she didn't find a home.  I was amazed that Mom and Dad agreed to bring her in.  She became Dad's constant companion, following him everywhere as he puttered around the house.

She was terrified of thunder, and when it came she would run from the house, looking back with both fear and hurt in her eyes as if we had somehow created a terror just for her.  After disappearing for a few days, she reappeared under the school where Mom worked, looking more trim and fit than ever.

After the kids left home and Dad had passed on, Mom acquired a Springer Spaniel she named "Ginger".  She was a highly active, rather hyper dog.

In one of writer David Sedaris's stories he describes how shocked he is that his father has brought in a dog - a Great Dane - without checking with him first.  He never felt close to the new dog, saw him as a gold digging interloper.  Mom saw Ginger as a burst of positive energy.

Sadly, Ginger's impulsive behaviour cost her her life as she jumped out of the car on a busy highway and ran into the road and was struck.

I have never owned a dog, no Wally or Digger or Puddles or Austin or Jojo or Skully or Murdoch for me.

Dogs pictured are not the real dogs.

You are most welcome to substitute real photos in place of my approximations.