Sometimes it’s easy to get scared

Hallowe’en has always been a favourite of mine, because it is that special time of year when people are actually expected to scare the daylights out of each other. The first time I can remember being truly terrified was back when I was still in diapers, and afraid of the barking, growling dog next door. It was a Doberman guard dog, and its breath smelled like half-digested children. Or so I thought, because I never got close enough to that snarling, unholy menace to be sure. At least I had no trouble filling my diapers when the beast was around, and I sleep well at night now knowing that I outlived that four-legged freak. As I got older, Mrs. Webster was the scariest monster in town. A hollow-eyed hag with wrinkled skin and a wispy beard, she was well known as the crazy lady who took in all the township’s stray cats. One year, we stumbled upon her house on Hallowe’en, and she loaded us up with so much candy we were sure she was fattening us up to feed to her 300 or so pets. She was actually a nice old lady, but we never realized it at the time. It was just too hard to see the kind and generous person behind that beard. I remember being too scared to sleep after watching an episode of The Incredible Hulk for the first time. After the show became a hit, they basically turned the Hulk into a big green baby; but the opening credits, where he goes berserk and tosses his own car into the ditch, were plenty scary. The scariest movie I ever saw was The Exorcist, the one where a seemingly innocent young girl is possessed by the devil and totally freaks out everyone around her; including a freckle-faced kid who should have been in bed, but wasn’t, because his babysitter was too busy talking to her boyfriend on the phone. Thirty-five years later, that film still stands up as one of the scariest ever made, and is my top pick for anyone who says they never get scared at the movies. In high school, getting chased by the cops (for a crime I didn’t commit, of course) was always a scare, but real terror was getting escorted out of town by the police because the locals were upset you had eliminated their team from the playoffs. It is hard to remember exactly which town that was, but most of the people in it were chewing tobacco, throwing bottles and dating their cousins, if that helps. You might think that scary situations would ease up a bit in a person’s adult years, but there is always something lurking around the corner to put the fear in a man. Losing control of your car on a slippery road, standing in front of a crowd to sing Have You Seen the Muffin Man, swimming in a pond infested with leeches, sitting in an airplane as it bounces through turbulence, watching a funnel cloud appear above your house, spotting grandma’s ghost in her old rocking chair, or watching as your son strolls home with a girl from a town where everyone chews tobacco and throws bottles, can all be pretty scary. The last time I was really and truly scared was on a date when a woman held my hand in hers, looked deep into my eyes, and said all she really wanted in life was to settle down and get married—and no Doberman, Hulk, Exorcist or funnel cloud can prepare you for a fright like that.

I heard tell of a fella...

Every little once in a while, you hear a story that leaves you scratching your head; a story that sounds so fantastic it just has to be true, because no one in their right mind would make up such ridiculous nonsense. Such a story usually begins with something like “I heard tell of a fella...” and ends with something along the lines of “Who’d a thunk it.” Maybe you hear stories like that all the time, and love them. Maybe you don’t, and get to hear them all anyway. I heard tell it happens. I also heard tell of a fella who tried to make a few bucks raising free range cattle. He had the land, and the notion there was a market for all-natural, farm-raised beef, but the money never did come rolling in. The only thing that always came rolling in was neighbours at meal time. What also came rolling in was moose hunting season, and every fall a few of his animals would be wandering the hills and lowlands and inadvertently end up dead in the sights of a rifle. No one ever felt good about the situation, but rather than aggravate the issue with complaints, the farmer invested in a can of blaze orange spray paint. Now, each fall, his cattle all sport a giant C O W in bold letters across their sides. The cattle don’t seem to mind, and there are fewer accidents, so the system appears to work. He even offers a discount for hunters who wind up empty handed at the end of the season. Who’d a thunk it. Then I heard tell of a fella who can’t wait for ice fishing season to start, so he can try out his latest find, FishTV. Imagine a submersible camera in the shape of a fish, connected to 50 feet of cable, and broadcasting a live picture to a nearby video monitor. That’s FishTV. It even has an infrared light on the front for added visibility, making it useful enough to spot anything from minnows to Loch Ness. Rather than stare off into space, or down the hole, the fisherman plans to watch FishTV a lot this winter. He even plans on dumping a bag of bright, white dolomite down the hole to ensure a nice contrast in the picture, sort of like an underwater movie screen as the fish sniff around the bait. The entire rig is also well suited for the inside of a boat, and for eyeballing fish who might be trailing the lure on the end of your line as you’re out trolling. Who’d a thunk it. I also heard tell of a fella who is looking for a permit and a special season designed to bring a new northern nuisance animal under control, the dump deer. Apparently, northern communities are being plagued by herds of smart deer; animals who have figured out that a lot of people do a lot more recycling than composting, and garbage bags can be stuffed with such deerly delicacies as apple cores, potato skins, lettuce leaves and carrot tops. With little or no shame, deer are now hanging out in landfills and, with little or no work, are ripping through the plastic they find and dining on the contents. Factor in the dump bears and reduce-reuse-raccoons, and the landfill begins to look like a woodsy cafeteria. Who’d a thunk it. I also heard tell of a fella who accidentally spilled spot remover on his dog, and now he can’t find him. Oh, you’ve heard that one? Who’d a thunk it.

It’s go take a flying leap day

The days are getting shorter, the nights are colder, and even the sun seems farther away. There can be no doubt that summer is done. Yet, there is no point in being sullen. Today is October 22. Today is go take a flying leap day. It was on this very day, way back in 1797, that André-Jacques Garnerin made the first jump with a parachute. The French were true pioneers when it came to getting off the ground. They basically invented the hot air balloon, and were the first to fly them with any real success. It only stands to reason, then, that a Paris inventor would also come up with the first useful frameless parachute. Garnerin’s early experiments were based on umbrella-shaped devices. The umbrella did work well in the movies for Mary Poppins, but not quite as well for my uncle, who landed in the lawn with a heap trying to sail off the garage when he was a boy. He eventually went to work in Silicon Valley in California, where I always assumed he made miniature robots, or bombs, or robots with miniature bombs. I never did learn the truth, because eventually my uncle’s boss told him to go take a flying leap. Garnerin made his first leap with a silk parachute, jumping from a hot air balloon while floating over a park in Paris. After a descent of almost a kilometre, he landed without injury in front of an admiring crowd. His wife Jeanne-Geneviève was the first successful female parachutist. According to historians, Chinese texts described a primitive form of parachute 15 centuries ago. In the 9th century, a daredevil named Ali Ben Isa created one of the earliest versions of a parachute, described as a huge winglike cloak to break his fall when he decided to fly off a tower. The visionary Leonardo da Vinci sketched a pyramid style parachute in the 1400s. It was intended as an escape device to allow people to jump from burning buildings. The older style parachutes were little more than cloth and sticks, while modern varieties are often nylon and quite maneuverable, much like a glider. Folding a parachute requires a high degree of skill, and an improperly folded parachute will not deploy, which is never a good thing. Over time, parachutes need to be replaced as they do deteriorate. Failing to replace your chute in time is never a good thing. If you are considering making your own parachute to celebrate go take a flying leap day, be aware that designs have improved since André-Jacques pioneering days. Garnerin did invent the vented parachute as well, which improved the stability of his falls. Continual improvements have been made over the years, and this is a good thing. Exact numbers are difficult to estimate, but approximately 1 in 1000 main parachute openings malfunction. This means you could go take a flying leap every day for about three years, and not likely encounter a problem. Most skydivers feel those odds just aren’t good enough, and that’s why the “reserve chute” was invented. The average fatality rate is considered to be about one in 80,000 jumps, so be sure to quit while you’re ahead. You don’t want to end up like Garnerin either, who died while making a balloon in Paris. He was hit by a beam.

The People, the Sun, the Food and the Suds

The people. It could be because people come from all sorts of places to enjoy the beaches and the life that Australia has to offer, or maybe it is all the sunshine, but Australians sure seem to be a happy folk. Everywhere I wandered, the people were friendly, cheerful and courteous; and just about every conversation ended with a “Cheers, mate!” or “No worries.” By and large, Aussies are an unworried people. They work, they play, and they live, love and laugh. There is a real sense of community “downunder”, probably because it takes such an effort just to get to this magnificent island. And it is worth the effort. The food. If I lived and ate in Australia for a year, I could easily weigh in at 400 pounds. The food is that good. Then again, you don’t see too many whales wandering the sidewalks, because the food is that good. The climate allows Oz to grow just about anything, and there are Product of Australia stickers on just about everything. With fresh and tasty food constantly coming in and out of season, there is no reason to eat crap, and not too many of the locals do. Because of the country’s diverse culture, visitors belly up to more Chinese, Thai, Indian or Lebanese eateries than greasy burger joints. You can snack on sushi, shwarma or salads as easily as fried chicken and chips, and chefs take pride in their work from the rooftop terrace to the streetside take-away. The weather. It gets hot in Australia. Blazing hot. Surface of the sun hot. But, like grandpa used to say, it is a dry heat. Even a 37-degree day, when you should be pouring enough sweat to float a boat, doesn’t seem all that bad when the humidity is low. On the days when you start to melt like plastic in a microwave oven, a beach and some cool ocean breezes are never far away; unless you are in the Outback, where only the hardiest of souls dare to tread. The sun can be harsh, to be sure, but hats and sunglasses are more common than shoes. Instead of complaining, you can always go surfing. The beer. Liquor and wine is pricey, way too pricey, but the beer makes up the difference. Because two major beer companies don’t dominate the Australian market, labels and tastes are diverse. Two of the best brews I found were Little Creatures from Perth and James Squire from Sydney, but the best you’ll discover is the cold one in front of you on a hot day. I especially love the notion of the traveller, where no one looks twice when you carry an open container down the street or on the beach. Abuse that privilege, and you’ll be fined, but nobody seems to think less of you if you like to crack a cold one. With such weather, food and people all smiling on you, who can really blame you.

Seventeen years of grinding pays off

When I was a wee bloke, as the locals say, there was a wicked cartoon on television that said the land of Oz is a funny, funny place, where everyone wears a funny, funny face, and the streets are paved with gold, and no one ever grows old, in that funny place called the land of Oz. Australia isn’t actually like that, but it is a place where fairytales do come true. At the Melbourne Cricket Grounds on the weekend, more than 100,000 screaming fans watched the Hawthorn Hawks, bottom feeders of Australian Rules Football, win their first Grand Final in 17 years. It was also the first championship for Hawks captain Shane Crawford, whose personal fairytale came true after 17 long and loyal years, and more than 300 games, with his club. Lasting 17 years in a professional sport is no easy feat, especially in Aussie Rules Football, which is more of a meat grinder than a game at times. Seeing Crawford celebrate the win was like seeing him become a kid again; his loyalty and longevity rewarded with gold, to go with the grins and grass stains. A few hours away at the Sydney Football Stadium, more than 30,000 beer-fueled “footy” fans cheered the Manly Sea Eagles to victory over the Auckland Warriors. Named for the “manly” aboriginals early explorers found on its warm sand beaches, Manly earned their way to the national Rugby League championship in true fairytale style this year. Comprised primarily of players who couldn’t crack starting line-ups on other teams, Manly dominated the game with an unequalled fitness regime, an unstoppable desire to win, and a legendary offensive weapon known affectionately as “the Beaver.” The star of the show, Steve “Beaver” Menzies is officially the oldest active player in the league, and one of its all-time top scorers. He played his entire career for his hometown club, and likely could have made over 0,000 more per season playing for another team, but he was forever loyal to his club and community. Competitive to the final play, the Beav even scored a try in Saturday’s game, and proved to everyone that commitment and drive can power even the most weary of legs. Up in the stands, where a no-longer-wee bloke can get four large beers at a time, a rugby-loving Canadian boy was cheering his heart out, embracing the locals, razzing the Auckland clowns, and doing his country proud. Rugby fans take the game to a whole new level in Australia, and it was exhilarating to sit shoulder to shoulder with them. To soak up the game in Sydney in the springtime, with seaside breezes swirling through the stadium and fans singing songs and spilling into streets and pubs, was a fairytale come true for me. It was the kind of night where, if the light was just right amid all the sloshing beer and slapping hands, you could swear the streets were paved with gold and no one ever grows old.