Be humble

Most of us, at one time in our life, will have had mentors.  It is a subject that intrigues me.  Some of my male friends will have heard me say “we are our fathers”.  My dad was one of my mentors and I find the older I get, the more I am like him.  That pleases me - despite the fact I find myself saying things that my dad used to day - and which irritated me at the time.  I have a had a few other mentors over the years.  They have been men of wisdom, patience and kindness and they have been older than me.  I am grateful to each, for through their kindness, I have become someone I might not otherwise be.

A good friend sent me the following, and it had me nodding and smiling as I read it:

You might enjoy the following, every word of which is true.

When I was a kid in the UK, from the age of about 10 - 13, I spent most of my school vacations working for a lobster fisherman, an ex Colour Sergeant of the Royal Marines. He was 28 at the time and in hindsight was one of the 2-3 most significant adults in my childhood, He taught me a lot of the fundamentals, not only of boats and the sea, but also of the work ethic, thinking for oneself, not taking life too seriously etc. He never paid me a wage, but at the end of every vacation he would march me down to the pub and announce to whoever was behind the bar that he and his Mate (me) would each like a 1/2 pint of bitter. Drinking age was 16 at the time. We would drink our beer, reminisce over the gains and losses of the recent trips and when we had finished he would stand up, shake me by the hand, palm me a 10 shilling note (about $1.50 in those days) and wish me well for the coming school term. Not hard for you to see why he was both mentor and hero to me. 

We have kept in touch over the years - he showed up for the funeral of each of my parents - and I always go to see him when I am in the U.K. He is now in his late 70s. I phoned him yesterday to wish him seasons greetings etc etc and he told me how on Saturdays he now fills in for his son who owns and runs the local aquarium. “You know how it goes, you start out as the Tea Boy, you end up as the Tea Boy and what you do in between doesn’t matter much”. 

The Tea Boy in UKspeak would be the office boy as yet unfit for anything more responsible than delivering cups of tea to the office workers. Construction crews would have the same kind of thing. And when you are too old and senile for anything else you revert to Tea Boy.

Writing this made me remember someone I have not thought of in many years.  As a young child, I spent most summers in the wilderness of the Adirondack Mountains.  It was a time when there was still real wilderness and we were in logging camps that my dad operated.  We were 20 miles from civilization and the men that worked the woods were a rough lot.  One was known as Whiskers.  I never knew his real name.  He was a big hulking man, probably very little education and a great flowing black beard.  If he was troubled about anything, the profanity would turn the air blue (or red) and he was often troubled.  When he was relaxing in the camp trailer over a cup of coffee or a meal, his smile would light up a room.  He was what, at the time, would be deemed a tough guy.  I suspect in a bar room brawl, he is one you would want watching your back.  Occasionally I was allowed around the very dangerous operation of felling trees and I would usually follow Whiskers.  He would look at the large tree, think about it a bit, and then start the process of felling it with his chain saw.  As he backed away from the tree at the first sign of falling, a gentle hand would rest on my shoulder as the giant crashed to earth.  He would pause a minute to contemplate his work and then walk to the next tree that has red crayon marked on it.

Once, as we looked at a fallen tree, Whiskers muttered “oh no”, and had a sad look on his face.  He pushed his way through the foliage of the downed tree and gently, with huge callused hands, picked up a bird nest.  The nest had babies.  Gently and quietly he moved the nest to a tree that was not marked with red crayon.  As he moved around the woods that day, no tree fell near the bird nest and I saw him glance at it many times.

I wish I knew where Whiskers ended up.  The other characters in the camp, Frenchy, Cookie, Bronson, and floater.  I wonder what life held for them.  The true wilderness is gone from the Adirondacks.  Men that worked the woods with horses, old chain saws and lived in camps for months are gone.  When my mother would use the term “real men”, these are the guys she was speaking of.  I am glad I knew them and I hope I have taken a little of who they were for my own. 

I wrapped gifts today.  People, I mean real wrapping - not just slam a box into a gift bag, maybe wrinkle a little paper (that always rips) around it, and then slap a label on it. 

Real wrapping!  This involved great honkin squares of brightly coloured paper, scotch tape (why is it scotch?), scissors and sticky on ribbon things (*&^% cover on sticky would not come off) so I have used more scotch tape.

Be proud.

OK people, here is the deal.  If you are a friend you are entitled to say anything to me.  If you are a familiar acquaintance and I ask you your opinion you are entitled to speak you mind.  If I was not interested in your opinion I would not ask - and I value your response.

The list ends there!  To the next person who feels entitled to offer an opinion regarding my passion for motorcycles with a comment along the line of “oh, they are known as donor cycles, oh they are known as murder cycles, they are dangerous, I would never get on one of those, my (insert name of dead friend, relative etc) died on one of those awful things - and the list goes on” - please read the following line slowly, then read it aloud, then have someone else read it to you:

Can you dick reach your arse?

There, I feel better.

...that really was not a plan, is now not a plan.

Last evening, needing to make a modest alternation to the finely engineered Italian road machine, I realized that a wee piece of emery board was what I needed.  Checking the ‘herself drawer’ in the bathroom vanity, revealed just the thing to do the job.

The job was completed without incident, and I returned the emery board to the drawer.  It appears I may have committed a grave error.  As I returned said emery board to its rightful place, I seem to have neglected to notice the black bits rubbed into the abrasive surface, nor did I notice that I had broken the back of the dear thing. 

This morning I was advised of my transgression.  When I responded that “it is hardly the collapse of civilization as we know it”, I seem to have erred once again.

<sigh>..off to buy a package of emery boards.  Jeeze, who knew?

As Dan James said, “if you don’t laugh when you watch this, you need a new brain”.

The things we do to get through the Winter!  For the less than discerning ear, that is a Ducati 780 Pantah.

From the CBC

Tourism Minister Valerie Docherty won’t be available until next week to talk about the new policy.

Why?  No telephones where she is?