Do I look cranky to you?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
A FUNERAL TALE FOR EASTER
Three times in my military career I delivered dead soldiers home and supervised the intricacies of their military funerals. The troopers had died for a variety of reasons, including breathtaking stupidity but in death they were all equal and given in full measure the slow march cadence, Last Post, creaking antique gun carriage, volleys fired and fragments of Wilfrid Owen verse.
In life they were not given adequate equipment, a living wage or the support of a political leader (George Hees excepted) who gave a Royal Canadian Crap about them, dead or alive. This made the ancient warrior celebrations I stage-managed for them something of a moral imperative. They would receive their moments of recognition - come too late and only from their comrades but salutes, dammit, at least salutes.
A military funeral is a complicated exercise, particularly when staged in a small town far from the panoply of pomp readily available in Ottawa or Halifax. It does not help that rural funeral directors do not know how to dress soldiers properly and so medals show up on the wrong side, buttons are green for lack of polishing, shirts dirty, jackets unpressed and neckties look like hangman's knots. (The ghost of Corporal Canuck looks down at his earthly remains and declares, "Oh Shit! - the Sgt Major's gonna drill me a new one for this cruddy turnout!")
I relocated medals, shone buttons and badges, laundered shirts and re-tied ties. In the case of Captain "Eggs", a huge guy who didn't fit too well in his box, the funeral guys and I had to reposition him so that the casket lid would not bonk on his forehead during the formal closing. I thought for a moment of dribbling some egg yolk on his tie in celebration of the eating habits that gave him his nickname...
Lt. "X" died of some loathsome disease he acquired as a U.N. Observer in Viet Nam. Two months earlier I had supervised the funeral of Sgt "Y" who got run over by an IDF Centurion tank after ducking hostile fire from an Egyptian fighting patrol. The patrol was trouble-making by taking pot shots at U.N. vehicles. The Centurion crew was drunk. One might say that his death lacked reason and so it did.
The funeral of Lt "X" was a problem. Nobody liked him. He had no known next-of-kin and no friends, this ill-tempered staff officer serving in a bureaucratic warren. We knew only that his ribbons and service record spoke of serious sharp-end service in WWII and that he was born in Kitchener, Ontario.
I got to be master of ceremonies. My C.O. and I dragooned mourners, appointed pall bearers, organized a Firing Party, found a bugler, requisitioned the antique gun carriage, alerted the Chaplain and set in motion the ritual honour this country owes to all old soldiers including the ones we don't like.
At first, things went well. The Reverend Captain "K" found fine words to say about a cranky SOB he had never met. The Priest spoke in vague eloquence about noble service and life eternal justly earned. The flag-draped coffin went from the Sanctuary to the waiting gun carriage. Then, the real fun began.
I became a Pall Bearer and "slow marched" beside the carriage. On the last bend into the cemetery the carriage turned short and the big hardwood/iron wheel flattened my right foot already half-wrecked by a bad parachute landing. I entered sacred ground determined not to howl aloud.
Then, Mr. Murphy and his goddam Law took over. The graveside service began well enough despite the cold rain. The Reverend Captain "K" found a rhetorical line that conferred meaning to the life of the sorry soul we were burying. Then came the finale. The Firing Party discharged its first volley over the grave and from behind a high hedge about 30 feet away came an uproar from 20 or so beagles housed there. Two more volleys and the canine choir was in full lusty voice.
A mournful bugle sounding Last Post in the cold rain and a chorus of squatty tenor quadrupeds singing a dirge may not be what Lt "X" expected or wanted but were he listening I would tell him that his send-off was nothing if not memorable. Sometimes we get things right in spite of ourselves.
Pro Patria.
In life they were not given adequate equipment, a living wage or the support of a political leader (George Hees excepted) who gave a Royal Canadian Crap about them, dead or alive. This made the ancient warrior celebrations I stage-managed for them something of a moral imperative. They would receive their moments of recognition - come too late and only from their comrades but salutes, dammit, at least salutes.
A military funeral is a complicated exercise, particularly when staged in a small town far from the panoply of pomp readily available in Ottawa or Halifax. It does not help that rural funeral directors do not know how to dress soldiers properly and so medals show up on the wrong side, buttons are green for lack of polishing, shirts dirty, jackets unpressed and neckties look like hangman's knots. (The ghost of Corporal Canuck looks down at his earthly remains and declares, "Oh Shit! - the Sgt Major's gonna drill me a new one for this cruddy turnout!")
I relocated medals, shone buttons and badges, laundered shirts and re-tied ties. In the case of Captain "Eggs", a huge guy who didn't fit too well in his box, the funeral guys and I had to reposition him so that the casket lid would not bonk on his forehead during the formal closing. I thought for a moment of dribbling some egg yolk on his tie in celebration of the eating habits that gave him his nickname...
Lt. "X" died of some loathsome disease he acquired as a U.N. Observer in Viet Nam. Two months earlier I had supervised the funeral of Sgt "Y" who got run over by an IDF Centurion tank after ducking hostile fire from an Egyptian fighting patrol. The patrol was trouble-making by taking pot shots at U.N. vehicles. The Centurion crew was drunk. One might say that his death lacked reason and so it did.
The funeral of Lt "X" was a problem. Nobody liked him. He had no known next-of-kin and no friends, this ill-tempered staff officer serving in a bureaucratic warren. We knew only that his ribbons and service record spoke of serious sharp-end service in WWII and that he was born in Kitchener, Ontario.
I got to be master of ceremonies. My C.O. and I dragooned mourners, appointed pall bearers, organized a Firing Party, found a bugler, requisitioned the antique gun carriage, alerted the Chaplain and set in motion the ritual honour this country owes to all old soldiers including the ones we don't like.
At first, things went well. The Reverend Captain "K" found fine words to say about a cranky SOB he had never met. The Priest spoke in vague eloquence about noble service and life eternal justly earned. The flag-draped coffin went from the Sanctuary to the waiting gun carriage. Then, the real fun began.
I became a Pall Bearer and "slow marched" beside the carriage. On the last bend into the cemetery the carriage turned short and the big hardwood/iron wheel flattened my right foot already half-wrecked by a bad parachute landing. I entered sacred ground determined not to howl aloud.
Then, Mr. Murphy and his goddam Law took over. The graveside service began well enough despite the cold rain. The Reverend Captain "K" found a rhetorical line that conferred meaning to the life of the sorry soul we were burying. Then came the finale. The Firing Party discharged its first volley over the grave and from behind a high hedge about 30 feet away came an uproar from 20 or so beagles housed there. Two more volleys and the canine choir was in full lusty voice.
A mournful bugle sounding Last Post in the cold rain and a chorus of squatty tenor quadrupeds singing a dirge may not be what Lt "X" expected or wanted but were he listening I would tell him that his send-off was nothing if not memorable. Sometimes we get things right in spite of ourselves.
Pro Patria.
Friday, April 22, 2011
HOLY WEEK? HOLY COW!
I see that Governor Rick Perry of Texas (where else?) has issued an official proclamation enjoining Texans to spend the next three days praying for rain. Careful what you pray for, Governor - you have nothing set aside for ark construction.
In Kyrgyzstan, a place rather like Texas, legislators have sacrificed seven sheep in hope of driving evil spirits from their parliament. If this gambit works, the place will be totally empty.
Pastor Terry Jones, a cretin of 17th century sensibilities recently held a celebratory Koran burning. In response, some 17th century cretins in the Middle East went on a killing rampage because the Pastor "insulted Islam".
Several politicians currently trolling for votes cheerfully wish folks, "Happy Easter Week". Say what? I seem to recall from my early unhappy encounters with things churchy that this week is called Holy Week and is not regarded as a happy time - you know - crucifixions and things. I think that next week is called Easter Week and is usually considered a happy time. I am afraid that I cannot help you with where the rabbits and eggs fit in all of this. Ask your Preacher.
Another cretin, this one a Conservative candidate from the Canadian version of Texas let it be known that Planned Parenthood was not his favorite social organization because, among other things it assists poor women in dealing with unwanted pregnancies. When pressed, he expressed the view that silly women must be prevented from exercising the wrong-headed and un-Christian notion that what goes on in their uteri is any of their business. Harper and others told him to put a sock in it, not because they necessarily disagreed but because he exposed the thinking of the closeted and silenced conservative majority. And that thinking is a sure election loser.
Oh, well. I will play it safe and wish everyone a pleasant long weekend.
In Kyrgyzstan, a place rather like Texas, legislators have sacrificed seven sheep in hope of driving evil spirits from their parliament. If this gambit works, the place will be totally empty.
Pastor Terry Jones, a cretin of 17th century sensibilities recently held a celebratory Koran burning. In response, some 17th century cretins in the Middle East went on a killing rampage because the Pastor "insulted Islam".
Several politicians currently trolling for votes cheerfully wish folks, "Happy Easter Week". Say what? I seem to recall from my early unhappy encounters with things churchy that this week is called Holy Week and is not regarded as a happy time - you know - crucifixions and things. I think that next week is called Easter Week and is usually considered a happy time. I am afraid that I cannot help you with where the rabbits and eggs fit in all of this. Ask your Preacher.
Another cretin, this one a Conservative candidate from the Canadian version of Texas let it be known that Planned Parenthood was not his favorite social organization because, among other things it assists poor women in dealing with unwanted pregnancies. When pressed, he expressed the view that silly women must be prevented from exercising the wrong-headed and un-Christian notion that what goes on in their uteri is any of their business. Harper and others told him to put a sock in it, not because they necessarily disagreed but because he exposed the thinking of the closeted and silenced conservative majority. And that thinking is a sure election loser.
Oh, well. I will play it safe and wish everyone a pleasant long weekend.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
EXPOSED FLESH FREEZES...
Been here, done this, do not recommend it.
There are some things best done in the comfort of a heated, well-appointed bathroom. Pity then the poor soldier trying to survive in the arctic or sub-arctic. The Great Queen provides him with a tent, concentrated rations, warm clothing and snowshoes but alas, no heated bathroom. He has to make other arrangements when his digestive tract is in need of purging.
There is an essential ritual involved. To begin with, he doesn't even think about answering the urge while on the trail. He can act only after last light when the tent is up and the mountain stove has raised the interior temperature to a balmy +2 C. Fortunately, the delay is not difficult thanks to the concentrated rations that apparently contain something normally used to set concrete.
Once the five troopers stuffed into the smallish tent have lit the Coleman lantern and put on the coffee, the soldier in need of a dump signals his intention and begins the preparation. He unzips his parka, unbuttons his nylon wind pants, drops his suspenders, unties the drawstring on his flannel insulation pants and unbuttons his boxers. He then grasps the garments in his wiping hand leaving thumb and index finger free to pinch a pad of toilet paper and with his gloved hand indicates that his buddies should open the tent flap. When the flap opens, he steps manfully out into the night. The flap closes behind him.
On a moonless night it may be blacker than the inside of a moose and it may be -40 C. or worse. For the former reason and in deference to esthetic and sanitary sensibilities, he shuffles five steps forward, turns left, goes 10 steps, turns left, takes 5 more paces, turns about and tramps down the snow. His time has come and this is the agreed drop zone. He releases his grip on his undone garments and assumes the crouch position. At that moment the words of his arctic instructor come to mind - "...exposed flesh may freeze in as little as 45 seconds." He is acutely aware of exactly what he has exposed which gives him motivation to make one almighty, eye-crossing, vein popping heave followed by a cursory wipe. He reaches down with his gloved hand, grabs his various drawers and hikes 5 paces forward, right 10 paces and as he turns for the last 5 steps he bellows, "Open her up!"
Once in the tent his buddies join him in a careful inspection to ascertain whether he laid it in the snow, dropped it in his wind pants, crapped on his heels or flung it over his head with his dangling suspenders. Any outcome other than the first results in his being sent back into the cold to rectify the problem.
There were several reasons why I elected to leave the army. This was probably one of them.
There are some things best done in the comfort of a heated, well-appointed bathroom. Pity then the poor soldier trying to survive in the arctic or sub-arctic. The Great Queen provides him with a tent, concentrated rations, warm clothing and snowshoes but alas, no heated bathroom. He has to make other arrangements when his digestive tract is in need of purging.
There is an essential ritual involved. To begin with, he doesn't even think about answering the urge while on the trail. He can act only after last light when the tent is up and the mountain stove has raised the interior temperature to a balmy +2 C. Fortunately, the delay is not difficult thanks to the concentrated rations that apparently contain something normally used to set concrete.
Once the five troopers stuffed into the smallish tent have lit the Coleman lantern and put on the coffee, the soldier in need of a dump signals his intention and begins the preparation. He unzips his parka, unbuttons his nylon wind pants, drops his suspenders, unties the drawstring on his flannel insulation pants and unbuttons his boxers. He then grasps the garments in his wiping hand leaving thumb and index finger free to pinch a pad of toilet paper and with his gloved hand indicates that his buddies should open the tent flap. When the flap opens, he steps manfully out into the night. The flap closes behind him.
On a moonless night it may be blacker than the inside of a moose and it may be -40 C. or worse. For the former reason and in deference to esthetic and sanitary sensibilities, he shuffles five steps forward, turns left, goes 10 steps, turns left, takes 5 more paces, turns about and tramps down the snow. His time has come and this is the agreed drop zone. He releases his grip on his undone garments and assumes the crouch position. At that moment the words of his arctic instructor come to mind - "...exposed flesh may freeze in as little as 45 seconds." He is acutely aware of exactly what he has exposed which gives him motivation to make one almighty, eye-crossing, vein popping heave followed by a cursory wipe. He reaches down with his gloved hand, grabs his various drawers and hikes 5 paces forward, right 10 paces and as he turns for the last 5 steps he bellows, "Open her up!"
Once in the tent his buddies join him in a careful inspection to ascertain whether he laid it in the snow, dropped it in his wind pants, crapped on his heels or flung it over his head with his dangling suspenders. Any outcome other than the first results in his being sent back into the cold to rectify the problem.
There were several reasons why I elected to leave the army. This was probably one of them.
SAY SOMETHING!
J'accuse...
Saturday, April 16, 2011
A DIFFERENT EVIL BIRD
My kids and I lived for a year in Nigeria. Absurdly, we adopted (the kids adopted) a rowdy, mouthy African Grey parrot named Ms. Penelope P. or Penny in less formal situations. Time came to go home - back to Canada, Penny in tow, with stops in England, Scotland and the Scandinavian countries.
The travel arrangements were tricky. Parrots, I learned were "birdies non grata" in a number of countries, therefore Penny had to travel undetected. I figured that if Penny were stowed in unremarkable check-in baggage and flew only in aircraft with heated, pressurized holds, we might get away with it. In preparation for this adventure in international smuggling I went to Ikeja Market and purchased a rusty budgie cage. I found a sturdy cardboard box into which the cage would just fit. Bird in cage, cage in box, lots of stealth air holes, a bit of twine and tape and Voila! - standard immigrant travel baggage that would attract no attention.
The ruse got us out of Lagos, through Ghana and past Customs at Heathrow. The cab ride to a spiffy hotel in Marble Arch was uneventful thanks to a chatty cabbie who talked more than a tree full of birds. At the hotel, I left my ragamuffins in charge of our formidable baggage heap and went to register. In the midst of the formalities, a blue rinse dowager late of some Brit comedy show steamed by my tattered luggage heading for the Desk. Moments later, the lobby resounded to piercing wolf whistles and cries of "Messy Fucking Bird", "How Are You?" and a stream of Yoruba insults. Penny was getting restive. Dowager turned to glare at my kids who tried to look innocent. Mahogany-tanned, unwashed and clothed in rags a Nigerian ditch digger would have burned as they were, they appeared anything but innocent. Let us say that Fagan would have found employment for them.
HMS Dowager sailed on. We dodged the bullet that time but not in Copenhagen a week later.
We arrived a 7:00 AM, collected our cartload of tattered luggage and headed into the "Nothing to Declare" lane. Penny, silent and invisible in her box sat atop the load. The sleepy Customs Officer asked his routine questions while my ragamuffins remained mostly out of sight behind the cart. All was well until the bird joined the conversation. "Hello, Bird! - Messy Bird! - Shit! - Supper Time! - Acaro, Ade! - More Yoruba, mostly obscene."
This outburst aroused the official's curiosity. He was not used to being yelled at in two languages by a cardboard box. He pointed to the box and beckoned. I complied; he opened it and gazed sourly at Penny, who continued to offer cheery greetings and suggestions.
"Nicht in Denmark", the officer declared. "Not since 1937", he added.
We were marched to a secure holding area to await the arrival of the Port Health Veterinarian. The vet arrived at noon and was clearly unamused by his summons. His dress suggested that he had been enjoying some sort of elegant affair appropriate to a warm Sunday in August - beige ultra-suede jacket, snowy-white shirt and gleaming tasseled loafers. Inside his office, Dr. Elegant consulted a large book dealing with birds and diseases thereof. ("Nicht since 1937". He did not know from parrots.) After a few minutes, he explained that he was required to ascertain the bird's rectal temperature. Before I could intervene he thrust his hand into the cage to capture Penny. Big mistake. With an audible snap, Penny seized his ostentatious gold ring with her usual 800 foot pounds psi. No contest - he was not going to escape unaided. Lying engagingly, I said that Penny was simply being playful, pried her beak free of the ring and extracted her from the cage. Next, at the now wary Dr. Elegant's direction I inverted a seriously pissed off bird to allow the insertion of a rectal thermometer.
Do you see where this is going? Thought so.
In the way of all escalating disasters, Penny indicated that she didn't much like this uninvited penetration by violently expelling the offending object together with everything upstream from it while freeing one large wing and flapping it vigorously. It was The Perfect Shit Storm.
Think ultra suede. Snowy white shirt. Gleaming loafers. Throw in gold-rimmed designer glasses.
There ensued a long, thoughtful silence. Dr. Elegant dabbed his face and gazed ruefully at his splattered clothing. I wondered how I would explain to the kids that the Government of Denmark had sentenced their buddy to death for assaulting an official in the performance of his duty.
At long last, Dr. Elegant spoke in icy, measured tones. "The parrot appears to be healthy. You may keep it in Denmark for seven days. "On the seventh day", he continued Biblically "...you must remove this bird from the country. My fee in this matter is 235 Crowns, payable immediately." The fee seemed a little steep. I think that he rolled in his cleaning bill and a few Crowns for a jug of Aquavit but I was not about to argue.
Penny made it to Canada and continued her irritating ways until her untimely death. Whenever I see a parrot (daily, thanks to the presence of EVIL BIRD - see previous posts) I remember the Perfect Shit Storm and the calm and decency of a good vet who did not wring a wretched, defecating parrot's neck on the spot.
Good people, these Danes. Even since 1937.
The travel arrangements were tricky. Parrots, I learned were "birdies non grata" in a number of countries, therefore Penny had to travel undetected. I figured that if Penny were stowed in unremarkable check-in baggage and flew only in aircraft with heated, pressurized holds, we might get away with it. In preparation for this adventure in international smuggling I went to Ikeja Market and purchased a rusty budgie cage. I found a sturdy cardboard box into which the cage would just fit. Bird in cage, cage in box, lots of stealth air holes, a bit of twine and tape and Voila! - standard immigrant travel baggage that would attract no attention.
The ruse got us out of Lagos, through Ghana and past Customs at Heathrow. The cab ride to a spiffy hotel in Marble Arch was uneventful thanks to a chatty cabbie who talked more than a tree full of birds. At the hotel, I left my ragamuffins in charge of our formidable baggage heap and went to register. In the midst of the formalities, a blue rinse dowager late of some Brit comedy show steamed by my tattered luggage heading for the Desk. Moments later, the lobby resounded to piercing wolf whistles and cries of "Messy Fucking Bird", "How Are You?" and a stream of Yoruba insults. Penny was getting restive. Dowager turned to glare at my kids who tried to look innocent. Mahogany-tanned, unwashed and clothed in rags a Nigerian ditch digger would have burned as they were, they appeared anything but innocent. Let us say that Fagan would have found employment for them.
HMS Dowager sailed on. We dodged the bullet that time but not in Copenhagen a week later.
We arrived a 7:00 AM, collected our cartload of tattered luggage and headed into the "Nothing to Declare" lane. Penny, silent and invisible in her box sat atop the load. The sleepy Customs Officer asked his routine questions while my ragamuffins remained mostly out of sight behind the cart. All was well until the bird joined the conversation. "Hello, Bird! - Messy Bird! - Shit! - Supper Time! - Acaro, Ade! - More Yoruba, mostly obscene."
This outburst aroused the official's curiosity. He was not used to being yelled at in two languages by a cardboard box. He pointed to the box and beckoned. I complied; he opened it and gazed sourly at Penny, who continued to offer cheery greetings and suggestions.
"Nicht in Denmark", the officer declared. "Not since 1937", he added.
We were marched to a secure holding area to await the arrival of the Port Health Veterinarian. The vet arrived at noon and was clearly unamused by his summons. His dress suggested that he had been enjoying some sort of elegant affair appropriate to a warm Sunday in August - beige ultra-suede jacket, snowy-white shirt and gleaming tasseled loafers. Inside his office, Dr. Elegant consulted a large book dealing with birds and diseases thereof. ("Nicht since 1937". He did not know from parrots.) After a few minutes, he explained that he was required to ascertain the bird's rectal temperature. Before I could intervene he thrust his hand into the cage to capture Penny. Big mistake. With an audible snap, Penny seized his ostentatious gold ring with her usual 800 foot pounds psi. No contest - he was not going to escape unaided. Lying engagingly, I said that Penny was simply being playful, pried her beak free of the ring and extracted her from the cage. Next, at the now wary Dr. Elegant's direction I inverted a seriously pissed off bird to allow the insertion of a rectal thermometer.
Do you see where this is going? Thought so.
In the way of all escalating disasters, Penny indicated that she didn't much like this uninvited penetration by violently expelling the offending object together with everything upstream from it while freeing one large wing and flapping it vigorously. It was The Perfect Shit Storm.
Think ultra suede. Snowy white shirt. Gleaming loafers. Throw in gold-rimmed designer glasses.
There ensued a long, thoughtful silence. Dr. Elegant dabbed his face and gazed ruefully at his splattered clothing. I wondered how I would explain to the kids that the Government of Denmark had sentenced their buddy to death for assaulting an official in the performance of his duty.
At long last, Dr. Elegant spoke in icy, measured tones. "The parrot appears to be healthy. You may keep it in Denmark for seven days. "On the seventh day", he continued Biblically "...you must remove this bird from the country. My fee in this matter is 235 Crowns, payable immediately." The fee seemed a little steep. I think that he rolled in his cleaning bill and a few Crowns for a jug of Aquavit but I was not about to argue.
Penny made it to Canada and continued her irritating ways until her untimely death. Whenever I see a parrot (daily, thanks to the presence of EVIL BIRD - see previous posts) I remember the Perfect Shit Storm and the calm and decency of a good vet who did not wring a wretched, defecating parrot's neck on the spot.
Good people, these Danes. Even since 1937.
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