MY STINT AS A GRAVENHURST COLUMNIST A TWENTY FOUR HOUR RELATIONSHIP - "IT'S NOT YOU IT'S ME!'
THE CURMUDGEON WRITER IS HARD TO GET ALONG WITH - BET YOU'RE NOT SURPRISED. THE GHOST OF MY MOTHER WAS JUST SHAKING HER FINGER AT ME!
I REMEMBER DRIVING UP WELLINGTON STREET, IN BRACEBRIDGE, ONE EVENING ABOUT THIS TIME OF YEAR, AND SEEING THIS TINY WOMAN GESTURING WITH HER FIST, IN THE FACE OF A TEENAGER ON A BIKE. SUZANNE WARNED ME THAT THERE WAS A FIGHT GOING ON, AT THE TURN INTO MY PARENTS' APARTMENT. THE LADY WAS PRETTY ANIMATED, AND SHE HAD ONE HAND ON HIS FRONT FENDER, AND THE OTHER COUNTING OUT, FINGER BY FINGER, THE REASONS THE KID HAD ERRED IN JUDGEMENT. "WHO DO YOU THINK IT IS," SHE ASKED. "I'VE NEVER SEEN THE KID IN MY LIFE," I ANSWERED. "NOT THE KID ON THE BIKE……THE LADY WAVING HER FIST AT HIS CHEST," SHE SHOT BACK, SENSING THAT WE WERE GOING TO GET INVOLVED IN THE DISPUTE, BECAUSE THEY WERE STANDING RIGHT WHERE I HAD TO TURN INTO THE DRIVEWAY. SUZANNE WAS STARING INTENTLY, AND EVEN PUT HER GLASSES ON TO GET A BETTER LOOK, AND WHAT WE WERE GETTING INTO. AS I SLOWED THE CAR DOWN, I TURNED SLIGHTLY TO MY RIGHT, TO ADDRESS MY GIRLFRIEND GENTLY AND WITH A SORT OF PRE-EXPLANATION APOLOGY. "AH, THAT'S MY MOTHER WITH HER FIST CLENCHED." THE STORY GOES THAT, EVERY NIGHT, THIS TEENAGER WOULD RIDE HIS BIKE OVER THE LAWN OF THE TRIPLEX, AND IT WAS KILLING A SMALL CEDAR THEY HAD PLANTED, AND MAKING A CLEAR TRAIL ACROSS THE YARD. "WE'VE TOLD HER TO STOP DOING THAT, BUT IT DOESN'T DO ANY GOOD."
BY TIME WE GOT TO THE TURN, MERLE (A PINT-SIZED VERSION OF TONY SOPRANO), HAD LET THE WEE LAD LOOSE, AND BY THE LOOK ON HIS FACE, IT WAS LIKELY HE'D THINK CAREFULLY BEFORE CUTTING ACROSS THE YARD AGAIN. MERLE WAS NOT ADVERSE TO HIDING BEHIND THE SHRUBBERY, TO MAKE A SURPRISE LUNGE. IF YOU BACK-TALKED HER, SHE HAD A MAFIA-LIKE SENSE OF HONOR, AND TO BETRAY A DIRECTIVE, WAS TO ENGAGE IN A LONG, VICIOUS BATTLE. "IS SHE CRAZY," SUZANNE ASKED. "NO, SHE'S JUST MERLE." I SOMETIMES FELT I SHOULD APOLOGIZE FOR MERLE'S OUTBURSTS, WHICH CARRIED ON, BY THE WAY, RIGHT TO THE PINES. THE NURSES CALLED HER "MERLEY," AND THEY KNEW THE DANGERS OF CROSSING HER. SOME POOR OLD GUY GOT INTO HER ROOM FOR AN UNSUPERVISED VISIT, AND EVEN THOUGH CONFINED TO A BED, SHE STARTED THROWING THINGS AT HIM. IT WASN'T THAT MERLE WAS A VIOLENT PERSON, BUT SHE WAS DETERMINED TO HAVE HER CAKE AND EAT IT TOO. SHE WASN'T THE WARMEST MOTHER, AND NEVER ONCE SAID, "I LOVE YOU SON," BUT BY GOLLY, WHEN IT CAME TO "YOU LITTLE BUGGER," OR "GET BACK HERE YOU CHRISTER," WE MORE THAN MADE UP FOR THE CUDDLY STUFF, WITH VAST AMOUNTS OF DAILY COMMUNICATION. SHE CAME FROM A FARM FAMILY, AND HER FATHER WAS A RUGGED, HUGE HULK OF A MAN, WELL KNOWN IN THE CITY OF TORONTO FOR HIS HOUSE BUILDING PROWESS. HE EVEN HAS A STREET NAMED AFTER HIM, NEAR JANE STREET AND BLOOR, KNOWN AS JACKSON AVENUE. MANY OF THE OLDER HOUSES WERE BUILT BY STANLEY, WHO WAS ALSO AN ACCOMPLISHED VIOLINIST.
MY GRANDMOTHER BLANCHE, RAISED A LARGE FAMILY THROUGH THE DEPRESSION, INCLUDING FEEDING THE HOMELESS WHO CAME BY THE HOUSE, AND SHE WAS KNOWN AS A FIRECRACKER, WHO WAS, AT THE END, ABOUT THREE AND A HALF FEET TALL…..BUT WIREY. IN HER DAY, IF ANY OF THE FAMILY OR GUESTS GOT A LITTLE TOO JOVIAL, OR RUDE, SHE'D SMOKE 'EM WITH A LONG WOODEN SPOON SHE USED IN HER SOUP POT. MERLE AT THE END OF HER LIFE, WAS THE MIRROR IMAGE OF HER MOTHER. FEISTY? I DIDN'T EVER CHALLENGE MY GRANDMOTHER, ALTHOUGH I TOOK SOME POT SHOTS AT MERLE, BUT SHE COULD RUN AND LEAP LIKE AN OLYMPIAN. WHENEVER I HEAR ABOUT "SCRUFF OF THE NECK," IT REMINDS ME OF MY ENTIRE CHILDHOOD. MY MOTHER WAS THE ENFORCER AND ED WAS THE PROVIDER. HE SELDOM IF EVER RAISED HIS VOICE AT ME. MERLE, WELL, IT WAS KIND OF A CONSTANT IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. OF COURSE, ALL OUR GANG'S MOTHER-KIND HAD EQUAL BELLOWS, THAT COULD BE HEARD ABOVE THE DAILY TRAIN HORNS, AND EVEN THE TOWN FIRE SIREN. MERLE WASN'T MEAN. SHE WAS A BIG BELIEVER IN PROTOCOL AND INTEGRITY, AND SHE REMINDED ME ABOUT TWELVE TIMES A DAY….."DON'T YOU BRING SHAME TO THE FAMILY NAME." MEANWHILE, MY DAD COULD BE IN A BAR ROOM BRAWL, AND COME HOME WITH BLOODIED KNUCKLES, BUT HEAVEN FORBID, I SHOULD TAKE A SHORT CUT THROUGH A NEIGHBOR'S TOMATO PATCH.
THE FRUIT DIDN'T FALL FAR FROM THE TREE
You can't imagine, how many times I feel justified, in tight circumstances, saying, "I was brought up that way!" If I'm feeling the need for a few extra words of explanation, I might add, "I'm sorry, if I offended you…..it was the way I was brought up." Not to belch or break wind either…..because Merle was a polite freak, and if she knew what cuss words I was dropping in my hockey games at the local arena, she'd have soaped my tongue right out of my mouth. To the positive side, and the one attribute I have always admired, God bless her freakish anger, was that she had an immense pride in her family…..worts and all. She never told me, she was proud of my accomplishments, and I did have to ask her never to come to the arena again, because of the heckling of players. On our team! When my coach asked me one game, who the lady in the stands was, who had been calling me sieve, because of the weak goals I let in, I said, "Oh that's just my mother." "Then please ask her to stay home for the next game," he advised…."or you're going to be benched." So here I was going to be benched for having a mouthy parent, but I was good to go even though I let in eleven of the fourteen shots on net. Merle was a character. And so am I. I often apologize to my wife for being such a odd duck, and letting my eccentricities get the better of me. It happens a lot. Not in haste. I'm very committed to protocols, and it comes partly from Merle, but mostly as a result of Merle. I overpower a lot of people with my enthusiasm, and responding re-coil, and a goodly part has to do with the intensity by which I pursue projects, whether researching, writing, or antique hunting.
I had a friend come over to the shop the other day, for a social visit, and I unloaded my political philosophies like a truck dumping a massive, deafening load of construction debris. The poor soul never had a chance. I get carried-away, as my mother used to quip, on the brink of me doing something really bad, like swinging from tree top to tree top in the Bamford's evergreens, up on Bracebridge's Alice Street. Yet when I take an oath of friendship, I'm committed to our relationship forever. If however, the protocols are maintained to my satisfaction. Yea, I'm king of a jerk this way. Still, I'd take a bullet for my friend, if the need arose. It's the same for all my mates, even past acquaintances, who occasionally show up for no particular reason…..but are always welcomed back into the fold. If you were to ask Suzanne about my iron-clad rules of conduct, she'd probably start with the same opening, as this blog, referencing the first time she met my mother. "He's a fierce protector of the family name," she'll claim. "If you want to stay on his good side, just be a friend, and he'll remain loyal forever." "Kind of a stupid bastard isn't he," some ask. Those who do know me well, will of course recognize this rigid adherence thing, and that even one perceived event of disloyalty, will bring the cards crashing down. What an odd duck Mr. Currie is………but is he a nice guy, through all that bluster and protocol stuff? "Maybe," answers my wife, who has a theory, that the writing profession has played a huge role in my standoffish ways, and rigorous intensity.
When I began writing professionally, I knew my life was changing. I realized that my editorial privilege, could be revoked suddenly, profoundly, and tragically. As I loved my writing career as much as you can love anything, I had to be a copy master. There were times, when the paper's advertising count was way down, and our staff of three writers and a part time photographer had to double and even triple our output, often in the final twenty four hours before deadline. I learned that intense concentration was my best friend, in these circumstances, and I cost myself a lot of relationships with girlfriends because of the all-work-no-play thing, the lack of the jovial, jolly gene, and way too much booze. You know, I was a pretty good drunk, because just before I fell into my jug of draft, I'd remember Merle's concern about dishonoring the family name. I made sure I wasn't sitting at the stripper's table, when I was about to pass out. I only did this a couple of times. The media was my greatest joy, and my most damning source of stress. Merle liked the fact I was editor of the weekly newspaper (one of two), and I heard her brag once, that "he gets free concert and theatre tickets." She was so excited one day, when I told her I'd just interviewed Bob Baun, of the old, great Toronto Maple Leafs. Merle was a huge Leafs fan, and Ed was a die hard Montrealer. Made for some interesting family moments. But she sure loved Bob Baun, who scored a Stanley Cup winning game on a broken leg. If she'd been at that press conference with me, I know Merle would have given the man a huge hug and kiss, on account of that winning goal. Even if it was years earlier. It didn't matter to Merle. One day I came into our antique shop, and she had a hold of Frank Mahovolich, and refused to let the poor guy go, until he'd given me a personal autograph. She got three for herself. Frank just came in to see the antiques, and got ambushed. I enjoyed meeting him, that's for sure. Merle knew all his statistics.
So what's all this stuff about Merle have to do with the shortest newspaper stint in my thirty-five year career. Well, it has to do with my rather rigid grasp of protocol, especially in the editorial department, that creates problems for me. I'm like the supernatural creatures from the new television show, "Grimm," when I feel my work has been compromised. I don't blame editors for doing their job. I blame myself, for being unable to bend the way some in the news profession, might prefer. I qualify their opinion of my delinquency and curmudgeon-like attitude, by backing away quietly and gently from disagreements over the editorial integrity of my submitted copy. It's not as if I'm a stranger to compromise, but at my time in life, it's just not one of those meat and potato issues, I had as a young struggling writer, who had to put up with all kinds of upper management directives I didn't approve……but couldn't object to for reasons of family security. After all these years, I guess I'm the silhouette of that person, holding onto a kid's bike, demanding satisfaction. Merle shouldn't have done it, and I suppose I should be a softer, gentler writer-kind, who won't fuss-up because of an editor's justifiable prerogative.
The bottom line, is that I have decided, to kill my own column in The Banner, that was to have run monthly over the next year. I'm persnickety to a fault, but it is a fault I have lived with for many years, and as the character spice, of thousands upon thousands of published pages. Some would say I have thin skin, and I would say, "it's thinner than most." A few would chortle, "He wears 'irritable' on his sleeve," and I would say, bravo, you know me well." Maybe a publisher out there, who has benefitted from my prolific attributes, at this keyboard, will retort with a playful snort, "The guy writes like a typhoon blows……and some of the stuff is pretty good."
I am an acquired taste. Even those close to me realize this. I adore writing, and the papers I write for currently, and this amazing little blog, that tonight will topple over 25,000 hits, since I began writing daily eleven months ago. I'm shooting for 30,000. Cyberspace is a good place for me. I am the editor of my domain. If you think I write long, and meaty copy, bless you for noticing. If I write a few paragraphs, out of all this verbiage, that actually inform and titillate at the same time, then bully for me…..and bully for you. I have achieved my objective of writing for both recreation and continuing education.
I have not had a huge falling-out with the editor of the Banner…..should that be the gossip on the street. We shall remain colleagues and friends. I have discovered the truth…….that I really have reached a stage in my profession, that I can claim honestly, 'I wouldn't belong to any organization that would have a guy like me as a member." While I might not be glaring out at you in newsprint, I will still be here in the outer limits of information sharing…….and I'm happy about this resignation of a lifetime's wonder and speculation……I am indeed, my mother's child.
Thanks so much for joining me today. Please come back and visit any time. There's always another seat around the hearth.
No comments:
Post a Comment