List of Previous Titles

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Mr. Bee and Me.




Bee Nice

The world is in the worst mess of all time. There are wars and rumours of war. The U.S. dollar is weak, and countries around the world are competing to see who can artificially make their currency even weaker to stimulate their own exports, and in the midst of all that I found something very small to bring me delight.

During the Summer we have taken our meals outside on the terrace, and that is a joy in itself. Of course, every day I found that I had uninvited guests in the form of flies and ants. That just means that it is Summer. But, one day two bees joined in the picnic. I have to say right now that the sudden and mysterious deaths of bees in many countries served to heighten my awareness of the importance of these creatures to our ecological system, so I took great care not to harm them while trying to shoo them away.

They were buzzing me like F-16 war planes trying to get at my food. Eventually I began to get the upper hand, and one of the bees went away and never returned. The other one remained dogged and determined, so I learned to relax and to share my meals with it.

The ritual went something like this: I would prepare a place and then bring my food, and within a few minutes Mr. Bee would come in to buzz the landing zone. He would buzz my head, which I learned was not a threat, but was simply his way of saying hello, and to ask what was on the menu. Then I would sit back and not move so that he had a clear visual of what we were having. He would first check out the meat selection. He always went for the edge of the meat, and he particularly liked it if there was gravy. He also liked mashed potatoes, and before leaving he would take a little sip of my juice.

He came for breakfast when I was having cereal, a muffin and coffee. He loved my Frosties, and at one time he got a little too deep in the milk, so I spooned him out and placed him on my napkin to dry off. He preened himself, and he tried out his wings without taking flight. Then he went back into my bowl for more. I had cut bananas with it and he perched on top of a piece and I thought he would never leave.

He then tried the muffin and seemed to enjoy it. He did not like my coffee at all. It was hot and the smell seemed to turn him off.

Now the weather is turning colder and that probably signals the end of dining alfresco. That is always a sad time, but this year it will be all that sadder because of the end of my association with Mr. Bee.

The lesson for me is that the most wonderful experiences may lie in the simplest of things, if we only take the time to focus and let them develop.

Meanwhile, Goodbye Mr. Bee. It was lovely to know you!

Copyright © 2010 Eugene Carmichael

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Too Ridiculous to be False


Ridiculously Funny

Sometimes, if you are looking for comedy, you need look no further than the pages of your local newspaper. The news from the courts is a good source. There was one case that involved a man who was arrested for being in charge of a vehicle while under the influence of alcohol. However, he was riding a horse at the time, and much court time was taken up in argument over whether a horse is a vehicle.

Finally it was decided that as the horse was a means of transport it was deemed to be included under the heading of a vehicle. The magistrate then informed the defendant that he was satisfied with the charges, and asked whether the man had anything to say before he was sentenced. The court anticipated that he might come up with something entertaining. “Well, your honour, if you are finding me guilty then you’re gonna have to find the horse guilty too, because he was even more pissed than I was.”

Brilliant!

I read in a paper recently that on one balmy evening Tom was out walking in the neighbourhood when he saw a light from a bedroom window. He approached and on tiptoes he saw a completely naked woman watching television. The curtains were open and that allowed for a fairly good view, although a little more elevation was required to help his line of sight. So, Tom found a bucket in the yard and stepped on that, but it made a little noise so he ran for cover.

What is a woman doing lying around her house with the curtains open, and in the nude?

She heard the noise, put some clothes on and went to investigate. She found the bucket but nothing else. She decided that she should remain dressed while in her home. Days later, in spite of no apparent further problems she noticed that a concrete building block had been placed under her window, and a ladder had been moved closer to her bedroom.

She then came home shortly afterwards to find a note pinned to her front door that said: “Hi! I’m your secret admirer. I like what I see and would like to get to know you. I’m single and new to this area and I am looking for friendship.” Signed Tom, with telephone number. (I’m not making this up!)

Of course she went straight to the police who first found out what they needed to know about him, and then they called him. Duh!

In asking the magistrate for leniency Tom said that he knows that what he did was wrong and it has hurt his family, especially his wife.

Uh oh!

Talk about being dumb and dopey. Some mothers do have ‘em.

Copyright © 2010 Eugene Carmichael

Sunday, October 17, 2010

The Girl Next Door


The girl next door needs lots of help.

This could be a title of a story by Steven King. Certainly the circumstances are something right out of his genre of storytelling. I have written about her before, so this is an update. First, the basis of the story:

The Girl next Door is a real person, aged 34 years old. She suffers from development impairment, and as a consequence has the mental capability of a seven year old. Her mother died a few years ago, and the rest of her family, including aunts, brother and sisters, have all concluded that she must live in the family home on her own with her father.

Her father is a man of about 60 years of age with the mental capability of an eight year old.

The Girl is her own worst enemy. I’m sure that she suffers with some medical problems, and one of those problems that she labours with is that she tends to start crying frequently in a very passionate and loud manner that causes her to vomit and make retching sounds. These bouts of crying go on for hours at a time, sometimes lasting throughout a full day until she is exhausted. Quite naturally, this is very stressful on those around her. While her mother was alive she was the girl’s principal support. Her father would leave home and go to the local bar. Now he is directly responsible for her.

Now, when she starts crying he starts yelling. This reminds me of when I as a very young child and I would start up crying over something that had displeased me, my father would ask: “what you crying for boy? You want me to give you something to cry for?” At that point he would take off his belt and give me a few licks around my legs. The vocal pitch of my cries would rise dramatically so that I was then crying for real.

No surprise, she does the same and his yelling also gets more violent. He is possessed of an army drill sergeant’s voice that terrifies the girl, plus he does strike her, as can be heard clearly.

I called the police, and I directly reported the matter to the town council. I should not be getting involved in this Spanish family’s affairs, especially as her extended family all know about the abuse. No-one in her family will take her as she is simply too much for them to handle, however, everyone agrees that she should not be living with her father on her own. In fact, she really needs to be institutionalised, but under the Spanish system that would require her family having to pay for her upkeep. There is simply not any money available to do this.

We understood that an Order of Nuns have agreed to take her under their roof but they are awaiting the paperwork to be completed to allow this to happen. It has now been more than one year since that story started to circulate. Meanwhile the awful situation that exists in their house did continue to get worse.

The father drinks heavily and practically loses his mind in the face of the aggravation. I’m not so sure I would do any better. It seems that neither he nor his daughter eat healthily. The housekeeping appears to be non-existent, although I have not seen the inside of the home. If you placed a bag with a million euros in the far back room and said it was mine if I cared to go and get it, I think I would pass on the opportunity. It’s just something about all that vomiting that I hear going on in the house that would put me off.

The police have attended when some of the out of control abuse has taken place, and they have threatened the father with jail. That only serves to agitate her even more as he is all that she has. From his viewpoint he is disciplining his childish daughter and anyone who doesn’t approve of his methods is free to take her.

She is well possessed of a sense of theatre as sometimes when we have friends over for lunch on the terrace she will launch into a crying episode, complete with retching, and cries of “Mama! Mama!” I play the radio to try and drown out the sound but she raises the level of her voice, apparently happy to know that she is spoiling our lunch.

How will all this end? It will certainly end in tears. If the authorities come to take her away the separation from her father will be traumatic for her, but that will be her best chance for the future. If they don’t come soon he will probably kill her in a drunken rage. That will set off a wave of denials of responsibility, if indeed anything at all can be done for this unfortunate girl and her hapless father.

I try to imagine the angst of the father being stuck with his daughter, considering that he is entirely incapable of caring for her, and the terror of the girl when he is yelling at her. The irony of this tale is that there are times when they have weeks of peace and harmony marked by delightful laughter on her part. Her laugh is a very joyous and infectious sound. We are presently going through one of those periods. I must say that the peace does make me nervous.

Copyright © 2010 Eugene Carmichael

Friday, October 15, 2010

The Miracle at the Mine




The Miracle at the Mine
The rebirth of 33 men

At a time when the world is going to hell in a handbasket, Chile is providing both light and hope in the textbook rescue of 33 of its miners(in a handbasket) who were underground when the mine collapsed. The men were all given up for dead and their families were in the midst of grieving when the news came that they were all, in fact alive.

Here I have to pause and try and put myself in the shoes of the families. How incredible must that news have been? What a rush of sheer ecstasy and joy when the message sunk in! Alive! But then, the men were trapped 700 metres underground. In the past they would have had to have been left to die, because the facilities just did not exist to rescue them, perhaps at all, or at least not in a timely fashion.

Plans were quickly drawn up to do something that was without precedent. To bring men up from three quarters of a kilometre from underground had not been done before, and because there was so much hope, no-one could be left behind. Every technical mind was bought into play, including NASA, and the effort was begun to keep the men alive, sane and healthy, and to retrieve them within a reasonable period of time.

It appears that everyone on the globe was interested and knows the story as well as I do, so I will not go into unnecessary detail. I simply want to add my congratulations to every person involved in any way to bring about a solid story of such wonderful hope, perseverance, determination, sheer doggedness, and just plain careful and precise work that the entire world can take pride and pleasure in just being alive.

What we have seen is 33 men being born again. Thirty-three men who were given a second chance at life in an atmosphere of such love and goodwill that the air was thick with it. I wonder how they will spend the remainder of their lives? I certainly wish them and their families well, as I’m sure you do.

This all comes in the midst of conflict around the world and flies in the face of those people who are so determined to kill as many strangers as possible. It is the most rare thing of all to have something that the entire world can justifiably take pride and joy in.

Thank you Chile!
Thank you Rescuers! The under-stated heroes of all time.
All who have a Supreme Being in whom they believe, say Amen!

Copyright © 2010 Eugene Carmichael

Sunday, October 10, 2010

A Perfect Storm …Indeed!





A Perfect Storm is a Killer!

I wrote about what it is like to live in a hurricane path, and before I was able to publish the piece, my island of Bermuda found itself being lashed by Hurricane Igor. I followed that up with the end result, but now I am taking a more in-depth look at what happened because it was so out of the ordinary.

Hurricane Igor, or Ogre was, in the experience of Bermuda (I borrow the name) “The Perfect Storm” from a number of points of view. A Perfect Storm is one where several elements that are dangerous in themselves all come together to make a killer event.

Firstly we start with the fact that Bermuda is a land mass only 35 kilometres long, and three kilometres wide. On the world map it only warrants a dot to show where it is, but the mass is so small that no outline is given.

Hurricane Igor made up off the coast of Africa and came across the Atlantic, and in its journey through the West Indies it left two persons dead in its wake. Then it got its act together as it moved due north and straight for Bermuda. It travelled as a Category Three hurricane, with sustained winds at its centre of in excess of 200 kilometres per hour. It moved in an achingly slow speed, meaning that it would spend lots of time over land to do the maximum damage. No matter how strong you build your house, if a storm of this magnitude sits on top of you for as much as a week, it will bring the building down.

Such a storm often spawns tornados within it that act as chain saws that cut down anything still standing. It would also create storm surges that would put all low lying areas under water, and it would dump even more water from the skies to add to the flooding. The final element was its size. It was 800 kilometres wide so that even a shift in its direction would not mean escape. Bermuda was facing an end of world scenario.

Many people simply locked up their homes and got off the island. Private estimates were that property damage would likely be total, with homes valued at upwards of 50 million dollars being wrecked and drawn into the sea. Casualties could have been in the thousands. News media became excited by the prospect and committed suicidal teams to go to collect what pictures they could of a country that is as elegant and manicured as Bermuda as it went to its death.

My wife and I had been in Bermuda barely a month before where we joined in a family reunion that saw 600 of my daughters and grandchildren; my brothers and sisters; cousins and friends gathered together in joyful comradeship, but now they were in harm’s way. Hurricane Igor was making Hurricane Katrina look like a tropical breeze.

I presume that the people of New Orleans must have anticipated the arrival of Katrina a few years ago with equal dread, and with good reason. We so seldom take a direct hit because our land mass is so small, but this time Hurricane Igor came ashore scoring a bulls-eye with its 80 kilometre centre.

No one credited “The Bermuda High” with the power to affect a Category Three storm in any meaningful way, but, the facts are that once the storm collided with the High it lost two-thirds of its strength, and it picked up speed. It did not include tornados, and was only felt for three days instead of one week. At the end there was no loss of life, nor even injuries, and property damage was minimal.

However, the stress levels of which I wrote in my first piece will be felt even more intensely as storms seem to be growing stronger and bigger. If there were a real Bermuda Triangle it would be nice if it would just swallow up the hurricanes.

Copyright © 2010 Eugene Carmichael

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Our Dog Winter


Our Dog Winter - A very special friend.

I have written about Winter before, most notably “When Winter met Summer”, a love story. The sad news is that Our Dog Winter died on July 27th, 2010, and he now occupies a very special place in Dog Heaven.

Family pets have a way of becoming central to all the family and their needs affect everyone, and their loss has the same weight on each individual member.

Winter was a Golden Retriever, the poster dog for most advertisements. This type of animal generally has a wonderful temperament and attracts attention wherever they go. However, the very first time that I saw Winter I thought he was the worst animal I had ever seen. His previous master brought him into his grandmother’s beachside apartment, whereupon Winter promptly pissed on the carpet. That resulted in the grandmother going berserk and ordering him out. So his master took him down onto the beach at which point Winter crapped in the sand. The child master didn’t seem to think that it would matter when someone came along and stepped in it barefoot.

What an animal! I was glad he was not mine.

Within the year the boy’s parents had separated and the boy and his mother, had moved into an apartment in the city. Winter, who was quite young and full of energy tore up the apartment. The mother came to us to ask whether we could take him, because if we couldn’t she would have no other choice than to have him put to sleep. Oh no!


My wife and my son could not stand the chance of that happening so they overruled me and he was brought home, and until his death I found I was the one to spend most time with him.

We had another dog, named Chester who we had brought with us from Bermuda. Chester, a much older dog, was not about to share his space with Winter. We had to tie them to different trees out of one another’s sight, but my wife decided that was ridiculous and so she brought them together and made Chester understand that he would have to accept the younger Winter.

Before we knew it old man Chester was actually playing with Winter, or we think he was playing. He would drag Winter by the neck across the yard, we would yell at him and he would let Winter go, and then Winter would egg him on to do it again.

Both Chester and Winter loved their freedom and it was a real challenge to keep them inside the property. On one of their escapes, after a short while Chester came back but Winter was gone for quite some time, until we received a call to say that he was at the place where he was born, that being a breeding address that bred Golden Retrievers. How he found his way there, that included crossing a river, is anybody’s guess.

On another escape they were gone for seven weeks. During that time I was certain that I would never see them again, but one night while driving along a very dark road they popped out of the brush. Evidently they recognised the sound of the car.

In 2007 Chester died in the height of the Summer heat as he could no longer breathe. In 2008 Winter developed the same problem and the Vet said that he had an enlarged heart that was pressing against his lungs. She treated him and we barely got through the Summer of 2009, but the toll upon him was great. I was certain that he would not survive the heat of 2010, although he sensibly would find a cool spot and remain there out of the sun. His decline was steep and rapid, although he tried to maintain his regular routine.

I was leaving for Bermuda on the 25th July. I was certain that he would not survive until I came back, but my son was here so he was in charge. The thought did occur to me that before I left I should take Winter to the Vet to have him put to sleep, but I could not accept the thought that because I was going on holiday I killed my dog. It was better to let nature take its course.

Two days after I left Winter went for a walk and he simply sat down, positioned himself in a graceful pose, and died.

On his tombstone I wrote that he was “Hale, Hearty and Hairy. No dog ever gave more love, or was a better recipient for love. He occupies a very special place in Dog Heaven.
1999 – 2010”

Both he and Chester are buried in our garden so they are still near to us, but our home cannot be the same without them. They Rest in Peace.

Copyright © 2010 Eugene Carmichael