Singing a different hockey song

“We grew up with that damn thing. It’s part of our history, part of our life, part of the enthusiasm for the game. When you heard that, you thought Canada, you thought hockey, you thought CBC. What the hell are they trying to do? Who’s running the CBC?” — former NHL player and broadcaster Howie Meeker, now 84, on the demise of the Hockey Night in Canada theme on CBC. There is a general unrest rippling through Canadian hockey fans these days. In case you haven’t heard, the CBC, the home of Hockey Night in Canada since before Wayne Gretzky was in diapers, recently opted to no longer pay for the rights to use “The Hockey Theme” to open its broadcasts. The decision enraged hockey fans, who see the song as an integral part of their sport in this country. A staple on Saturday nights for 40 years, and one of the longest running theme songs in broadcasting history, the jazzy tune has been called Canada’s second national anthem. It was written in 1968 by Dolores Claman, a commercial jingle writer who also penned “A Place to Stand (Ontari-ari-ario)” more than four decades ago. Ms. Claman’s agent said she was paid $800 for the job, but retained the rights to the song. During the 1970s, she received royalties of about $1,000 a year. More recently, Claman earned $500 for each broadcast that featured the theme. Apparently, though, it wasn’t enough. The CBC offered nearly $1 million for rights to the piece, but Dolores wouldn’t budge. Ensuring the popular tune will not die, rival broadcaster CTV negotiated with the song’s 80-year-old composer and quickly purchased the rights for a reported $3 million; which is an awful lot of tea and biscuits for one little old lady now living in England. Instead of being seen a Canadian hero with a sense of pride and tradition, Dolores Claman has come across as a greedyguts more interested in a payday than patriotism. Conversely, the CBC looks like a cheapskate. But you can hardly blame them. Paying $3 million for a TV theme song is a ridiculous notion, especially considering the composer hasn’t put in a day’s work for the CBC in 40 years. Ms. Claman should be disgusted with herself. The song is good, but it’s not that good. Such arrogance is shameful. In an effort to salvage their end of the situation, the CBC is currently hosting a contest to find the next Hockey Night in Canada theme song. The winning songwriter will pocket a bargain basement $100,000 prize, and almost surely retain no rights to the song thereafter. If the CBC had any sense, they would plunk Dolores in a net in front of a garage door, and have hockey fans line up to fire foam pucks at her. Even at a dollar a pop, the stunt would eclipse her bloated $3 million price tag in no time. As a Canadian, and proud CBC viewer, I actually have no problem with Hockey Night in Canada sounding a little different this fall. Tradition is good, but so is change, and the NHL and hockey broadcasts are not the same as they were when Howe and Hull were king. Perhaps the CBC will pay $100,000 for Howie Meeker to go on a red-faced, profanity-laced rant every week.

The tragic end of the in-law suite

There is a story up in the Haliburton highlands that no one dares tell too often, a tragic story that appears to be so fantastic and so incredible that it may actually be true. The tale of the in-law suite is rarely repeated because no one wants to admit guilt by association, and no man worth his right boot would want word to spread too far, especially as far as the in-laws. In the event you happen to be an in-law, consider this your final warning. Fish the shores of any cottage country lake, and you will find a myriad of camps with a little shack or shanty down by the water. These secondary dwellings often pale in comparison to their larger cousins up the hill, but are no less quaint and comfortable for a short stay at the lake. They usually come equipped with a small but agreeable bed, curtains for the windows, and perhaps an old puzzle or board game. They also usually come with the odd mouse or bat, but it’s all part of the cottage experience. The in-law suite is perfect for parents, drunks or any other annoyance overstaying their welcome. Down by the lake, they can find quiet time and still be part of the fun. An in-law suite overlooking the water is particularly valuable, especially during sunset or an all-day rain. Due to the unforgiving nature of most shoreline terrain, many an in-law suite has been built on a steep slope and held level by a number of posts, beams and buttresses. This is usually a small number, and also where the story picks up. The first night the in-laws visit, they will probably begin to complain about the price of gas, the traffic, and how long it took to get out of the city. They will remind you that you live so far away, that you never come and visit them, and they are missing seeing their grandchildren grow up. After hearing all this over barbecued steaks that you heard were too rare, too burned and too tough to chew, you politely excuse yourself for an evening fish. With rod and reel in hand, you disappear down the steps to the lake, pausing only once to grab the hand saw from the shed. On your way past the in-law suite, you quickly, quietly saw through most of the first post, and then go fishing. For day two, the in-laws are telling you to get a new job, a new car, and a new barber to trim the hair in your nose. Smiling, you excuse yourself from the table for the evening fish and cut through most of the second post. By day three, the in-laws are reminding you that your wife would have been better off marrying the guy she was seeing before she met you, their kids would have been much better looking, and your breath would make an excellent paint stripper if you ever refinish the cabin. You thank them for their kind words, tell them what a pleasant stay you are having, and ask if they can’t please stay just one more night. And then you cut the final post. That night, with the in-laws just settling into bed, you quietly walk down to the suite and give it a swift kick. By the time they realize what is happening, the old shack should have fallen like a house of cards, slipped down the rocks and be bobbing in the lake. And your in-laws will never bother to visit again.

The tragic end of the in-law suite

There is a story up in the Haliburton highlands that no one dares tell too often, a tragic story that appears to be so fantastic and so incredible that it may actually be true. The tale of the in-law suite is rarely repeated because no one wants to admit guilt by association, and no man worth his right boot would want word to spread too far, especially as far as the in-laws. In the event you happen to be an in-law, consider this your final warning. Fish the shores of any cottage country lake, and you will find a myriad of camps with a little shack or shanty down by the water. These secondary dwellings often pale in comparison to their larger cousins up the hill, but are no less quaint and comfortable for a short stay at the lake. They usually come equipped with a small but agreeable bed, curtains for the windows, and perhaps an old puzzle or board game. They also usually come with the odd mouse or bat, but it’s all part of the cottage experience. The in-law suite is perfect for parents, drunks or any other annoyance overstaying their welcome. Down by the lake, they can find quiet time and still be part of the fun. An in-law suite overlooking the water is particularly valuable, especially during sunset or an all-day rain. Due to the unforgiving nature of most shoreline terrain, many an in-law suite has been built on a steep slope and held level by a number of posts, beams and buttresses. This is usually a small number, and also where the story picks up. The first night the in-laws visit, they will probably begin to complain about the price of gas, the traffic, and how long it took to get out of the city. They will remind you that you live so far away, that you never come and visit them, and they are missing seeing their grandchildren grow up. After hearing all this over barbecued steaks that you heard were too rare, too burned and too tough to chew, you politely excuse yourself for an evening fish. With rod and reel in hand, you disappear down the steps to the lake, pausing only once to grab the hand saw from the shed. On your way past the in-law suite, you quickly, quietly saw through most of the first post, and then go fishing. For day two, the in-laws are telling you to get a new job, a new car, and a new barber to trim the hair in your nose. Smiling, you excuse yourself from the table for the evening fish and cut through most of the second post. By day three, the in-laws are reminding you that your wife would have been better off marrying the guy she was seeing before she met you, their kids would have been much better looking, and your breath would make an excellent paint stripper if you ever refinish the cabin. You thank them for their kind words, tell them what a pleasant stay you are having, and ask if they can’t please stay just one more night. And then you cut the final post. That night, with the in-laws just settling into bed, you quietly walk down to the suite and give it a swift kick. By the time they realize what is happening, the old shack should have fallen like a house of cards, slipped down the rocks and be bobbing in the lake. And your in-laws will never bother to visit again.

The riding mower’s last ride...?

Mowing the lawn, for the most part, is a boring and tedious job. Unless you are in the habit of carving messages in the grass for low-flying planes, the job is routine. Sometimes, however, there’s a break in the routine. A good man I know, just for example, has been cutting his grass the same way for about 30 years. For the sake of protecting the innocent, we will call him Yard-Man. Every once in a while something exciting happens to Yard-Man, such as running over a snake or a nest of bees, but most often his circuits around the yard are uneventful. Not so this month. In the middle of a routine afternoon of mowing the long grass around the edge of the pond in the backyard, Yard-Man was startled into action when the steering linkage on his riding mower let loose. Finding himself suddenly careening out of control, Yard-Man fought hard to gain command of his now runaway mower. At the time, he had no way of knowing the steering was finished, and the mower was on a direct downhill race to the pond. By the time Yard-Man stomped on the brake, his riding mower was in the drink. And him with it. All Yard-Man could do was hang on for the ride as the machine plunged over the bank and into the water. He said it actually sank rather slowly for a tractor of its size, and he easily floated away from the mower to the safety of the shore, his heart leaping like the nearby frogs. It had been years since Yard-Man had been swimming in the pond, and he wasn’t too happy about it this time. Words like refreshing and invigorating did not cross his mind. Plenty of his favourite four letter words did, but were drowned out by the sloshing of his shoes as he walked back up to the house to ask for some assistance. Armed with nylon straps, he was quickly back in the pond and tying a knot suitable for towing. He considered leaving the whole mess underwater, for a watery memorial like the Titanic, but managed to get everything fastened to the trailer hitch of the car. With a steady pull, Yard-Man soon had his riding mower back on dry land. Once he confirmed the steering was shot, he set about fixing the problem. He then drained all the gasoline and oil from the engine, and began drying the whole fiasco out. After a couple days, Yard-Man had everything back together, and had settled his blood pressure enough to give the machine a try. It wouldn’t start, so he grabbed a beer and sat down beside the pool, half expecting deer to come wading through the lush, long leaves of grass in his yard. On the fourth day of trying to start the lawn mower, the engine sputtered, caught, and began running. Yard-Man smiled, and decided the best way to work out any lingering kinks was to give the machine a good workout. In defiance of everything the mower had thrown at him, brave sir Yard-Man finished cutting his lawn without incident. It has been a couple weeks now since the accident, and Yard-Man has had to endure a lot of ribbing, such as being asked if he now cuts his grass with flippers on. Personally, I have to hand it to him. Come hell or high water, literally in this case, there is just no stopping a good Yard-Man.

Mosquitoes like summer too

Chances are, like any good Canadian, you will spend at least some of your summer in the great outdoors. When faced with this country’s two seasons, winter and July, enjoying time outside in the sun and surf is a must. It is a part of who we are. Of course, mosquitoes see our country in much the same way, and like to take advantage of us at a time of year when we are most vulnerable, and most likely to have a patch or two of exposed skin. Scientists estimate it takes 1,200,000 mosquitoes, each sucking once, to completely drain the average human of blood. This is difficult to test, unless you’ve gone camping without a tent, or passed out at a picnic table, or both. It is hard to even imagine what it might be like, to be drained and tortured so slowly you could swear it was a career. Arctic researchers who bared their bodies reported as many as 9,000 bites per minute from swarming, newly hatched mosquitoes. At that rate, an individual could lose half his blood in two hours. It is even harder to imagine what that might be like, to be drained and tortured so quickly you could swear it was your wedding day. Mosquitoes use their distinctive whines to attract mates, and can match the pitch of a potential partner. Most males and females can relate to each other in a second or two, which is often the same length of time it takes a human female to reject a potential mate in a crowded bar. The mosquito can even mate in midair, often in as little as 15 seconds from initial approach to kiss goodnight. This is roughly the length of a beer commercial. Some humans have been rumoured to attempt the same workrate, although research in the field is limited, even among naked researchers running through the arctic tundra. Running from mosquitoes is counterproductive. They prefer larger targets and are attracted to movement, so offer your largest and loudest guest a skipping rope or live badger to play with. Mosquitoes use your exhaled breath to track you down, but hit a top speed of only 2.5 kmh. Most people can eclipse this with a steady walk, unless you happen to be a large, panting man with a skipping rope. Many mosquitoes are active at dawn and dusk, but will still find you for a snack at any time of the day or night. Looking on the bright side, millions of years ago the little buzzers were several times larger than they are today. Experts say there are are still more than 2,500 varieties of them whining from the tundra to the tropics, including a unique strain that lives only in the London subway system and feeds on rats and other underground morsels. Most of the surface of a mosquito’s head is eyes, capable of picking up infrared images and heat patterns emanating from a body, just like the alien in the movie Predator. To avoid being detected, you can cover yourself in mud, like Arnold did in the film, and consider saving the world. If mud doesn’t suit you, there is always the mosquito net. The world’s largest net is in Nigeria, and capable of protecting 200 children at a time. I recommend rigging one across your backyard, or trying anything that will get you out and enjoying another great Canadian summer.

If you throw a pie, make it rhubarb

It’s hard to turn down a good piece of pie—even if that piece of pie happens to have rhubarb in it. There are people out there who love rhubarb. They mash it up in jam, squeeze it into juice, or dip the stalks in sugar and eat it like pandas gnawing on bamboo. These are also the kinds of people who love vinegar, the sound of teeth grinding, and can spend a day wearing wet socks. My own grandmother was a rhubarb fan, and could grow it half as high as the garage, which was helpful whenever we jumped off her garage and needed a place to land. We always thought it was a weed. I still think it is. The plant came from Asia, where historians believe it was eaten by Mongolians and the tribes of the Gobi Desert. This explains a lot, because there isn’t typically a lot of food one can enjoy in a desert, and rhubarb does taste slightly better than dirt, especially when baked in a pie. It also helps explain why early marauders like Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun were so bent on exploring and conquering the world. They were probably just looking for a better piece of pie. Can’t say as I blame them. If Attila or Genghis had ventured far enough to find peaches, I doubt they would ever have returned home. The plant is prized by pie makers, because it turns red and fools them into thinking it is some type of fruit. It is also one of the first food plants to be ready for harvest in cooler climates, well before apples and blueberries, and all the other assorted plants that are actually pleasant to eat. Rhubarb use didn’t really catch on until the rise of affordable sugar. Before that, not even the dogs would sniff a rhubarb pie. Fast forward to today, and East Sussex, England, where organizers hoped to break the world pie fighting record. The previous record was 70 pie-throwing participants, but word soon spread and an estimated 1,200 people indicated they were willing to join in the fun. Local police stepped in to stop the event at the last minute, saying they were worried they would be unable to control a pie fighting mob of that size, and couldn’t prevent innocent bystanders from being accidentally struck by flying pies. Authorities eventually relented and said the event could continue, but with reasonable numbers. What you and I both know, and no one has the guts to say, is that the police most likely shut the pie fight down because no one was going to be throwing rhubarb pies. Throwing any other kind of pie would be a waste. If you are the type of person who would throw a rhubarb pie, here’s a hint. Gather up all the rhubarb you can, save yourself the trouble of baking a pie, and then throw all the stalks into a river or over a steep cliff. There might even be a world record in it for you. With so many food choices at our disposal today, there really is no excuse for anyone to be baking rhubarb pies. Strawberry-rhubarb pie can be delicious, and I had one on Sunday that was excellent; but I’m a trooper, and am ready, willing and able to wait until the peach pies, apple pies, raspberry pies and blueberry pies are ready. Or until I find myself stranded in the Gobi Desert.