A Tale Of Two Grandmas

My Mum is up from Pensacola visiting for the next few weeks.

We are very glad to have my Mum up for a visit. We are also very glad to have Darlene’s Mum over when she comes to visit as well. Her family lives on the other side of town.

Both Grandmas are fine ladies. Resposible and dependable.

Last week we were very glad to have the both of them visiting at the same time.

You see, Darlene had to go into the hospital in Detroit for a couple of days to have her nerve stimulator adjusted. And she had to stay overnight. The two Grandmas were going to stay to look after things at home.

Both my Mum and Darlene’s Mum enjoy each others company. They spend most of their time together laughing, although we are not always certain at what.

Since Darlene had to be at the hospital for 5:30 am, we did not see the two Grandma’s before leaving that morning.

As I was sitting in the surgery lounge waiting, I received my first phone call from the Grandmas at about 7:30 am.

“How do you work the can opener?” asked the Grandmas.

“What are you opening?”

“We went to make a pot of coffee and saw we had to open another can. This can is huge, how do you open it?”

I spent probably twenty minutes on the phone using my long forgotten customer support skills. “Hold the can in one hand, the bottom lower than the counter top …” I said, explaining how to open the awkwardly large can.

“Whirrrrrrrrr” came the sound crackling through my cell phone.

“Did it work?” I asked.

“No” said the Grandmas. “The can is spinning but not cutting”.

“Okay, try pushing the …..” I continued. Finally there was success. Finally the Grandmas could make coffee.

And I could return to reading my Mark Twain novel on my PDA.

At about 9:15 am, I received another phone call. It was the Grandmas.

“How do you work the TV?” asked the Grandmas.

We have a satellite tuner below the TV. The tuner must be turned on, the TV must be turned on, and the TV must be set to AV mode (not to channel 3 like our old Cable box). To further complicate the matter, the satellite tuner is plugged into a socket that can be turned off by a light switch. This plug was meant for a light, and I had meant to rectify the problem since discovering it the week before. But I hadn’t yet.

“Is light switch turned on?” I began.

“What does that matter?” the Grandmas answered.

“Well you see the tuner is plugged into the plug that the switch…” I began. Forty five minutes later I heard the sound of daytime TV through the crackle on my cell phone.

“It looks like we’re in business” said the Grandmas.

Around 1:30 PM my cell phone went off again. We had just gotten Darlene into her hospital room after the surgery.

“How do you move the driver’s seat up in your car?” asked the Grandmas.

“My car?” I asked. “Uh .. there is a knob on the side. It’s all power driven. Push it forward it moves up. Push it back it moves back” I said, not knowing where to start or where to go with this explanation.

“It’s up all the way but my feet don’t touch the pedals” replied the Grandmas.

“Well, if you can’t reach the pedals, then you can’t drive my car” I replied, and I snapped shut the cell phone.

Darlene asked “What in the world was that all about?”
I explained that the Grandmas wanted to do some shopping and wanted to use my car.

Darlene took my cell phone and tried to call. The phone was busy.
I tried to call. The phone was still busy.

Around 3:00 PM another call came on my cell phone. It was the Grandmas. They had borrowed somebody’s cell phone.

“We locked the keys in the trunk of your car” said the Grandmas.

“I didn’t think you could drive my car? The pedals were too far back?” I asked – stunned at the new development to a problem I thought was solved by the last call.

“We asked a nice man walking down the street at your house to help us” came the reply. “He was so nice .. and boy did he laugh”.

I bet he did.

“So the keys are in the trunk?” I asked knowingly.

“Yes. We are so sorry”. The explanation followed of how the keys fell into a bag of groceries as the bags were set down in the trunk”.

“Okay, accidents happen. Okay.” I replied. “How are you calling me?”

“We borrowed a phone from another nice man” said the Grandmas.

“And did he laugh too?”

“Why yes, he is still laughing” answered the Grandmas.

“Are any of the car doors unlocked?” I asked.

“Why yes, they all are. But the keys are in the trunk”.

“Next to the steering wheel is a button – left side. Push it”, I instructed.

“Ker-Thunk” I heard the trunk open through the cell phone.

“There are the keys” said a Grandma.

Shortly after, I called home to make sure the Grandmas got home alright. The phone was still busy. That’s when I knew it was off the hook somehow. So I explained to Dar that the Grandmas could not be reached because the phone is now off the hook. I had better get home.

So at 4:30 PM I kissed Darlene and left her in the hospital room to rest.

After crossing the border to come back to Windsor, I made my way home.

My car was safe in the driveway. I walked around it to check for dents or broken lights, scratches or flat tires. The car was in fine condition. I sighed a breath of relief.

When I went into the house, the wireless phone was sitting on the counter. The talk light was still on. I pressed the “end” button and held it up.

“The phone has been off the hook all afternoon” I announced to the two Grandmas. They were playing cribbage and laughing.

“Was it?” they giggled. “We have had such a day” and they started to tell me.

“Oh I know all about your day today ladies”. I replied. “I would have thought by having two experienced Mom’s at home that things would have gone smoothly.”

And we had a lovely night after that.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

We have a new pet. It seems he came with the new house.

His name is Hoppy. Alannah gave him the name. We do not know if he was ever given a name by the previous family who lived here.

Hoppy is a squirrel.

To be quite honest, Hoppy does not truly reside on our premises. In fact he only uses the back rail of our fence for commuting between the walnut tree he scavenges and the maple tree he lives in. Both trees are in the neighboring yards.

Hoppy uses our back fence like commuters in Chicago use the El train.

He is quite industrious. He constantly makes trips from the maple tree, across our rail, to the walnut tree. There he collects a green walnut in his mouth, and travels our fence back to the maple.

As he crosses our yard on the fence rail, he hops over the fence posts that protrude higher than the top beam.

So Alannah calls him Hoppy.

I guess now we all call him Hoppy.

But Hoppy does not have free reign. He has competition. A bully squirrel we have yet to name; perhaps we will call him Sluggo; likes to ambush Hoppy, and contest him for his walnuts. Hoppy usually prevails. No fights ensue. And then Hoppy makes another trip.

This morning, Darlene was sitting on the deck having a morning coffee and reading the paper. Hoppy was returning from the walnut tree. Sluggo was waiting. Up popped Sluggo, and off ran Hoppy, walnut in his mouth. The got to a corner of the fence, and all that could be heard was the trickle and thud of the walnut as it fell down the wooden fence and hit the ground below.

Shortly after, Darlene saw Hoppy emerge to the fence top with the dropped walnut. There was no sign of Sluggo. He hopped a couple of posts, and then flopped out on the flat fence top – all four legs sticking over the side – as if to say, “"Whew! That wore me out!!” After a minute or so of resting, he hopped back up and finished his commute.

Later this morning, on a subsequent trip, Hoppy had two walnuts. One walnut is bigger than his head. Some how he had snagged two, most likely by a joined stem. He stopped in mid-trek, put one down, and proceeded to eat the other.

All the while he was watching us watching him.

We had several squirrels at our last house. They sat in our crabapple tree and ate nuts from the neighboring yard. The nuts are still green, and they turn the nut like we would turn an ear of corn, chomping circles around the nut until the nut is consumed. All the while, a green dust falls like sawdust from a cutting saw.

Darlene turned and said “Look how pretty Hoppy is”. I turned to look. “His fur is nice and full and shiny, and his tail is so fluffy and soft”, she continued. I knew where she was going. The squirrels at our old house had patchy fur and scrapes and scars from battling the neighborhood pets. One’s tail had been broken and carried bent and crooked. They were tough squirrels.

Hoppy looked so soft and clean, you might think he was a house pet.

“Amazing how you can tell you’re in a nice neighborhood, eh? Even the squirrels are of a better quality.”

After I came in, Darlene continued drinking her coffee. She was reading her latest Nora Roberts novel. She heard a “Thumpity- Thumpity- Thumpity- Thumpity- Thumpity…” from the pool deck. She looked up.

There sat Hoppy – thumping his hid foot like Thumper from Bambi. When he had Darlene’s attention, he looked at her and dropped the walnut right there. He turned to hop away behind the pool to the fence. But after two hops he stopped to turn and look back at Darlene – as if to say “It’s for you – go ahead”.

I’m not sure how this relationship will evolve. I have fears of little squirrel houses and feeding schedules. I worry that I will wake up to find the girls holding Hoppy like a cat in the living room – stroking his fur while he … does whatever squirrels do when they are content.

But it does prove to me that we are in a friendlier neighborhood.

Even the wildlife drops by to welcome you.

Our New House Honeymoon

We have been in our new house for four weeks now. We still love it. We still have to rub our eyes to believe we really live here. We are still in that “honeymoon” phase.

But I can feel the honeymoon starting to come to an end.

We have had a few experiences over the last four weeks. New home owner experiences.

We have had an overflowed toilet than ran down through the ducts into the basement downstairs. That was a mess, but we understand better now and are again quite content with the washroom.

We discovered and destroyed a hornet’s nest in a scrub bush in our back yard. It was right next to the girl’s clubhouse slide. It was huge and actually a masterpiece. The civilization that resided in this nest had been terrorizing the whole neighborhood and was as sophisticated as the Incas in their day.

We have a drain in our backyard – as do all other yards in our neighborhood – by city bylaw – that seems to be a nesting place for mosquitos. I have not figured out a remedy for this calamity yet, and would appreciate any suggestions you might have.

So after dark, I cannot sit in the back yard and listen to my Tiger ball games. And this is not an acceptable condition.

We also seem to experience a high rate of electrical power outages. And when the power goes down, the surge seems to spike more than I have known before. A set of three of these surges has blown out our LCD monitor, and caused the computer itself some questionable “issues”.

But then we had the pool mishap.

We have a 21 foot above ground pool. The back deck has several teirs and hangs over the pool like a dock on a lake. It’s quite nice.

The other night we were out cleaning up some yard mess; weeding, watering, and the like. In passing Darlene asked me to put the hose in the pool, “it looks a hair low” she said.

So I got the hose out, put the end in, and turned on the faucet. Then I went back about my business.

That was at 9:30 at night.

At about 11:30, it was raining heavy outside. And I could hear the heavy rain in our bedroom.

“Man, it’s pouring out there”, I said.
Darlene woke up from a deep sleep.

“Did you turn off the hose?”

“Oh crap!” I said. Okay, I did not exactly say "crap". But now I knew why it sounded like it was pouring rain outside.

Oh crap.

Out the back I ran. It was lightly sprinkling. But the backside of the skimmer was pouring out water like Niagara Falls.

Thunder boomed in the distance and heat lighting was going off like bulbs at a paparazzi festival.
And the hose was still running.

I ran over to the faucet and turned it off.

Then Darlene came out.

“Back-wash! Back-Wash! Back-wash!” she was yelling.

I unraveleled the flimsy blue back-wash hose and ran it into the drain in our yard. I fished it down far enough to be under the water level. Meanwhile Darlene was flipping the filter lever around to the back-wash setting. She flipped the motor on.

“Gerbeda-flubeda-thppppp”, said the hose as the air bed out of the hose and through the drain water.

"Blubeda-blubeda-blubeda…” said the hose as the backwash started its steady flow.

Luckily the hose was loud enough to mask our explatives as we scrambled in the now pouring rain, in the dark, stepping on rocks and pricker weeds.

"Blubeda-blubeda-blubeda…..”

About 15 minutes later, the pressure in the flimsy blue hose proved too much, and the hose gave way with a pop like a balloon. It burst about halfway to the drain. The yard started to flood.

We turned off the motor. We looked over our mess. We were soaked. We were unhappy. And we were certain we had destroyed our wonderful pool.

“It only took us three weeks to wreck it”, said Darlene - almost sobbing.

We stood in the pouring rain, and had a smoke.

And then we went back to bed.

The next morning we examined the damage. It was still raining. But the water in the pool was very cloudy. The good news is that the pool, the motor, the yard – all seemed to have survived our forgetfulness. There was no damage.

All was fine.

All but the flimsy blue back-wash hose.

A Christmas Morning Story

As this Christmas approaches, now two days away, I wanted to share with you my favorite Christmas Morning story of my family from years gone by.

The year was 2003. And we had just moved into a tiny house near the foot of the Ambassador Bridge in Windsor.

Darlene and my bedroom was at the front end of the house, and across the hall our two little girls shared a bedroom. Alannah was just to turn three; Ashley-Rae was one-and-a-half. The living room was the next room over, with the tree tucked into the corner.

I do not remember the presents we had for the kids that year. I do have the tapes, and I just recently converted them to DVD. But I was not thinking quick enough to capture this specific event on the video camera.

Darlene and I had stayed up late Christmas Eve, down in the basement wrapping. We finished about 3 AM and snuck all the presents upstairs, and quietly placed them under the tree. And then we went to bed.

We woke up to cartoons on the TV at about 6:30 AM. And we rolled over, looked at each other – and gasped “Oh NO!!”

You see, up until then, we had contained the movement of our children by those child-gates – the ones you wedge between the walls of a hallway or door jam. But this morning there was no child-gate between the girls and the Christmas Tree. And we both realized it at the very same moment!

We rolled out of bed and ran around the corner into the living room. The TV show “Big-Comfy-Couch” was on, and Alannah was sitting in the middle of the floor watching intently.

There was ripped open wrapping paper all over the floor. On top of the paper were the gifts – everyone’s gifts. Well mostly everyone’s gifts, all unwrapped. Luckily Alannah had come across a box of chocolates for her Uncle Glenn. They were opened – the little papers all around the floor, and Alannah turned to smile at us with that special “chocolate ringed mouth”.

I am ashamed to say – we were mad. For that initial instant I yelled. Quickly I and Darlene realized that there was nothing to be mad at, nothing at all – but ourselves. We did not barricade the tree. We did not give either of the girls instructions.

We screwed up.

It was hilarious.

I kept the girls both occupied, while Darlene, with some type of miracle gift-wrapping skill – like superman in high-speed – she wrapped the presents back up.

And we resumed our Christmas. And we watched Alannah open all her gifts again. She must have thought she got twice as many presents – because of all the unwrapping she did.

And as we all remember – it’s the actual unwrapping process that we all enjoy so dearly.

Now as the girls are 5 and nearly seven, we no longer use the child-gate. Life has indeed gotten easier.

As we approach this holiday season, I and my family would like to wish you all a happy holiday season.

And I would like to thank all of you who have sent me the wonderful emails over the last year. It is that kind of feedback that really makes this writing site so much fun for me.

Who knows, maybe my Christmas wish will come true this year, and I can start writing professionally.

The problem with that wish is that it might come true.

Merry Christmas to all.

The Messy Messenger

Last Thursday was a normal day, as normal a day as we Brills have.

Darlene to work at the hospital, the girls to kindergarten in the morning and then to daycare by bus for the afternoon, and I to the office to deal with a production problem haunting us for a couple of days now.

Thursday night is bowling night, and for the first time this year, we were going to go together and enjoy the night. Darlene had picked her brother up to baby-sit for us. I picked the girls up at daycare, like the end to every normal workday, and home we came. The girls in the house first to put their snow clothes away, and I downstairs to unload my own coat, and pockets from the tools of the day.

A scream came from upstairs. It was Ashley-Rea, my youngest. “Daddy, come quick, there’s a hummingbird in the house!”

“A hummingbird?” I pondered, “It must be a really big moth.”

A couple more shrieks from the girls, so I accelerated my pace. The girls were standing in the hallway looking into the living room, pointing at the picture window.

There was a bird, probably 8 to 10 inches in size, with a very large pointy beak. And this bird was panicked. I was stunned for a few seconds, and tried to figure a plan, while wondering how he got in, and “look at all this bird crap!”

So much for bowling.

I propped open the front door, which placed me between he and the door. The trick (as if I need to explain this) is to get behind the bird so flying away from me would move him nearer the open door.

I told the girls to go down stairs in the family room. The bird won’t fly down.

But now I was between the bird and the door and I chased him (her?) instead back to where the bedrooms were. And stupid me, I did not close the bedroom or bathroom doors. Only the guest room is closed to keep the girls from getting those things that have been taken away for past behavior issues.

Down the hall and into the girl’s room he flew. Perched on Alannah’s bed stand, then to Ashley’s, flapping and pooping. I used a towel to try to encourage him back out the door. Finally he flew out – but across the hall into my room. “Geeze”, I thought “Why did I leave that open?” and closed the girls room and the bathroom door behind me as I entered our bedroom.

He was in the back corner. How do I get behind him? Our room is more oddly shaped and from that corner the exit was not apparent. So I approached down the far wall, and he ran under the bed, I chased him from there to the other corner, but then we just went back and forth, and I was getting frustrated!

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU $%*^&@ BIRD!” I screamed.

Finally he flew out the bedroom door, through the living room, out the propped open front door, and onto a perch on the porch.

He sat their looking right at me and the girls through the storm door glass. As if to apologize for the intrusion, but still displeased with the poor welcome he received. He sat and looked at us. He was disappointed in us.

Very odd. But perhaps not as odd as I thought.

When Alannah was born, there was a bird that perched by clinging on to the brick above the window, and peeked into see Alannah in the hospital room, in her newborn bassinet.

When Ashley-Rae was born, there was a bird that routinely came by to peek in through the hospital window to view in the intensive care basinet while she spent 3 months in the neo-natal care unit.

We had always since thought that birds must somehow be the eyes that let those we love who have passed see our lives in their afterlife.

Silly? I don’t know. Perhaps. But now it makes sense to me. I’m a believer.

That night, as we were washing and scrubbing and working to restore our house back to an inhabitable state, cleaning the bird poop and trying to avoid the Avian flue, Darlene’s Mum called.

After she heard the story, she said “Someone in the family is going to die. That is what a bird in your house means.”

Great, I have no time for old-wives-tales. And we went about our business.

Today is Saturday morning. Piles of laundry yet to wash, and we have not even come close to cleaning our own bedroom after my “battle with the bird”. Darlene was asleep in the guest room. I was asleep on the futon downstairs. At around 8:00 am, the phone rang. It had that long distance ring – and I knew that something was wrong.

Then I heard it answered upstairs, and shortly after Alannah came to tell me that “Auntie Ellyn wants to talk to you right now”. I rolled over with the phone, sat up and wiped the sleep out of my eyes.

“Hello Ellyn?”

“Hi Fred”, the voice lacked Ellyn’s normal enthusiasm.

“What’s up?” I started, “oh, wait, I know what’s up. When did it happen?”

My Aunt Sheila had passed away. I had written about my Aunt Sheila in a recent blog “An Autograph from Christmas Past”. She is very important to me. Honestly I am happy for Aunt Sheila. Now she is free.

But that bird? That bird was there to warn us. To tell us. To deliver a message.

I am a rational man, known to be practical, and honestly I am not one given to superstition or old wives tales. But now, after the birds watching my two girls, and popping by the odd time, I think birds really are somehow, in a way we can’t comprehend, the messengers between this life and the next.

We were not home when the bird came to call. So he let himself in, and he waited for us. I was not too kind to our messenger guest, and now I regret that tremendously. I promise he was not hurt, but he was well aware he was not welcome.

If he did come on such a mission, I only wish he wouldn’t have pooped all over my house.

Packing

We have lived in our current home for four years.

It is amazing how little time four years seems when you’re over forty.

Remember high school? That took four years too.

Well for most of us anyway. But it seemed like a life time then.

My daughters are six and almost five years old now. This is really the only home they know. All that they really remember.

It’s too bad, because we have lived in some nice homes.

But we never owned those homes.

So while it seems like we just got here to Darlene and I, as we are packing, we find ourselves bombarded with memories of the girls that occurred here.

• Starting daycare.
• Riding the school bus.
• Starting elementary school and the awards they have racked up.

My daughter Alannah has won the student of the month award two years in a row for being the most trustworthy in her class. This does not speak kindly of the trustworthiness of her classmates.

But we packed up her certificates anyways.

Ashley-Rae learned how to walk in this house. Then run. Then jump. Usually on the living room furniture.

We had to have the furniture cleaned.

They both really learned how to talk in this house.

Then they learned to talk back.

In the summer time we live in our backyard. It’s quite nice and rather private given our location. Both girls learned to ride their bikes in this yard. Alannah learned how without training wheels.

We made up our own version of kick-ball back here. Our rules are based on three or more players. Our scores are often 10 to 8 to 6. The pine tree is first – the fence along Mr. Bud’s garage is second base, and the crabapple tree is third.

Home plate is this big worn spot created after several years of intense kick-ball matches.

We don’t think we can play kick ball in the new house. But maybe we can.

There was the first Christmas here when Alannah was not yet three.

She woke up Christmas morning, and not having been given clear rules about Christmas presents, started unwrapping all the presents.

Luckily she came across Uncle Glennie’s box of chocolates, or she may have opened up absolutely everything.

When we realized what had happened and “sprang from our beds to see what was the matter” – there was Alannah – chocolate from ear to ear – and the living room piled with unwrapped paper.

We were mad … for about 45 seconds – until we realized it was our own fault. Christmas morning present etiquette is a learned skill and not inherent.

As I was downstairs this evening, Darlene was busy packing up behind the bar in the family room. Our bar has a lot of great little knick-knacks – bar stuff.

• Coasters and mugs, and posters.
• Bowling trophies for champions and skunks.
• Irish Guinness memorabilia.
• And dart boards and equipment.

Our new house doesn’t have a bar – not yet anyways. So this stuff will likely be packed up until we build a new one.

Darlene found my box of photographs. It’s a small box. There are probably about two hundred or so photos in there. Usually photos that people have given me from their duplicates.

There I stood in one picture, all thin and muscular. And my hair was still brown.

I looked in the mirror.

“What happened to that guy?”

There were pictures of the kids in our family that are now all grown up. Pictures of Becky and Ben, Reid and Cole, Corrine. Now they are all adults or in their late teens. And it is amazing how much Corrine and Becky resemble each other.

Good thing they are good looking.

There were pictures of Dad, Uncle Fred, Aunt Sheila, and Uncle Herb. All are gone now. Together someplace else. But in this picture they are still with me.

I looked out the window in the yard. It was full of birds. Some were looking in.

I think those guys know we’re moving too.

A Hoe-Down with the Cardinals in Mo-Town

In Canada, we are celebrating what we call the “May two-four weekend”.

While the two-four does reflect the Bob and Doug McKenzie Canadian Philosophy of beer drinking here in the Great White North (beer is most commonly sold in boxes of 24 best known as two-fours), in fact this is the Victoria Day weekend to celebrate Queen Victoria’s birthday.

What is the best part of the May 2-4 weekend? Getting Monday off.

It’s also my cousin Ellyn’s birthday.

This year Darlene and I spent the Sunday at the Tigers game. They were playing the St. Louis Cardinals – in the third and final game of the 3 game inter-league series rematch of the 2006 World Series.

Last fall of course, the Cards beat our boys 4 games to 1. It didn’t make sense at the time, and it does not make sense today. Last year during inter-league play, the Tigers swept those Cardinals. They did it again this year.

Did I give away the ending? I don’t think so.

Going to a Tigers game for us means crossing the border by either the bridge over or tunnel under the Detroit River. No big deal, we do this all the time. Darlene does it every day.

The game starts at 1:05 PM. We drop the girls off at Grandma’s by 11:15AM. And we are in line at the tunnel at 11:30 AM.

Understand that if the border did not exist, we would be 5 minutes away from Comerica Park.

We chose the tunnel because the tunnel goes right down town and comes out underneath the Renaissance Center – the keystone of the Detroit City skyline from the Windsor side.

The Ambassador Bridge – even though we live at the Canadian end of it, forces you to use the Michigan expressways – which are mostly closed for repairs and various projects during the summer. Not a fun Sunday adventure.

But what we forgot was that the Red Wings were to play the Anaheim Mighty Ducks in the all important game 5 of the Western playoff finals. That game started at 3:00 PM at “The Joe” (Joe Louis Arena).

And in Hart Square, they were having a hoe-down.

No, really. A hoe down. In downtown Detroit. Mo-Town.

No, I don’t think it was a play on the word “Hoe” either. For the first time in my memory, the downtown plaza was packed with Stetsons and cowboy boots. Shucks.

Anyway – we got in line at the tunnel at 11:30. At 1:30 PM, we cleared customs in Detroit. It took us an hour and a half to make a 5 minute journey. Most of which we could not even listen to the radio while in the tunnel.

Luckily when we emerged, we found out our boys had taken a 1 – 0 lead.

Yee-haw.

We found great parking for a sold-out game – two blocks away for only 10 bucks.

Yee-haw.

We entered Comerica park through the center field gates. There you will find a row of bronze statues for all the Tiger greats: Ty Cobb, Hank Greenberg, Al Kaline, and Willie Horton. There are spaces for more. Spaces for guys named “Pudge”, “Kenny”, and perhaps if he decides to stay around – Gary.

Darlene had just met Willie Horton a couple of weeks before. She was really struck by the tremendous bronze tribute to this younger vision of him.

After acquiring two beers and four hotdogs – we headed to hunt down our seats.

Section 114, row 45, seats 22 and 23.

We found section 114. But it only had 43 rows? We found a park “usher?” who escorted us to the other side of section 114.

“We didn’t think you were coming” he said as he moved his newspaper and lunch for us.

Row 45 was the very back corner of section 114. Since this section wrapped around part of the pavilion, there were only two seats for Row 45. Seats 22 and 23.

“The good news is that we wont have to get up every time somebody on our row wants out” I said to Dar. But the bad news was you couldn’t see the field for the steady stream of people passing by.

Yee – haw? Nah.

Gary Sheffield, for the first time this year, played right field. Maglio Ordonez instead was the DH. Sheff was brilliant out there. He made three great sliding plays, and one basket catch. Mags had an RBI.

You know, I might could live with Mags DHing.

Justin Verlander was the starting pitcher and lasted 8 good innings.

Yee- Haw.

In the end, The Tiger’s won, sweeping the Cards. What the heck happened last October?

The List

You know its September because time just flys by.

It’s as though the whole world woke up from a summer siesta and discovers that there is a lot of work to do.

So things are busy. Busy at home. Busy at work.

Our girls, like all other North American kids – started school back up a couple of weeks ago. In our case it was the day after Labor Day. All went fairly smooth, understanding of course that they are starting a new school. And while they miss their old friends – are quickly making new ones.

In the mornings, my efforts have had to accelerate. The girls have to get dressed nice for school, not just shorts and t-shirt for the daycare. They have to eat, have lunches packed, and dressed.

Of course each of these steps is met with “I don’t want to eat that”, or “I hate those clothes, can I wear [some outfit that is just not appropriate] instead?”

Darlene does the shopping for our family. And she does a great job. But back to school shopping is at least as great a feat to achieve – a chore to tackle – a task to undertake – as Christmas shopping.

I suggested Darlene document the events of her experience this year. She happily obliged - in a little piece she calls:

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THE LIST

Well, it is that time of year again. The time where mothers all around the continent rejoice that school is now back in session.

This has, of course one major drawback. It’s called the ‘school list of supplies needed’
In our day, one went to school and everything you needed was supplied. Not so anymore. Now, the first week of school ‘the list’ makes its way home.

I looked in disbelief at the length. My youngest list wasn’t bad. Only five - six items- -for senior kindergarten. My oldest, however, who is going into grade 1, was a whopping whole page.

“When are you going to get my school stuff, Mom, when? When?” she pleaded.

“When mommy gets off of work Thursday night”, I replied.

“OK” she said, and off she went to watch Johnny Test on the telly.

Well, now it is Thursday night……THREE DAYS after school is in session. I am two hours late leaving work, the border traffic was a mess and by the time I got to Wal-Mart’s of course there was nothing left.

Lesson? OH YES I will know next year what to buy for Ashley-Rae AND to not leave it till too late!

I walked into the store. I looked around. There were still scores of parents frantically looking about with children tugging on their arms.

”NO NO Mom! Not those!! Miss said these ones!!!” I continued down the aisle.

Thankfully I had left my two darlings with their father. As I held the list in my hand another mother chuckled softly and said “Uh Oh, she has the list”. I scowled fixing her with my mutinous green stare.

“I don’t have to do that anymore, thank God.”

”Bully for you!” I said. I turned down the aisle with the markers, crayons, pencils, etc.

Again my eyes widened in disbelief. Nothing. Nada. Big fat donut. There was not a pencil, crayon, eraser, ruler left. I groaned out loud. In the next aisle I had found the same thing. Not one color of duo-tang binder left.

I mumbled a few choice words under my breath and heard a giggle behind me. It was a young woman with her son who was about 9 years of age. He had a on a right wrist cast, long black greasy hair down past his shoulders.

I hurriedly sputtered, “Can you seriously believe this list?!!” She smiled, nodded and her son piped up with, “HA! Wait till you see the Grade 4 list!! It’s THREE PAGES!!” I shook my head and resignedly left the store to head for Staples. I knew at least there I would find everything I would need.

Dinner consisted of a hurriedly wolfed-down burrito supreme washed down with a pop. That is all I knew I would have time for.

Staples. What an experience. The staff are always helpful, friendly and willing to assist you to attain what you need. In no time I was finished and on my way home.

Geez, $185.00 later; I was ready. I did not get home till 10 pm. By the time I got the supplies labeled and doled out it was 12:45 am.

LESSON: Next year I will be ready. Before we start school.

In the end, it was the excitement and joy on my girls’ faces when they got up and saw all their school supplies packed neatly in their packs that made the whole experience worth it. I sure do love my little girls

- Darlene

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Minus Four and Medium Rare

My cousin Sarah sent me an email the other day. It was a play on Jeff Foxworthy’s “You know you’re a redneck when…” jokes.

My favorite “You know you’re a redneck when” joke has always been “you have more tires on your home than you do on the vehicles parked on your front lawn”.

That one paints the picture.

But this version had a Canadian bent. “You know you’re Canadian when…”

If you've worn shorts and a parka at the same time, you may live in Canada

If you've had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed a
wrong number, you may live in Canada

If you measure distance in hours, you may live in Canada

If you can drive 90 kms/hr through 2 feet of snow during a raging blizzard without flinching, you may live in Canada

If you install security lights on your house and garage, but leave both unlocked, you may live in Canada

I do not know if Jeff Foxworthy has even read these jokes, let alone written them, but please let it be known that I did not write them.

But I was thinking about them just this evening.

You see, the evening was slipping away on Darlene and I when we realized we needed to do something for ourselves for dinner. The girls had already eaten given the unique circumstances of the night.

But we were starving.

Darlene went upstairs to fry up some bacon and cut up some tomato. A BLT sounded like a great idea. But then I stopped and said, “Do we have anymore of those frozen hamburger patties you made the other night?”

“Yes”, Dar replied. “But you’re not stinking up the house frying burgers in the kitchen!”

“No”, I retorted, being the natural retort-er that I am. “I will BBQ them, sound good?”

“It’s 4 below outside and its snow squalling”

“So?”

And outside I went in my favorite winter work jacket, and a beer. Out to the back patio. I brushed the mound of falling snow off the BBQ, opened up the hood, twisted on the propane tank valve, and flicked the starter switch.

“Booosch” when the flame as it lit the flood of propane on the first attempt.

As the BBQ heated up, I was cleaning the grill. And I started to think of the email Sarah sent me. “You know you’re Canadian when…” I thought.

Then it dawned on me.

“You know you’re Canadian when you have to brush the snow off the BBQ to make dinner.”

That’s a good one.

Then I heard the splash. And I heard the giggles. And then the whispers.

The neighbors behind us were in the hot tub. In a snow squall. Glasses of wine were clinking. And they were giggling at the idea that I had caught them.

And that’s when I realized what truly Canadian meant.

“You know you’re Canadian when you can have a couple of wines and fool around with the missus in the hot tub during a blizzard.”

And then I swear I heard Ann Murray sing “Snowbird”.

A True Tigers Autograph

When I was a boy, the Detroit Tigers were a very important part of my childhood.

Wherever we drove, Tiger baseball was on the radio, Ernie Harwell calling the play by play. There was no need for color commentators back then, because the announcers were talented enough to keep you interested in the game.

As you would drive out of Detroit on I-94 heading for Jackson, there was a Mobile Oil refinery that had one of its containers painted to be a baseball with the “Go Tigers” cheer painted on it.

When we would come home to Windsor to visit my Grandfather – Papa – we would often find him sitting in front of the radio – listening to the game – with every finger and toe crossed as the Tigers tried to comeback to win or close out a game.

It was magic to hear the game through the tiny speakers of the day – with the buzzes and whistles of AM radio. You could paint the whole game in your brain.

I still remember vividly sitting in old Tiger stadium with my Dad and Papa – eating hot dogs and watching my heros – Al Kaline and Willie Horton, Norm Cash, Bill Freehan and Mickey Lolich.

They won the World Series in 1968. I was 6 years old.
The next year, Neal Armstrong walked on the moon.

It has been amazing since I have been back in Windsor these last 6 years, how some of those memories come flooding back. It has been amazing also how Darlene and I have made new memories at Comerica Park – the successor to Tiger Stadium.

We still listen to the games on AM Radio. Dan Dickerson and Jim Price are almost as special to me now as Ernie was way back then.

“Maglio Ordonez – touch them all!” as the Tigers finished off the A’s with a walk-off home run to advance to the 2006 World Series.

But the other day, the most miraculous Tigers event occurred. Willie Horton signed my daughters T-ball baseball card.

While talking with my wife, she said as any proud mother would do: “Let me show you my little baseball player” and retrieved Alannah’s baseball card from her desk. He admired the card, and her stats on the back. He liked that her favorite team was the Tigers and chuckled that Brandon Inge (it really says “Brian” by mistake on the card) is her favorite player.

And then he signed it.

When Darlene showed me the card that night, I literally held it up to the sky to show my Dad, and Papa. “Look guys! Look who signed Alannah’s baseball card!”

A little bird should be by soon to get a peek for them.

Don't Be Scared Of A Little Snow

It snowed last night.

And this morning. And now this afternoon. In total we got nearly a foot. It is supposed to snow more tonight.

The radio says the roads are very bad. The expressway is like an ice rink. The authorities are asking us not to drive.

I was outside shoveling the driveway when Darlene came out with the phone.

My co-worker Julia called to tell me that she and the other Staff Association members think we should cancel the Children’s Christmas party.

I looked out the window. A pickup truck went sliding sideways by our house. He straightened himself out and slid the other way.

“I agree”, I replied. After hanging up I called our major AM radio station. Everyone in Windsor knows this is the station to listen to for local news and snow cancellations. While I tried to get through the busy line – Darlene submitted the cancellation notice request through their news tips website.

Shortly afterwards I heard our cancellation announcement crackle over the radio.

I went back out to finish shoveling.

And I started thinking about my Uncle Fred.

I had lived with Uncle Fred’s family when I moved back to Canada.

I was twenty-three and the year was 1985. I was living in an apartment with my brother Paul in Baton Rouge. I had decided that summer that I was going to move back to Canada.

I gave my notice at work. I was a night manager at a grocery store – and the store was closing down. It seemed to be a better idea to move to Canada and go back to school, rather than live a Janice Joplin song and be “busted flat in Baton Rouge”. So as Christmas approached, I packed up what I owned and stuffed it into my Mazda 626.

Paul and I spent Christmas at my Mom and Dads that year. The understanding was that I would go back to Canada – get this degree – and move back down south – this time to Pensacola – and start a real career.

I remember that Christmas morning because Paul and I woke up and played our traditional round of golf before we opened presents. We started on the 13th tee outside their back door, and played around to number twelve – where we came in for breakfast and opened our presents.

Two mornings later – my car still loaded with all my possessions and clubs squeezed back into my inventory – I kissed my Mom and Dad good bye and started my Drive up I-65 through Alabama – then I-64 across Kentucky and Tennessee, over to I-75 that would take me up into Michigan.

The first day was a breeze. I had the windows down, and the tapes in my cassette player blaring loud. I made it to Dayton, Ohio. It was raining and dark – so I decided to pull over for the night.

The next morning I stepped out of my motel room, and nearly broke my neck on the ice. The rain had frozen. It was cold.

I had crossed the Mason-Dixon line.

I filled my car up with gas and started out onto I-75. About 45 minutes up the road, a gust of wind grabbed my car, and slid me across 4 lanes of expressway, into a deep ditch – just missing a cement drain pipe.

I spent the rest of the morning hiking to a gas station to get a guy with a tow truck to haul me out of the ditch and put me back on the road. As he did – he tried to sell me some winter tires. I declined.

I did not cross the border into Canada in Detroit. I did not enter into Canada in Windsor. Instead I rode I-94 north of Detroit to a little town called Port Huron. I arrived at the empty border crossing expecting to be searched and have my car taken apart.

I crossed the Bridge and reached the Canadian customs booth in Sarnia.

“Citizenship?” asked the customs officer.

I held up my green card. A plastic card that had a picture of me at the age of three. “Canadian” I answered.

“How long are you staying?” he asked.

“Until I’m done school” I replied and briefly explained my educational plans and agenda.

He smiled and replied “Welcome home”.

That has always stuck with me.

I looked at the road ahead. I saw none. It was all white. I looked back at the officer “One thing please, where is the road?”

“See those little white posts?” he asked in reply, “the road is about 3 meters to the left of those:,

“Oh”, I replied. “Welcome to Canada, Fred” I thought to myself.

It got easier as I drove on. In my little Mazda 626 with everything I owned in the car. I could see other tire tracks, and I could see the edge of the road. But I drove very slowly.

It was really snowing and the roads were being closed behind me. My perception of what “bad” meant kept expanding as the day progressed – and now I felt I understood what “bad” meant.

Every twenty yards or so, a one or two foot high snow drift would appear. And now I felt comfortable to just blast through them. I did this for about an hour. And now I was getting close. I had made my way to Perth County Road 11. I was simply trying to find the concession Uncle Fred’s farm was on.

I thought I saw it, and pulled into the snow drift that fronted the concession gravel road – Boosh – I smashed through and drove up the gravel road – only to really see the farm on the next concession up – looking across the fields. I turned around, and blasted through the drift again. Back on the road, I traveled up to the next concession.

Boosh – I blasted through the drift at the front of the concession.

But this was different. I didn’t come through the other side. Instead I drove to the top of it, and my car sunk down into the drift – which was not a drift. The snow was easily five feet deep all the way down the concession.

I sat there in my little Mazda 626 – with Louisiana license plates on the front and back. I sat there and wondered how I would get down the concession to the farmhouse I could see all lit up about half a mile down the road.

I almost made it.

I flashed my headlights – and turned my car off. I was just about to get out of the car and literally swim the snow to the farmhouse. That’s when I saw the two snowmobiles – and they were coming straight at me.

“How’s goin eh?” said the first – a kid I would later know to be Jim.

“I’m stuck” I smiled.

“Yer stuck alright. Where yer goin?” asked the toque (tuke) and parka clad Jim.

“To the Brill’s farm” I replied, “and I almost made it”.

“I’ll go tell Fred yer here, wait here” said Jim. “Who do I say’s coming?”

“Fred Brill”, I said. “He looked at me. My Uncle Fred and I do have the same name.

“Okay den”, and hopped back on his snowmobile and away he sped.

Shortly after, Fred appeared with the John Deere tractor with the snow blower attachment on front. He came blowing right at me. He climbed out of the cab and waded over to me.

He was smiling as happy as could be to see something funny like me and my southern car stuck in the snow.

“Jimmy says Fred Brill’s comin to visit me” he laughed – those big old teeth grinning like he couldn’t be happier.

“It’s snowing” I said.

“Tis, tis so” said Fred. “Stay put lets get you in the barn”.

Uncle Fred hooked me up to the tractor – lifted the front of the car right up with the rear of the tractor while the front of the tractor was still pretending to be a snow blower.

The girls, my cousins Sarah, Ellyn and Jenny, all took pictures of their southern cousin – the bumpkin – being towed down the farm laneway. I have to see those pictures every Christmas.

I almost made it. 1,200 miles, and I got stuck in the last half mile.

But Uncle Fred never let a little snow scare him off.

I miss Uncle Fred.

But today – during our foot of snow blizzard – after cancelling our Children’s Christmas party - I can hear his voice loud and clear.

“It’s just a little snow, Freddy. Don’t be scared of a little snow.”

Seasons Greetings?

The other morning I was driving my girls to school.

The weather was cold, drizzling and grey. I was as miserable as the weather.

The girls asked me to find something on the radio, so I hit the seek button. What do I find, but a Detroit station that started playing Christmas music November 1st. WNIC.

Bing Crosby was singing about a white Christmas.

"Leave it Daddy!" they shouted. "This music is for baby Jesus!"

How can you argue with that. But as soon as I dropped them off at school, I flipped to my CD changer and listened to Lewis Black go on a Tirade about how the Bush administration dealt with Katrina and the New Orleans flooding.

That made me smile. No not the tragedy - but Lewis Black's take on it.

Last weekend, my neighbor was outside hanging his Christmas lights. He gave me an apologetic glance as Darlene realized we must be behind schedule.

At work I am on the Staff Association. I am actually a co-chair person. We have been dealing with adult and kid's Christmas parties, Santa Clause bookings, dinner menus, table settings, kid's presents, a wrapping party, etc... since June.

It is not even the American Thanksgiving yet, and I am already all Christmas'ed out.

And we still have all of our family traditions to deal with:

• Sending cards
  
• Decorating outside (no it is still not done)
  
• Getting a Tree (Darlene demands a real one) and decorating
  
• Buying the girl's presents
  
• Buying the grandparents, in-laws, aunt's and uncle's, and cousin's presents
  

and the family, yacht club, and work Christmas parties.

And all that driving in snow and freezing rain conditions.

I am still recovering from the World Series. Getting over the defeat of my Tigers.

Christmas?

Bah humbug.

Perhaps the three ghosts will visit me this year. Perhaps The Ghost of Christmas Future will show me a scene something like this:

"Alannah, it's Christmas morning, why are you all dressed up to go out?" I'll ask.

"I'm going Bradley's house for Christmas. His family likes Christmas." my daughter will answer.

"But we like Christmas too!" I will state. "You can't wear that to Bradley's parents house, what will they think?"

"Oh, his parents won't be there. They're in Florida".

And I will wake up in a cold sweat.

Perhaps this year we should do it up really right. Lot's of lights and an electric Santa singing Ho Ho Ho on the lawn.

And I had better go ask the kid next door to go buy me a turkey. Where is my wallet?

Summertime Moving

It’s the first week in July, and it just doesn’t get any more “summer” than this.

It’s great.

In Windsor, we savor every second of summer.

It is still early enough in summer that you have a clear blue sky, with a big yellow sun.

The haze doesn’t come for a couple more weeks.

I love summer.

We are almost complete moving into our new house. Our dream house. And today is the first day that I can sit and enjoy the place. Poor Darlene had to go to work today.

Poor Darlene. She has busted her butt harder than anybody else.

Today the girls and I will spend most of the day out in the back yard – swimming in the pool.

That ought to wear them out.

The best part about this house is that the neighborhood is chalked full of kids. Kids - kids - kids. Lots of kids. Lots of kids who are five and six years old.

Finally the girls can play with kids in the neighborhood. They can go over to a friend’s house, knock on the door and say “can Mary come out and play?”

They just have to make the friends now.

We still have stuff at the old place. It is amazing how much the movers didn’t move. How much they didn’t move for six hundred bucks.

Nothing behind the bar

No clothes packed in Wardrobe boxes.

No closets packed in little boxes

Nothing from my workshop – not even the Christmas decorations

Nothing from the outside shed – I had to haul my lawnmower myself

Nothing from the back yard – like the teeter-totter or the girls bikes.

And the whole time they weren’t moving that stuff, they were complaining about how hard the work was.

They were clearly stoned.

“I’m sorry”, I would say over and over, “perhaps you need to find a different profession”

“Nah, moving is in my blood. Can’t nobody pack a truck like me” replied their leader

“Where is my lawn mower?” I asked having heard his self-proclaimed skill.

“Oh – it’s still at the other place. Nothing but small stuff there”, should be easy for you.” He replied – “If you want to pay us for a second load we could …”

“Ahh” I said deciding if this was a fight worth having. “

He was stoned and exhausted, I could probably take him.

I went to the old place the next morning with Dar.

We spent the next days hauling stuff in our Jeep and Sebring.

Next time I go car shopping, I’m getting a truck.

Resting Up From Vacation

It is the first day back to work after using my vacation last week to move into our new house. Thank goodness.

I need the rest.

The bad news is I have another week off next week.

It’s been a long week of slogging back and forth from the new house to the old house – still picking up the remainders of what the movers didn’t.

I fell down our new basement stairs once. I could swear my heels touched my shoulders. I screamed quite loudly. Have you ever thought you were on the last step but you weren’t?

I did that with about five steps to go.

I was carrying Darlene’s favorite framed pictures at the time.

As I laid there, I moaned “it’s broken”. I was talking about my leg. Dar thought I was talking about the frames.

“It better not be!” she growled. I still thought she was talking about my leg too!

She pulled the best picture out of the box – “No, it’s fine”, she said as she pranced away happily.

I untied my legs from their new pretzel configuration and was delighted to find that I did not break anything, only sprained my ankle and twisted my bad knee, And the only nurse in the house just pranced away happy.

Both the ankle and knee swelled right up. But unfortunately I could still walk. I got a reprieve that afternoon, and tried out the new pool with ice on both joints. But the next day we went right back at it. And it got hot again.

My Mum is coming up from Pensacola for a visit. She arrives Thursday night. She is anxious I believe to see the new place. And we have everything all ready for her.

Except a bed.

We took this opportunity to move my youngest from her Dora the Explorer toddler bed, into the cabin bed that my eldest had. And we moved my eldest up to the double bed we kept in what we called “The Grandma’s Room”.

Unfortunately we have to wait until this weekend before we can replace that bed with a new pillow topped one for Grandma.

I also put my old TV in my eldest’s room. I plugged in the cable for it, and the cable TV was still working. We are trying a satellite company now, so we did not move our cable.

The girls were very excited. They spent all their free time in my eldest’s room watching TV – their own TV.

Then the cable guy turned off the service.

And to my daughters, I am an “Indian giver”.

I apologize for using this term, I know it is derogatory in nature, but I do not know of another way to describe someone who gives a gift and then takes it back. And if I am not mistaken, the term truly means what the white men did to the Native Americans, they gave them something, and then they took it back.

Notice I used the royal “They”.

But I digress.

So now I have to call the cable company, and get them to turn on the cheapest service they have.

My Mum shipped up a package for my youngest daughter’s fifth birthday. She shipped it UPS. She asked us not to open it until she arrived.

When it came, Darlene’s Mum received it from the UPS driver. It was no longer a rectangular shape. It was now a triangle. The driver quipped “It looks like it’s been around the world”.

I opened the box, and everything is Ok.

But the morale to my entire moving experience is:

“If you hire a service – be it movers or UPS delivery, they likely won’t do a good job. But when you decide you no longer need a service, like cable TV, just watch how quickly and efficiently they discontinue it for you.”

Or …

The path of least resistance is most often followed by those that choose not to leave.

Calling In Fatherhood

The train was rocking gently as we roll through the black of an Ontario November night.

The seafood dinner was actually good, and the white whine served mini round glasses had put me in a very relaxed state.

Heading home. Finally.

It had been a very long two weeks. The first of training, the second chock full of tedius interviews with our Toronto office as part of a large scale requirements gathering study.

I didn’t find out about the second week of travel until midway through the first week.

I had kept touch with home frequently with my handy dandy cell phone. And things were not going all that great. And it sounded like things were getting worse.

One of the two Grandmas was staying with Darlene to give her a hand. The Grandma would get the kids ready for school each morning and take them. I think that is the toughest part of my day, waking up and getting the girls to school. So I certainly appreciated the Grandma’s frustration.

“Hello?”, would answer the grandma as I called each evening.

“How is it going Grandma?” I would ask.

“Who is this?” would say the Grandma.

“It’s me, Fred” I would say.

“Oh Fred, what a day ….” The Grandma would start. And I would hear the long list of all the day’s frustrations, why my girls are horrible little monsters, and her apology for having to break such news to me.

Finally Darlene would come on the phone. The frustration clearly in her voice.

“The girls miss you … ”, she would state unnecessarily during the conversation.

“Grandma was crying … ”, was also commonly mentioned.

“Tell them you’re never traveling again …” would be expressed at the end of the conversation.

So I would hang up the phone feeling pretty powerless.

Some people travel much more frequently than I do. I remember my Dad for stretches of time, only being home for the weekend. I don’t know how he did it.

Perhaps this is a cell-phone accessibility problem? In the old days, one would simply make a single call from the phone in their hotel room.

I carved the Halloween pumpkin with the girls last Sunday morning, just before leaving for the second week. Leaving after spending only the Saturday at home.

Alannah and Ashley-Rae drew the face on the front of the pumpkin. Mean eyes with big fanged teeth growling at you. The finished product was declared to be “beautiful” as we packed up our tools.

Then I left by train for a second week away from home.

I thought of that face all week while I was away. “Were they painting a portrait?” I thought. “Of the faces they see on adults?”

I hope not. But maybe?

I have to travel back to Toronto the first week of December.

I have had a week of celebration and good-byes this week. As I transition from a team now departing to a new team just starting a new type of project, I am excited. And I need for everything to go right.

But these phone calls home just don’t help.

Maybe I should just get a Blackberry.

Special Tiger Moments Keep Stacking Up

By now you have most likely heard that Detroit’s Justin Verlander pitched a No Hitter Tuesday, June 12, 2007. Below is a recap of the game showing this amazing feat.

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The game was not on Windsor Cable - unless you cough up the big bucks for the MLB package.

So - like every night, I was sitting in the back yard listening to the ball game - and it started to get special as early as the 4th.

Dan Dickerson and Jim Price painted that game so beautifully for me, I could see the wicked slider, and imagined the Infante - Polanco - Casey double-play. When I saw the replay it was exactly how I imagined it. It's in the video clip I embedded above.

But the most amazing thing was how they conveyed the importance of the moment - what was really happening - without saying it.

".. and the boxes all have zeros for Millwaukee!"

They never even came close to crossing the jinx line.

That was soooo great.

What made it more incredible was the fact he threw a fastball to the first batter in the first inning around 103 MPH. That’s as fast as most any man can throw. He threw a fastball 102 MPH to the last batter in the 9^th inning – some 110 pitches later.

That’s an amazing feat.

And he did it in our own yard.

Since Comerica Park assumed the role once that of Tigers / Briggs stadium seven years ago, it has seen

• The worst record in baseball – 117 losses in one season
• The 2005 All Star Game
• The 2006 World Series
• And now Justin Verlander’s No Hitter.

I told you earlier that Comerica Park was very special to Darlene and I. I believe now that Comerica Park has seen enough new history to be important to all Detroit Tiger Fans.

I also told you earlier how Willie Horton signed my daughters baseball card. He also signed his own card for Darlene. Mr. Horton is immortalized by one of 4 huge bronze statues in Comerica's center field

And this season I have been lucky to exchange comments and opinions with Detroit's best baseball columnist Pat Caputo - although I probably stay at a higher and lighter level than he would like.

I really feel close to this team - to this season. Any closer and I would be opening beers and lighting Marlborough's for Jim Leyland in the back yard.

But our Tiger's have an Achilles Heel this year. Their bullpen has let us down more times than it has helped us for sure. Our record could be at least 5 games better right now if our bullpen could have held the lead the starters left the game with. I will let "The Book" explain it best. I posted my comments on his comments page.

Let's see how the All Star Game goes for the Tigers. Leyland will be the manager for the AL side, with Justin Verlander starting, and Maglio Ordonez starting in right. And who knows who else might show up.

Or not show up. It may be that Barry Bonds does not even go to the All Star game the very season he is to break Hank Aaron's homer record. Is that justice or injustice - an interesting debate?

Well, back to the basement to do more packing.

I Love Golf

I love the game of golf.

I love to play golf.

I love to watch golf.

I love to read about the history of golf.

I took up golf in 1983 in Baton Rouge at my brother Paul’s prodding. He had just started playing as well, and in usual fashion he acquired the skills quite quickly.

I borrowed my dad’s old clubs, and immediately found that you do not just walk out and play golf. That day we played the course on the campus of LSU. I believe I walked off that day in disgust – before even reaching the turn.

Why I tried again after that experience I don’t remember.

When Paul and I were boys in Georgia, our Dad would often ask us if we would like to play golf with him. And we always declined.

Golf is a silly game of chasing a little white ball only played by boring old men who wear funny clothes. Or so we thought. And I know Dad was disappointed by our ignorance.

Paul bought me my first set of clubs. I do not remember if I ever paid him back or not. If not, I hope he doesn’t read this or he may charge me interest.

As I remember, he paid $58.00 for a used set of Lynx Masters. Fancy for their day, with the face of a Lynx cast on the back of each club. USA Masters engraved on the heel.

They were laden with lead tape, heavily coated on the bottom of each by a senior who obviously wanted to increase the distance. It took most of a day on the patio peeling that tape off.

I remember those irons so well. I should. I still play them. They are the only irons I have ever owned. And I can hit each one pure and crisp.

At the same time, our parents had just moved from Baton Rouge to Pensacola, Florida. They took an apartment with a pretty back yard, and behind their yard lay the 12^th green of a long dog leg right par 5.

So it seemed to be destined that golf would become a family endorsed component of our life. That year for Christmas, my parents gave me a Sam Snead Blue Ridge driver. And I learned to pummel that thing 300 yards plus.

My brother and I would wake up on Christmas morning, sneak out on the 13^th tee beside their apartment building, and play all the way around back to the 12^th green. The course was closed for Christmas day, so we would carry our bags discretely and shoot greens with no flags in the holes.

Those were probably the best Christmas mornings I knew until my daughters were born.

At that time I worked a job at night, and got off work at 7:00 am. I would leave work and go right to the municipal course of my choosing. Baton Rouge had a bunch. Some were great, some were flat fields with cement water drains in place of real creeks.

I would arrive and usually play before the club-house was open, navigating the sprinklers, and explaining to the grounds crew that I would pay when I reached the club house. I don’t remember ever being refused.

After a couple years of playing every day all year around, I was pretty good. I could shoot in the 70’s consistently, and sometimes even go below par. My forearms and hands were very strong and tan, with the left hand giving me away as a constant player because the glove I wore resulted in a pale white skin tone.

I could hit a long tee shot consistently with my Blue Ridge driver, and my approach shots with my Lynx Masters irons would usually leave me with an opportunity for birdie.

And Paul could always beat me. I can’t remember one time I ever beat him.

For a brief period before I moved to Canada, Paul and I were room mates. The best ‘roomie’ I ever had. And weekly we would play one specific round together. It was called “The Cascade Classic”. The loser of this round would be responsible for doing the dishes for the next week, until the next Cascade Classic could be played.

I don’t remember Paul ever washing a single dish in that apartment.

When I moved to Canada the week between Christmas and New Years of 1985, I packed my car with all my belongings. My golf clubs among them. We went to my Mom and Dad’s apartment in Pensacola and played our customary rounds on the course behind their yard.

And then I moved to Canada. I moved to Canada in late December. I don’t recommend this feat to anyone.

I did not pick up my clubs again until the final round of the Masters was being played. This is the infamous Sunday when Jack Nicklaus won his final green jacket.

But on the farm, we still had two feet of snow on the ground. Winter was not leaving easily. And I took a shovel, cleared a five foot patch, and hit nine irons across the yard to snow bank in the corner. When the snow finally melted in May, I recovered those balls and returned them to my bag.

So my life changed from playing daily to starting all over again in April or May, working on my game through the summer, and then abandoning it again come October.

At Christmas, I would usually return to Pensacola spending Christmases with my parents, or just my Mum after dad passed away in 1990. And golf was a central focus of my holiday.

As the years have progressed, my ability to travel to Pensacola at Christmas has evaporated. We have our own family Christmas traditions in Windsor. There is no Golf yet in these traditions.

In a common summer, I may get to play golf once every two weeks or so. This year I only had four opportunities to play.

Yesterday was one of those opportunities. It was our Company Golf Tournament. And it is a highlight of every fall for me and Darlene. This year Darlene could not play because the implant she has in her back was still healing. As I left in the morning I could see she was sad she could not play.

Instead she spent the day with her brother closing our pool.

We played a best ball scramble format. My partners were Erwin, Tim, and his wife Diane. Both Erwin and Tim hold significant rankings in our company. And both are excellent people to spend time with. Tim’s better half, Dianne, was equally enjoyable, and a good golfer as well.

I will admit that we started the morning with hopes of possibly winning the event. And we started well by reaching a par five in two and achieving our first birdie – beginning the day at one under par.

I would say that of the four of us, we all contributed to the cause equally. And our outcome was most definitely the result of our combined effort.

And it was a lot of fun.

Tim and Erwin both equally ensured we were in good shape in the fairway. My strength has always been the approach to the green. Between the four of us we most always hit the green with the opportunity for birdie or eagle.

But putting was a skill not held by any of us yesterday. So no eagles were accomplished and only three birdies realized.

We finished at two over par.

When we reached the par 3 where the men’s closest to the pin was contested, I liked my chances. I have won this contest before. The shot was a 145 yards and the tee elevated over bush and wasteland leading up to the green.

I put the tee in the ground and sized up the conditions. The wind slightly in my face. The green sloped back to font.

I lined up my nine iron, the same nine iron with the Lynx face cast in the back and “USA Master” engraved on the bottom. My mind held this thought:

“Remember the 17^th hole at Mums? It is the same shot. Just picture that hole in your memory as you swing through the ball. It’s the same hole. It’s the same swing.”

I took the club back to full-square. As I brought the club down through the ball with my left forearm, I was clearly seeing the 17^th hole at Carriage Hills.

As I followed through, my ball flight was high, right on line, and looking perfect. The ball hit 12 inches straight in front of the hole. It bit and spun back another 12 inches. It stopped two feet dead straight uphill in front of the hole.

The best part of it was not hitting the shot or watching it. The best part was hearing my partners in our foursome cheering the ball in flight – in that moment that seems like five minutes, as you watch the ball drop from clouds and land beside the pin. The high fives, and the excitement as we drove down to the hole to find it is indeed as close as we thought.

I tried to calmly stroke it in for a natural birdie but missed. Tim stepped up and rapped it in for the official birdie we needed to stay in the hunt. Then he signed my name on the board and moved it to where my ball landed.

I do love golf.

I love everything about golf

But I am awfully glad that I don’t have to play golf to earn my living.