It was a three George weekend

Without any real forethought on my part, I recently spent a weekend visiting three Georges in three days.

It all started with a stop to see George M, to return a roasting pan I had borrowed. It is a family heirloom, large enough to cook a 24-pound turkey every Christmas, and tough enough to dance a jig on. They don’t even make cars that tough anymore, let alone a lowly roasting pan. George M loves that roasting pan, and I can’t say as I blame him. If a cyclone ever hit the old farmhouse, the first thing I would crawl under is that old roasting pan. So, if you’re a bird at or under 24 pounds, watch out for George; because he will cook you and feed you to his family, with great gravy and little or no remorse.

Further on down the road, George P was having a birthday, three days before mine. He’s a fair shot older than me, but I wouldn’t remind him of it, unless you want a shot to the jaw. Sharing a birthday is a perfect excuse to get together for a drink, and it’s always an interesting visit with George P and his younger brother; who plays an old Gibson guitar and tries to sell new Harley Davidsons. He is much better at writing songs than selling Harleys, but has the charm to tackle both. The brothers often get together with Jim and Moe, who live a few doors down, and spend the bulk of their days sitting at a picnic table on the slim chance it is lighter than air and might float away. One used to be a bouncer and a cabbie, and the other is a dead ringer for Archie Bunker. Jim and Moe are old friends, and usually have about a dozen cigarettes, and half as many teeth, between them. All four like to play cards, and tell stories, and smoke until their eyes bleed. It would be quite a sight, if you could see through all the smoke.

From there, I met up with George F, who was marrying the woman he loves; which, if you think you need to get married, is an excellent place to start. George F is a great guy too; full of life, or beer, or a combination of both. He also makes a killer pot of baked beans, which fills everyone up with something else. He invited his closest friends and family to the wedding, opened the bar, and let the laughter and love come rushing in. The meal was exquisite, and lasted longer than some marriages.

George P and George F both live in Windsor, or ‘Sor as some of the locals call it. Parts of that town are still an open ‘Sor, but a lot are closed now, such as the places that used to make cars. I feel sorry for our border towns, where manufacturing jobs have dried up and died, and taken a good chunk of the city’s vitality with them.

What these towns need is a whole new attitude, and I would start by electing George and George and George to the ‘Sor city council and let them try and right the ship. George P could put people to work rolling cigarettes, while George F could take all the contraband collected at the bridge and sell it in stores at a reduced rate. George M could then take the surplus and buy roasting pans and turkeys for all the out of work auto makers.

I haven’t mentioned all this to the Georges, but I might, as soon as I get back down that road for a weekend.

Storm days need not be snow days

March 14th, 2008

Imagine another typical winter morning, a morning where blinding snow is whipped into a frenzy by howling winds, where visibility is limited, safe travel is unlikely, schools are closed, and no buses are running. It is a snow day—but it is anything but typical.

There was a time, before this age of safety first, when responsibility’s ugly cousin liability didn’t reek like wet boots over everything we see and do. Snow days used to be reserved for the worst of storms, when the roads, the ditches and the fields all looked the same. White. Today we err on the side of caution, and hold children home from school at the slightest sign of a storm. It doesn’t even have to be a storm anymore. Since the new year began, local students have enjoyed a day away from their desks for a snow day, an ice day, even a fog day. What students were doing home last Wednesday is anyone’s guess. Perhaps, with all that sunlight and bright blue sky, children were in danger of snow blindness. It is not the first time buses have been cancelled on a marginal storm day, and it certainly won’t be the last.

The problem is obvious. The people in charge of school cancellations are getting up way too early to make sensible decisions. Snow day storms often level off by midday. If everyone was encouraged to sleep in, weather wouldn’t be nearly as bad, and the world would run a little better. If the school day started at noon, students and teachers could get to class more often. Kids could sleep half the day away, which is something they might enjoy anyway; and working parents would no longer have to scramble to get supper ready, because school would get out at six. Of course, this is only a partial solution to the problem.

For the benefit of all young people, I assembled a top research team, and determined there are far more winter storms in the months of January and February in Canada than occur in July and August. Take a look at the data. It speaks for itself. You couldn’t make it up if you tried.

As snow days begin to pile up, students run the risk of falling behind due to missed time. This would not happen if classes were held in the summer, and “summer vacation” stretched from Christmas through to March break. Imagine how happy our young people would be if they were home all winter, eating junk food and playing video games, which is something they might enjoy anyway. Their days would be free for such old-time favourites as ice fishing, snow shoveling, icicle tasting and flagpole licking. Conversely, classes all summer would get them out of such arduous tasks as mowing the lawn, taking the dog for a run, or swimming in the pool.

Just think of how happy children would be every July, staring out the classroom window at sun-dappled fields, knowing the weather was not going to hinder them from receiving an education. Sure, there is always the risk of a storm in August, but only the tallest kids would have to worry about being hit by lightning, which is something they might enjoy anyway. Whatever the solution, we recognize that this is Canada, and snow days are a part—a big part—of our lives.

A blues man, jazz wizard and inspiration

“Steady and strong I still hold on, waiting for my chance to come.” - from the song Someday, Someway off the Jeff Healey Band 1988 debut album See the Light.

If life gives you lemons, make lemonade—and if life gives you the blues, make music. Jeff Healey, one of the finest and most distinctive guitar players this country has ever produced, died on Sunday after a lengthy struggle with cancer. He was 41.

Life was never easy for Healey, and he was handed a hard dose of lemons at an early age. Robbed of his sight as a baby due to a rare form of cancer, he started playing the guitar at age three. Due to his small size, he held the instrument across his lap, and forged a trademark playing style that continued throughout his musical career. What the young man lacked in eyesight (his eyes had to be surgically removed, and he was given artificial replacements) Healey more than made up for in musical skill. Rather than cry the blues and shut himself off from the world, he became a performer.

His band’s debut See the Light was an instant success and Grammy nominee. Audiences couldn’t get enough of the guitar virtuoso. Often quiet and reserved away from the stage, he liked to close his concerts by leaping out of his chair, jumping up and down, and searing the room with an energy and talent that few performers would attempt, let alone equal. He landed a supporting and memorable role in the movie Road House, and earned a Juno Award in 1990 as Entertainer of the Year. As the ‘90s progressed, so did Healey’s music, and he turned to his real love, classic jazz from the 1920s, ‘30s and ‘40s. He hosted a radio jazz program, and was known for playing rarities from his personal collection of more than 30,000 vintage 78-rpm records. In recent years, Jeff Healey’s Jazz Wizards saw the versatile musician regularly play acoustic guitar and trumpet on Saturday afternoons at his music-based club Healey’s, situated in Toronto. He eventually moved on to a larger location, and named it Jeff Healey's Roadhouse.

Early last year, Healey underwent surgery to remove cancerous tissue from his legs, and later from both lungs. Despite the disease, he continued to tour the country. Jeff Healey’s Jazz Wizards played The Old Roxy not so long ago, and he joked during the show that he had never seen a finer theatre.

I even had the good luck to sit in on drums, when a local band opened for Jeff Healey a couple years earlier, at a show in the community centre. It was a far cry from a sold out 70,000 seat arena, but Healey didn’t care. He played with his usual fire and flair, and was nothing but a professional and a gentleman. With a new blues rock album, Mess of Blues, set to hit the shelves this spring, it is clear that Healey’s work and music was by no means done. He lived for the music.

Ultimately, Jeff Healey lived life the way it should be lived, never losing his sense of humour or his musical playfulness. Whether he was playing the blues, blowing jazz on his trumpet, tending bar, or talking with his many fans, he was always steady and strong—and an true inspiration.