Alan Skeoch

Month: November 2020

  • EPISODE 158 GRANDMA WRAPPED HOT BRICKS … ADDITIONAL COMMENT

    EPISODE 158 GRANDMA WRAPPED HOT BRICKS…ADDITIONAL COMMENT
    alan skeoch Nov. 6, 2020
    What a day this will be…what a grand and wonderful day. What a day that has emerged from the long dark night. Briden will win the presidency and then I firmly believe all things are possible.
    My story about a frail woman, wracked with Parkinson’s disease…old… yet as strong as steel is not irrelevant. Grandma Louisa Bufton Freeman triumphed over the adversities of life. Triumphed. As I believe the American democracy has done by a razor thin victory.
    Triumphed… with Joe Biden.
    There will be dark days ahead but the sun is rising.
    alan skeoch
    p.s. When I taught history. Especially when I taught the more philosophical aspects of human history… political systems…I noted just how fragile democracy can be using this comment. “Democracy is a troubled spirit whose dream, if it dream, presents only visions of hell.” Those visions of hell have been present, have they not? Well those visions have been relieved on this day…Nov. 6, 2020.
    P.P.S. Grandma wrapped the hot bricks in newspaper…thin, fragile newspaper. Today we have wrapped a very hot brick in a very thin layer of hope…newspaper thin. The hot brick remains. I know that. But it can be contained in time…the brick will cool.

  • Fwd: EPISODE 159 SO I DECIDED TO HELP MARJORIE…AND THAT WAS A BIG DECISION

    Sorry … error in numbering episodes…this is Episode 159…not that anyone cares.


    alan


    Begin forwarded message:


    From: ALAN SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
    Subject: EPISODE 158 SO I DECIDED TO HELP MARJORIE…AND THAT WAS A BIG DECISION
    Date: November 5, 2020 at 9:31:56 AM EST
    To: Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>, Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>, John Wardle <john.t.wardle@gmail.com>


    EPISODE 159   SO I DECIDED TO HELP MARJORIE…AND THAT WAS A BIG DECISION



    alan skeoch
    Nov.  2020




    The newspaper and a cup of coffee take my full attention every morning.  First, I read the lonely hearts
    column.  No particular reason.  Perhaps because the column is on the back page which is easier to 
    read than taking all the effort of opening the newspaper and finding the editorial page which always
    features a political cartoon.   After that I may  or may not continue with the paper providing my coffee
    cup is not empty.   If I wait a bit Marjorie will make proper coffee whereas my choice is speedy coffee
    with those little plastic cups

    Today was different.  I never got beyond the lonely hearts column.  A woman wrote a long letter
    complaining about her husband’s laziness while they are on the Covid 19 lockdown.  She is  at
    the breaking point.  He does noting to help ever since he lost his job due to the virus.  He just 
    parks himself in front of the TV all day.  Does nothing.  She vacuums right in front of him.  He doesn’t
    move.  She does the washing… replaces the sheets, finds the used clothing, pushes the button.  He just
    sits there.   She makes the meals, washes the dishes…”he doesn’t even help to dry a pot.”

    As I read this litany of complaints I began to think.  Marjorie does the vacuuming, makes the meals, washes
    the dishes, puts the dishes away, does the shopping, 
    changes the sheets, washes my socks, ….in short I realized Marjorie does it all.  Me?  I read the
    lonely hearts column and amuse myself with the political cartoon before I spend an hour or two
    writing these Episodes for you…yes, for you lazy creatures who probably have a wife like mine.
    Lucky for us.  Lucky we married multi-taskers.

    Then I began to feel a bit guilty.  Unusual for me for I am a positive type person.  Marjorie is still
    in bed.  She stayed up until 4 a.m. watching the horror show that never ends in the United States.
    My guilt got over powering.  “I can do something to help, I suppose.  I can put the dishes away
    in the cupboard from the dishwasher.”

    Which is exactly what I did.  Cups, plates, bowls, even the knives, forks and spoons.  I put them
    away.  Perhaps not as neatly as Marjorie.  Bit of a pain in the ass to sort the cutlery so I just
    piled it in the cutlery drawer. 

    She is still in bed. “What about my second cup of coffee?  I will have to make it myself. Yuck!”

    So, I reached in the cupboard to grab a clean cup and was immediately a bit shocked. The
    clean cup was not clean.  It had a brown coffee stain in the bottom.  I had just replaced it
    from the dishwasher…was the machine broken?  The problem was bigger than I imagined.
    I had taken all the dirty dishes and cutlery out of the dishwasher and put them all away
    in the cupboard.  Let me say this again.  Dirty dishes in the cupboard.  Now I will have 
    to take them all out and put them back in the dishwasher.  That is not an easy job.  Double
    the work.




    What then?  I will have to start the dishwasher.  Push the right button.  What button?
    I am left handed so the buttons confuse me.  Great excuse that I use all the time. I do
    not know how to do the following tasks…do not know which button to push on the washing
    machine, the clothes drying machine, the TV…hell, I do not even know how to start
    the lawn mower.  Feigned ignorance has served me well for sixty years.   

    When we were first married Marjorie said “stay out of the kitchen, Alan”  and I have 
    faithfully followed that command.  Until this morning.  Oh, the labour is too much.
    …the effort, double effort, Putting dishes back in the dishwasher before Marjorie gets up.

    My sole achievement is putting the little plastic cup in the coffee maker.  Even that
    is a trial because some days the machine needs water.

    I went back to the newspaper.  “Who wrote that complaint?  Couldn’t be Marjorie…or could  it?”  
    I dared not read the advice section so I turned back to the political 
    cartoon and settled myself comfortably in the big chair.

    “Marjorie, are you awake yet?  You will never guess what I did this morning.”
    She would never guess.

    alan skeoch
    Nov. 2020


    That is Woody, our dog, on the front lawn.  On nice days like this I put a lawn
    chair beside him and soak in the sunshine.  Marjorie”?  You cannot see her
    from this angle.  She is down in the ditch mowing the lawn.  Why do I not help?
    I have tried.  She says I do not do a good enough job.  “I may as well do it myself.”
    I am not all bad…bought her the lawn mower after all.

    Putting that new lawn mower from the big box to the lawn was a lot of effort.  Then I had to figure how to put the wheels
    on.  Marjorie figured that out.


    “Marjorie, there is no water in the coffee machine.”


  • EPISODE 158 SO I DECIDED TO HELP MARJORIE…AND THAT WAS A BIG DECISION

    EPISODE 158   SO I DECIDED TO HELP MARJORIE…AND THAT WAS A BIG DECISION



    alan skeoch
    Nov.  2020




    The newspaper and a cup of coffee take my full attention every morning.  First, I read the lonely hearts
    column.  No particular reason.  Perhaps because the column is on the back page which is easier to 
    read than taking all the effort of opening the newspaper and finding the editorial page which always
    features a political cartoon.   After that I may  or may not continue with the paper providing my coffee
    cup is not empty.   If I wait a bit Marjorie will make proper coffee whereas my choice is speedy coffee
    with those little plastic cups

    Today was different.  I never got beyond the lonely hearts column.  A woman wrote a long letter
    complaining about her husband’s laziness while they are on the Covid 19 lockdown.  She is  at
    the breaking point.  He does noting to help ever since he lost his job due to the virus.  He just 
    parks himself in front of the TV all day.  Does nothing.  She vacuums right in front of him.  He doesn’t
    move.  She does the washing… replaces the sheets, finds the used clothing, pushes the button.  He just
    sits there.   She makes the meals, washes the dishes…”he doesn’t even help to dry a pot.”

    As I read this litany of complaints I began to think.  Marjorie does the vacuuming, makes the meals, washes
    the dishes, puts the dishes away, does the shopping, 
    changes the sheets, washes my socks, ….in short I realized Marjorie does it all.  Me?  I read the
    lonely hearts column and amuse myself with the political cartoon before I spend an hour or two
    writing these Episodes for you…yes, for you lazy creatures who probably have a wife like mine.
    Lucky for us.  Lucky we married multi-taskers.

    Then I began to feel a bit guilty.  Unusual for me for I am a positive type person.  Marjorie is still
    in bed.  She stayed up until 4 a.m. watching the horror show that never ends in the United States.
    My guilt got over powering.  “I can do something to help, I suppose.  I can put the dishes away
    in the cupboard from the dishwasher.”

    Which is exactly what I did.  Cups, plates, bowls, even the knives, forks and spoons.  I put them
    away.  Perhaps not as neatly as Marjorie.  Bit of a pain in the ass to sort the cutlery so I just
    piled it in the cutlery drawer. 

    She is still in bed. “What about my second cup of coffee?  I will have to make it myself. Yuck!”

    So, I reached in the cupboard to grab a clean cup and was immediately a bit shocked. The
    clean cup was not clean.  It had a brown coffee stain in the bottom.  I had just replaced it
    from the dishwasher…was the machine broken?  The problem was bigger than I imagined.
    I had taken all the dirty dishes and cutlery out of the dishwasher and put them all away
    in the cupboard.  Let me say this again.  Dirty dishes in the cupboard.  Now I will have 
    to take them all out and put them back in the dishwasher.  That is not an easy job.  Double
    the work.




    What then?  I will have to start the dishwasher.  Push the right button.  What button?
    I am left handed so the buttons confuse me.  Great excuse that I use all the time. I do
    not know how to do the following tasks…do not know which button to push on the washing
    machine, the clothes drying machine, the TV…hell, I do not even know how to start
    the lawn mower.  Feigned ignorance has served me well for sixty years.   

    When we were first married Marjorie said “stay out of the kitchen, Alan”  and I have 
    faithfully followed that command.  Until this morning.  Oh, the labour is too much.
    …the effort, double effort, Putting dishes back in the dishwasher before Marjorie gets up.

    My sole achievement is putting the little plastic cup in the coffee maker.  Even that
    is a trial because some days the machine needs water.

    I went back to the newspaper.  “Who wrote that complaint?  Couldn’t be Marjorie…or could  it?”  
    I dared not read the advice section so I turned back to the political 
    cartoon and settled myself comfortably in the big chair.

    “Marjorie, are you awake yet?  You will never guess what I did this morning.”
    She would never guess.

    alan skeoch
    Nov. 2020


    That is Woody, our dog, on the front lawn.  On nice days like this I put a lawn
    chair beside him and soak in the sunshine.  Marjorie”?  You cannot see her
    from this angle.  She is down in the ditch mowing the lawn.  Why do I not help?
    I have tried.  She says I do not do a good enough job.  “I may as well do it myself.”
    I am not all bad…bought her the lawn mower after all.

    Putting that new lawn mower from the big box to the lawn was a lot of effort.  Then I had to figure how to put the wheels
    on.  Marjorie figured that out.


    “Marjorie, there is no water in the coffee machine.”

  • EPISODE 158 GRANDMA ALWAYS WRAPPED A HOT BRICK OF US ON THOSE DARK WINTER NIGHTS

    EPISODE 158


    alan skeoch
    oct. 2020

    Louisa Bufton Freeman and her dog Laddie in 1957



    EPISODE 158    GRANDMA ALWAYS WRAPPED A HOT BRICK FOR US ON THOSE  DARK WINTER NIGHTS
    (and she shook with Parkinson’s disease while doing it)

    alan skeoch
    Nov. 4, 2020

    “Here, boys, a warm brick for each of you.”
    “Hot brick?”
    “You will need it…the bed will be cold.”

    We left the wood stove  comfort of the only heated room in the farm house.  Leaving that room was Like walking into a refrigerator.
    Every other room in the farm house was frozen…walls clothed  in  frost where the winter winds slipped through
    the cracks in window and door sash.  Footsteps on frozen floorboards echoed back at us from the dirt floor
    cellar below our feet.  

    “Two tired little boys.”
    “Grandma, it is really cold.”
    “Climb the stairs, I’m right behind  you holding the lamp.”

    And  she began sing…a song of which I only remember fragments.

    “Too tired to climb the stairs … off to the land of Nod”  Grandma had a nice singing voice
    that we just took for granted as a natural part of life.  Kids  are like that. 

    We took a  lot more than Grandma’s voice for granted.  She had serious Parkinson’s disease.
    Made her shake all the time.  That lamp that she carried shook  as my brother Eric and I climbed
    those cold  stairs.  It made shadows on the wall that seemed alive and plenty frightening.
    But grandma never let the disease change her life  She had lived through a lot worse than
    Parkinson’s.

    We took everything for granted.  Eric and I let grandma light the wood stove in the morning.
    She had  made a whole pile of twisted  paper wicks from old newspaper.  Getting that burning wick
    in under some kindling and a piece of split maple was not easy because her hands shook so badly.   She knew  the
    dangers that an error could light the farm house on fire so she was  as  careful as possible and
    in no time the stove was belching out enough heat to drive the frost from the walls while wash
    water was warming in the water reservoir attached to the stove.

    Funny thing.. I just remember that her hands  were wrinkled and  the wrinkles held
    soot from that stove.   She was clean but the soot was deep.  Grandma and Granddad
    had  odd habits.  She had her tea cup and he had his.  Those cups were old and
    cracked but they were used every day.   The same was true of the plates and  cutlery.
    Seemed almost that using those old dishes was some kind  of religious act.  After they 
    died  the farm house was  robbed.  The robber or robbers broke in on one dark mid-March 
    evening when the fog was as thick as Cream of Wheat porridge.  Why mention this robbery?
    Because the thief took his time .  He sorted the dishes.  He did  not take grandma and grandpa’s
    cracked  and  beaten plates and  cups.  He took the good stuff, I suppose  But I was glad left those
    heirlooms behind.  I wonder if  I will have a  favourite cup when I  get old?

    So many memories  about her tumble out of my finger tips as I tap tap tap on the computer.

    Around  1957 I was offered a summer job  working in the bush deep in Northern 
    Quebec North west of Chibougamau.  It was a tough and lonely job as those of you
    who have lived in the wilderness know.   Some of our bush crew were very rough
    people.  The meals we made for each other were less than perfect…fly larvae lived
    well in our kitchen tent.   To kill the taste of some of  our meals  I lathered it with
    Worcester sauce.   That killed  the taste.  Eating in the bush reminded me of Grandma’s
    meals.   I always ate what was put in front of me.  Still do.   Grandma always had
    a great lump of beef hanging  in the Dairy.  Now there is a misnomer.  The Dairy was a
    dark room in the dirt floored cellar of the farm house…a room that acted as  a refrigerator
    The slab of beef was always well marbled with congealed fat.  Grandma and granddad
    loved that.  I  did  not.  I found that a slab of that beef and  fat on my plate discouraged
    eating so I lathered everything with Worcester sauce.   Grandma notice, of  course, and
    she told  Mom  on several occasions.  “Elsie, did you know that Alan loves Worcester sauce?”

    What is the connection among these disparate comments?  They all came together when the
    bush plane landed with our mail on that lonely lake.  Every time there was a letter from
    grandma.  I took those letters  for granted.  Just writing a letter was a  chore for her.
    her hands  shook so badly.  It would  have been easier for her to use Parkinson’s as
    an excuse for not writing.   I took those letters  for granted just as I did everything else
    about Grandma.   I never said  thank you…never asked  about her shakes…never 
    commented on the cold  marbled roast beef.   All I said was, “Grandma, where is
    the Worcester sauce?”   

    Now I do not remember Grandma asking  if I had a bottle of Worcester sauce on
    that mine exploration job.  She probably did.

    I remember so much  about her.

    This is  just my opening Episode about Grandma.   Her early life was  not very nice
    and initially I was  unsure I should even make into an Episode.   Maybe she would not
    want the bad  times in her life put before those of you who actually  read these Episodes.
    No, I don’t think she would  mind.  She loved  me.  I knew that.

    alan skeoch
    Nov. 4, 2020

    POST SCRIPT:   1885 A Child’s Garden of Verses

    I Don’t remember the song she sang but the lyrics fitted  the
    Land  of  Nod  as written by  RoBert Louis  Stevenson in 1885
    “Nod” is a very interesting biblical name.  The Land  of Nod was supposed gel
    East of  the Garden of Eden.  Only mentioned once in the Book of Genesis but
    it has fascinated biblical scholars  Did the Land of  Nod exist?

    The Land of Nod

    From breakfast on through all the day 
    At home among my friends I stay, 
    But every night I go abroad 
    Afar into the land of Nod. 

    All by myself I have to go, 
    With none to tell me what to do — 
    All alone beside the streams 
    And up the mountain-sides of dreams. 

    The strangest things are there for me, 
    Both things to eat and things to see, 
    And many frightening sights abroad 
    Till morning in the land of Nod. 

    Try as I like to find the way, 
    I never can get back by day, 
    Nor can remember plain and clear 
    The curious music that I hear. 

  • EPISODE 157 future LOOKS GRIM…MAYBE I WILL HAVE TO KEEP SENDING STORIES

    EPISODE 157 FUTURE LOOKS GRIM…MAYBE I WILL HAVE TO KEEP SENDING STORIES
    alan skeoch Nov. 4, 2020
    Just when I believed our existence on planet earth could not get worse…things did get worse, far worse. The leader of the western world has devolved into chaos. Neighbour hating neighbour. Violence on the horizon. My only answer is writing these stories. Originally I planned to write 14 stories to help us all through the two weeks of self-isolation in March. Those two weeks became 8 months and the stories are now numbered Episode 157. A lot of stories. Trying to write one each day. Two emergency visits to the Trillium hospital broke the sequence but I managed to keep the stories coming…even a story about my amusing Morphine trips while huddled in pain at the base of my hospital bed…then another when I had an anxiety attack in the empty emergency ward.
    Covid 19 kept our lives in a kind of suspension between isolation and re-emerging into the embrace of routine daily life.
    I kept the stories pouring out…some trivial, some weighty, some beautiful as the fall season of 2020 was prolonged.
    But last night I thought story time would be over as life would return to normal. Maybe we could get back to figuring out how to handle Climate Change which threatened our world with the Sixth Extinction. That was enough to worry about.
    What a fool I was. I came to believe the pollsters and journalists and the dreamers and my friends…I came to believe all would be well if Trump was defeated and Americans began to let go of hate for one another and embrace the philosophy of Rodney King who asked long ago, “Why can’t we all get along?” (while at he same time being beaten up). Hope would replace hell. Now the reverse seems to to be happening with hell replacing hope.
    As if to confirm this grim reality I turned by chance to a short news release of the far right wing fringe Americans. Too many of these deadly serious Americans were strutting around with machine guns in their arms and revolvers strapped to their camouflaged pant legs. Who were their enemies? It was a shock to realize that I was the enemy. A middle of the road believer the good will triumph over evil. A believer in gun control.
    So the stories will keep coming.
    Keep a stiff upper lip folks.
    alan