BAMBI: THE FINAL RUN

This weekend, one of the best-known people in Thunder Bay died. 

She wasn't born here. She doesn't live here now. And when she did, it was only for a few months - and most of that, spent in a cell. 

But in that short time, Lawrencia "Bambi" Bembenek worked as a waitress, taught aerobics (in the building just across the street) and met and made more friends than some who've lived in the Lakehead all their lives. 

This wouldn't be quite so strange if it weren't for the fact that this popular newcomer arrived in the City fresh from a prison break.

A Wisconsin court had convicted Laurie (a Milwaukee police officer) of murdering the ex-wife of her boyfriend (who was also on the Force). Her persistent denials went unheard by all but a few who suspected that a woman with enemies in a predominantly male occupation might well have been framed.

In any case, at some point, the imprisoned Bembeneck decided not to wait for appeals to run their course, teamed up with the brother of another inmate, effected her escape and split for Canada.

And for a brief and blissful span thereafter, the couple enjoyed the peace and contentment of life on Banning Street.  

Then, one dark day, as Nature showed its disapproval with simultaneous snow and thunder, Dudley Do-Right (acting on a tip from an avid viewer of AMERICA'S MOST WANTED) showed up on their doorstep, identified and arrested them and left a lot of locals scratching their heads.

Now, it would have been impossible for an old tabloid "reporter" like me to stay out of a story like that. But I told myself that the writing course I was giving at the community college and some freelance work I was doing for CBC was more than enough and that I should leave this one to the professionals.

What I'd forgotten was: that's not the way it works. Stories chase writers - not the other way 'round!

So, it shouldn't have surprised me when (next day) I was chatting with a waitress in my favourite cafe and she happened to mention that she'd known Bambi. 

I'd just been telling her that Bambi had served me coffee once. But I had to admit the only thought that ran through my head at the time was: "Hey! Louis is hiring prettier help."

My waitress chuckled.

She and her boyfriend, she told me, used to meet Bembeneck and hers at local donut shops. They'd have a coffee and chat, then get back in their cars and play a mobile CB-radio game of hide-and-seek called "Cat And Mouse".

"Laurie always wanted to be Mouse," the waitress recalled.

She sighed, shook her head and started to walk away, when something prompted me to stop her and ask, "Oh, by the way, what was Lauri's CB 'handle'?"

The waitress looked at me as if I were thick as a brick.

"Bambi, of course!"

And suddenly, I knew there was no sense fighting it.  I had no choice but to do a piece for radio.

And in it, I talked about Lawrencia serving coffee to the cops whose station was just around the corner from the restaurant where she worked. I talked about Bambi's boyfriend tipping a fellow cabbie of mine twenty dollars for a three-dollar trip, then whispering, "That's for not telling the cops where you took me." (He needn't have bothered. The cabbie had no idea who he was.)

My point, of course, was to show that the real mystery in this case was not how these fugitives had been caught but how they'd managed to avoid it as long as they did!

At any rate, Bembeneck was eventually transferred to Toronto, and the excitement faded. A few years passed; and although the controversy over Bambi's extradition (or guilt) seemed destined to continue, her story was no longer front-page stuff.

I was saying as much to a friend, when her niece (who'd worked as a border guard) piped up.

"I'm the one who let her in, you know," she said, in a very matter-of-fact tone. "But it wasn't really my fault."

She explained that a flu epidemic had thinned the ranks of her co-workers at the border crossing so severely that managers had to be called in to take their places.  Consequently, on that particular day, she found herself with only the assistance of two managers who (it goes without saying) were decidedly irritable.

So, when she came to them to report there was something not quite right about the folks she'd just been interviewing at the drive-through, they just grimaced.

"They say they're coming for a visit," she explained, "but the back seat of the vehicle is loaded with things like a toaster oven and bed linen and towels and all sorts of household goods. So, I think you'd better come and check them out."

The managers glared at her and demanded that she stop wasting their time. 

"For God's sake, wave them through!" they said. 

And so, she did. And Bambi's Run continued.

But now, at last, it's over. Or is it?

I don't expect anybody will be satisfied with the way things turned out.

Those who still consider Bembeneck a murderess will go on scolding American prosecutors for dropping some charges against her and accepting a plea deal and time served in order to justify her release on the other. 

Those who think she's been wronged will still cry for a posthumous pardon and a re-opened investigation of the murder that started it all.

But then, there are those who say that the best kind of agreement is one that's not completely acceptable to any of the parties. And by that standard, I'd say the resolution of Bambi's Run is just about perfect.  

                                                                      ****

TOURIST ALERT #1: FUNNY MONEY

An American band played their first-ever Canadian gig at a club in Halifax, but they began to feel uneasy once they noticed that patrons were flashing horse-choking wads of cash about. And being from Chicago, they knew what that meant!

They were all set to complain to their manager about the shady sort of place he'd picked for them to play, when somebody explained the bills weren't "real money" but cleverly-crafted commercial coupons made to look like currency which were redeemable for merchandise only - and then, only at Canadian Tire stores. 

The club owner, it was explained, needed to make some renovations. And since most of the supplies he'd need for the job would be bought at the local Canadian Tire, the coupons were as good as cash to him. 


And his scheme was wildly popular, too, since there isn't a Canadian alive who doesn't have at least a few bucks' worth of C.T. scrip lying crumpled in a drawer somewhere. 

In fact, I've always contended that if the world economy went in the crapper tomorrow (and Canada's legal tender with it), we could always fall back on our coupons.

And they don't carry the stigma of food stamps. 


You needn't be ashamed to have them in your wallet; because they're ever-so-elegant! They're printed on fine quality paper with a Scot on one side (to remind ye to be frugal) and a fine-lookin' lass on t'other (to remind ye there's more to life than money). 


And they come in almost as many denominations and lovely colours as the government ones.

I did a piece for CBC some years ago suggesting the answer to Canada's tired currency was Canadian Tire currency. And I urged an immediate switch-over. I pointed out that people in Third World countries who'd had the stuff passed off on them by unscrupulous tourists would finally be able to afford that trip to Toronto they've always dreamed of taking.

But, for some reason, nobody ever picked up that ball and ran with it.

I suppose there are those who would argue that Canadian Tire currency relies solely on the continued success of one, homegrown, big-box retailer, whereas the full force of the Canadian Government (Le Gouvernement De Canada, no less) stands firmly behind its bucks.  But given the persistent pace of privatization and general disassembly of government infrastructure, I'm beginning to wonder which will outlast which.

In the meanwhile, I can only say, "Visitors beware!"


When someone in this country tries to pass you funny-looking money, the only important question to ask is: "How much will this buy me at Canadian Tire?" 

There! Now, I can rest, knowing I've done my bit in the ever-challenging and never-ending tourist education campaign.


And yet, I still can't shake the feeling that I owe W. C. Fields an apology?

THE BIGGER THEY ARE, THE FASTER THEY SINK!

I was sharing Fellini's LA STRADA (1954) with a friend recently, when I turned to find her in tears. Now, while I'd had no reason to expect she wouldn't be moved by a film that never fails to move me, the intensity of her reaction was startling; and it reminded me of the power films can have in our lives - especially when they're really well made.

It got me thinking about the other side of that coin, too - about when disaster movies are bigger disasters than the ones they portray. And I think the best example of  this is James Cameron's TITANIC (1997).

Oh, I can hear women screaming now! 

I hear them demanding a retraction, insisting that the scene with Leonardo and Kate at the bow of the ship (facing into the wind like a pair of hounds with their heads out a car window) has become one of cinema's classic icons. 

Sad to say, I must admit it has! Unfortunately, unlike Marilyn's blowing dress or Orson's lips forming the word "Rosebud", the bow-sailing sequence stands all by its lonesome in TITANIC.  And one memorable scene does not a great film make.

I have to think Cameron would have done better to have stayed at the dock - or stuck to making a doc. Still, given his considerable talent and near-obsession with the subject, it's hard at first to understand why he went as far wrong as he did. 

He began with the one thing many current blockbusters lack: a coherent, compelling story. Blessed with the world's best-known shipwreck as a theme and a seemingly endless public appetite for its tale of pride and peril, Cameron assembled an all-star cast, the latest electronic special effects gadgetry and amassed a truly titanic budget to pay for it all.  

Any industry insider watching would have said he was on the verge of launching one of the biggest box-office successes ever.

But it's like Pauline Kael always said. The history of Hollywood films is the history of near-misses, leaving us again and again with that bittersweet thought of what might have been.

RMS Titanic was the biggest liner ever built. So, naturally, the film had to be "super-sized", too. Right?

But it seems they forgot that the Titanic went down, because the people who built and operated it believed that size was everything - surely more than enough to save them from disaster.

And how did that work out?

No, for my money, there's one movie that's done a much better job of capturing the truly awful drama of that truly awful night. It was made in Britain over half a century ago - and on a budget that probably wouldn't have covered Cameron's catering costs. 

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER was produced for Rank in 1958 by William McQuitty and directed by Roy Baker. And while you may recognize only a few of the actors (Kenneth More, Honor Blackman and David McCallum, surely), I doubt you'll ever forget the performances they gave or ever escape the eerie sense the film created of actually having been on a sinking ship.

What this simple-but-powerful production stresses is what Cameron failed to make a priority in his own: namely, the intensely human drama of facing certain death.

Held up against its more recent, more lavish competitor, A NIGHT TO REMEMBER proves that money isn't everything and that there are times when those epic qualities of scope of action, intricate detail and inescapable horror are best left to the greatest special effects generator ever invented: the one between our ears.

Icebergs or not, I intend to hold my heading where TITANIC is concerned. And I'll continue to maintain what history has proven over and over again: the bigger they are, the faster they sink.

TORONTO IS CLOSED

On the whole, we Canadians are a welcoming lot; but there's such a thing as carrying hospitality too far. And if we were searching for that "line in the sand" that marks the limits of our patience, I suspect we're about to find it!

I don't normally expect to wake to news reports of masked "anarchists" rampaging through downtown Toronto, smashing and burning as they go. And I don't much appreciate it.

Come to that, I don't much appreciate the idea of barricading off a big part of the downtown core of our largest city just so a group of so-called world "leaders" can enjoy a little get-together and plan policies in private that the rest of us will have to endure for years to come.

And I'm especially miffed about having to pony up ONE BILLION DOLLARS for the privilege of hosting these puffinjays and the nasty little crowd of violent sociopaths they always seem to draw.

Don't get me wrong! I'm a child of the 60s and, consequently, more than familiar with (and not unsympathetic to) social protest. But I must admit that the small-time terrorists I see on the streets of Toronto ( who are "brave" enough to burn police cars but too cowardly to show their faces) don't strike me as protesters; because, while they delight in tearing things down, they apparently have neither the brains nor the balls to offer any realistic plan for rebuilding something better.

And even among the more enlightened marchers, I see signs like "CAPITALISM SUCKS" which leads me to wonder if they actually think the mere sight of that will shock Obama into repentance, bring the world's banks to their knees and startle an uninformed public into action.

As part of that public, I can tell you this much, people: You're preaching to the choir!

It reminds me of Winston Churchill calling democracy an awful system but insisting it was still the best we've got.

I guess I've always mistrusted utopias (and the people who advocate them); because utopias are never designed to accommodate those most characteristically human traits: the power to screw up and the ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

We will never completely overcome those, and I'm not sure I'd want us to. After all, they are what make our species so interesting.

So, my suggestion to those Canadians demonstrating on the streets of Toronto this week is this: Go home and do something useful. Begin organizing for the next federal election, since that's the surest, most immediate step to making changes in your world.

Let's concentrate on ousting a federal government that represents only one in three Canadians and seems hell-bent on pushing their own unpopular agenda. And all it takes to do that, folks, is to get off your ass, travel a few blocks to a polling station and make an X on a piece of paper.

Of course, that will be just the beginning of a long, laborious process. But it's worth it - and bound to be more effective than simply shouting and waving signs. And here's the best part: it won't cost anything like a billion bucks!

DUCK AND COVER

I suppose I learned most of what I needed to know about living with the threat of nuclear annihilation when I was 10. We were living in Wayne's World at the time (Aurora, Illinois); and the Cold War was clearly heating up.

The horrors of World War II were all too fresh a memory, and a madman in the U.S. Senate kept insisting there was a Communist under nearly every bed in the nation.

So, it was hardly surprising that emergency drills were held in schools and elsewhere to prepare citizens for the possibility of an atomic attack.

But, even as a child, I realized that effort was futile.

St. Mary's was (like so many other Catholic grade schools of the period) an aging brick and timber structure, festooned throughout with wainscoting which had been varnished so many times over the years that even a hot breath could have ignited a conflagration.

I may not have known much about the physics of a nuclear blast, but I knew the building I was in wouldn't stand up to a really strong wind, let alone Armageddon. 

I knew that, should a missile hit anywhere within 100 miles of Wayne's World, we were toast!

Nevertheless, I played along and followed the routine like everybody else: duck and cover. 

And the space beneath my antique desk became familiar territory, even if I never believed that an inch of oak and a cast iron frame could keep me from being shredded in a nuclear blast.

It's hard to explain what goes through a child's head when confronted with the never-ending threat of instant obliteration. It's hard to explain, because those of us who've grown up with it are still trying to works out the answer for ourselves.

Today's kids may have to carry the burden of the fear of terrorism in their backpacks - but I doubt their nightmares (or daymares, for that matter) have the same cold inevitability as ours did.   


Now, it's true that today's kids would stage an uprising if forced to follow the sort of ridiculous procedures we did. And I congratulate them. But that doesn't mean they're any less at risk than we were. 

In fact, given that the planet's nuclear powers are still trying to arrange a proper disarmament (as well as a plan for weapons destruction that won't let terrorists get their hands on them), I'd say it's time some sort of alarm was sounded.

In Wayne's World of the 1950s, we had an air raid siren, located just two blocks from my house - but more than capable of reaching everybody in town with its ear-drum-splitting howl. 

For some folks, that horn became the most important (if most dreaded) piece of municipal equipment - and a device that needed regular testing.

So, every Tuesday afternoon at 4:30, they'd set it off. And that meant that every Tuesday afternoon at 4:30, people all over Aurora would wince and plug their ears and swear.  But I doubt that any of them ever bothered to stop what they were doing to duck and cover. 

How many of them spared so much as a thought for world crises or world wars or incoming missiles, we'll never know. All I can ever remember thinking was: "I hope the Russians never find out about this drill." 


Because it was obvious to me (even at that tender age) that all the Soviets would have to do was time their attack for Tuesday afternoon at 4:30; and they'd catch us with our pants down!

Of course, when it comes right down to it, I suppose that's as good a way as any to greet the end of everything. 


It makes more sense than duck and cover.

THE ART OF THE RANT

I've just had a wonderfully cathartic rant. 

You know the kind I mean... the kind that purge a sour belly and goose the old glands back to life. 

I'd been watching an item on the news, when, suddenly, a bright bolt of lightning broke through the fiscal overcast of the last few days and struck me right in my frontal lobe. And I began to sound off - about our minority government, about political parties and my sure-fire plan for their destruction... and so on and so on.


And it felt good!

A good rant can sweep out your head. Just don't let it set up shop there, because that will turn you into a cartoon - like Duckman, that highly agitated, highly animated patron saint of the rant.

I realize not everyone will have met this crazy cartoon canard (drawn by Everett Peck and matched perfectly to the voice of Jason Alexander). Some of Duckman's wilder rants have gotten the series a door-in-the-face reception from "family" networks. 

And that's really a shame, since ranting is - at its core - a family sport.

In ours, the best practitioner was one particular uncle on my Dad's side. (Uncles are almost invariably good ranters, but science has yet to come up with a reason why.) 

In the case of this uncle, you only had to mention the word "government" and he was off! The problem was: he may have looked like Lincoln. but he didn't sound like him. 

He was far more prone to personal attacks and swearing than old Abe. And he was nowhere near as eloquent or as funny.

Still, even as a child, I appreciated the great enthusiasm with which he launched into his little tirades. And although his listeners knew what they were hearing was not an interactive broadcast, they put up with it well enough. I suspect some secretly enjoyed the performance.

The family knew the poor fellow's usual audience was a herd of dairy cows. And let's face it: it's too easy for those critters to ignore you or to fail to appreciate what a fellow has to say - even when he's got them by the udder.

Knowing that your rant has been heard counts for a lot. After all, a rant is an impromptu performance, an explosion of opinions where the only real threat is to the person holding them. 

I'll never forget the look of satisfaction on that uncle's face when he'd finished his show. "Better out than in," they say. And you could see that was true just by looking at him.

Rants are the safety valves of our pressurized lives. And although we seem to spend most of our waking hours repressing expressions of aggravation, frustration and outrage (and a good thing, too), there are those moments, whether public or private, when the truth simply has to be let out - even if it chooses to take an awkward route.

I can't help but wonder how many people might have been saved from "going postal" if they'd only had someone to listen to their rants. 

In short, the occasional-but-robust rant is good for you - body and soul. Some of us consider it an under-appreciated art form: a fast-paced blend of philosophy and opinion and emotion.

Some might call ranting "rap without the music". 

But don't get me started on rap!

   

SLALOM TO HELL

If ever I needed a reminder to stay off the slippery slopes of winter, the picture of a friend in a cast will do the trick. 

Tracy Mastaler (better know to fans of the blues as "Tracy K.") was born in Beausejour, Manitoba but now lives in Thunder Bay. A multi-talented lady, she plays a mean axe, wails on harp, sings like Janis Joplin, writes her own songs and apparently can't stay off a snowy hill to save her life.

I'm sure by now, she must be sick of hearing people like me say, "It's 'Break a leg!', girl. Not 'Break an arm!' "

She claims her injury is the natural consequence of skiing on a "Sleeping Giant" (the name for Thunder Bay's landmark, Sibley Peninsula). But Nature never had to prove to me that I don't belong on skis. I learned that on my own long ago.

It was shortly after I'd gotten engaged, so I blame romance for clouding my judgment. In any case, when friends invited Rae Katherine and me to a weekend of skiing in Wisconsin, I said, "Sure!"

You had to go to Wisconsin to find a hill high enough to slide down; and even there, they were hardly very high or intimidating.

I remember thinking that as I peered up the Beginner's Hill. I remember thinking, "How bad could it be to strap on a pair of long, wooden runners and glide down that?!" And then, for the next hour or so, I found out!

To begin with, I've never understood the logic of skiing - preferring sports that have a practical side or, at very least, a reasonable explanation for how they got started. 

I can see the logic of curling! I don't find it very hard to imagine some snow-bound Scot deciding to pass the time by playing shuffleboard with river stones and brooms on an icy lake. I can even see the sense of gluing handles to the stones to get a better grip.

But what I want to know is what demented ancient ancestor stood atop some snow-covered cliff and thought to himself, "You know, I think I'll cut down a couple of saplings, shave them flat, strap them to my feet and hurtle headlong down into that valley." 

Whoever he was, he was only outclassed by that other idiot who later decided to wax the saplings so he could make the trip even faster.

Then, there was the question of my equipment.

The skis were old and borrowed and didn't match my boots. So, I was advised to "take it easy" - a pointless warning, since I'd decided that well before we reached the resort.

In any case, I was kitted up, strapped to my skis and given a few basic instructions before being led to the tow rope.

"At least," I thought, "I won't have to clump to the top of the hill."

I grabbed the moving rope which burned through my gloves until I gripped it even tighter  and went lurching forward, face-first into the snow.

That should have been indication enough of what was to follow. But by that time, I'd succumbed to peer pressure and vowed to turn the chortles of other, younger beginners into "oooo's" and "ahhh's". 

I intended to command a certain level of respect. And so, I did! Before the afternoon was over, other skiers would see me preparing to start my run and flee in terror.

Even after I learned the purpose of those little cords hooked between boot and ski, the others still kept well clear of me on my descent - terrified that equipment would suddenly break loose and shoot off in every direction.

I ignored their glares and their shouts and convinced myself I was finally beginning to get the hang of semi-controlled, downhill tumbling - even if I did spend half of every run using my backside as a sort of third ski.

Then, on one particularly impressive dash, I found myself upright at last and doing a passable job of controlling my intense fear of speed. And I was just about to smile, when I looked ahead and saw that I was pointed straight at a long line of skis stuck in the snow by people who'd gone inside to enjoy the comforts of the lodge.

It didn't take much imagination to see what was about to happen - and directly in front of the spectators at the lodge's large windows, at that.

And in that horrifying instant, I made two decisions.

The first was to throw myself sideways and take a tumbling, punishing fall rather than strike that row of expensive gear. And the other was to end my day - and all thought of ever skiing again - right there and then.

And in spite of what others have told me about the wonders of the sport, I've never regretted either decision.

And while I may feel compelled to offer sympathy to Tracy and others who've suffered a similar fate, I'm not about to join them. And I'm not about to change my opinion that for me, hell is spelled with a "he" followed by a pair of skis.

SCHLEMMER SHOPPING

When my neighbours left last fall to spend the winter in Europe, they asked me to collect their mail. And part of my reward for this, they said, would be free access to their copies of NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC.

But I must admit I've never broken the wrapper on any of those - preferring, instead, to comb through the catalogs they receive from that most unusual of American retailers, Hammacher-Schlemmer.

Founded in New York in 1848, the company originally specialized in selling a hardware-hungry public such essentials as quality plumb bobs and saw bummers and quickly grew into a world-wide operation that has become known for "offering the best, the only and the unexpected for 162 years".

It's certainly safe to say that paging through their catalog is bound to produce the unexpected: items you never knew you needed, like a diving mask with built-in digital camera or the world's only 3D webcam or an Indoor Dog Restroom.

You'll come across a pair of electronic earmuffs, a hands-free, steering-wheel-mounted speakerphone and even an ultrasonic jewelery cleaner - which has to make you wonder who comes up with these things and what motivation lies behind their ideas. I mean, did someone suddenly think, "You know, I'm really tired of having to clean my jewelery by hand! Why don't I see if I can find a way to do it with sound waves?"

However the inventors manage it, there's almost no aspect of life that's been overlooked by the folks at H-S. 

They will sell you a laser-guided pool cue, a perpetually-rotating globe which uses light and the earth's magnetic pull to operate or a life-size, working version of Robbie The Robot from the 50's sci-fi thriller, FORBIDDEN PLANET.

Of course, I'm never likely to own any of those things (or even see them in operation), since I'm only a window shopper in the Great Mall of Life.

I suppose I got that way by perusing the catalogs my grandmother used to get to shop for prizes for the Martha Club booth at her parish Fall Fair. Reading them taught me that, however rare or unusual the item, there's always someone willing to sell it to you - and that, however unlikely the chance you'd ever buy one, reading its description and checking its price can offer hours of cheap and educational entertainment.

Later in life, I learned to pass those long winter days waiting for the first fishing trip of spring by poring over volumes of sporting goods paraphernalia. And the whole voyeuristic process seemed to culminate when I discovered the delights of that consummate collection of 1960's Counter Culture, THE WHOLE EARTH CATALOG which not only listed goods for sale but contained many bits of free information and suggestions on ways to get more.

Then, one day, the very concept of printed catalogs seemed to be under threat - something my friend, the local postmaster cheered, since the mere mention of Sears was enough to remind him of the hernia he'd acquired delivering them.  Sears and Eatons announced they wouldn't be publishing catalogs any more. And as PCs became popular, more and more retailers posted their goods for sale on the net.

But it's just not the same! Aficionados know that nothing can ever replace the delight of thumbing through the glossy pages of a good paper catalog. And it appears that Hammacher-Schlemmer understands that.

So, I send them a tip of the hat - if not an order. And I remind them that an important part of their function in this world is to entertain those of us who aren't likely to be customers. 

Because in the end, we can be the best promoters of their products. And if you don't believe that... well, hasn't reading this got you wondering how much a pair of spring-loaded walking shoes might set you back?

I AM, THEREFORE I THINK

There came a time when I was still in university that I had to make a choice: major in English or Philosophy. And since I liked to think as much as I liked to write (and since I absolutely despised the head of the English Department), the choice seemed simple.

Besides, I had no intention of getting my degree anyway. After all, I was learning more working for a film distributor than at the classes I nipped out to attend at nearby Loyola. And the real reason for going to those was to keep from going to Vietnam.

Now, you didn't see a lot of job openings in the paper for philosophers, so most of the people I met in class were obviously headed for employment at other universities teaching other people who wanted to teach philosophy in other universities... and so on and so on.

But there were a few, more interesting people - like Ilka, the tall, Teutonic blonde who introduced me to the crazies in Loyola's Drama Department or that dark-eyed girl who moonlighted at a restaurant on the other side of Michigan Avenue as a waitress and belly-dancer. 

Still, on the whole, the philosophers-in-training were a pretty boring lot.

If I'd expected stimulating discussion and debate, I was sadly mistaken. And when one of those sullen note-takers did catch fire from some spark the professor had generated, it could prove to be more of a nuisance than anything else. 

I remember one character whingeing on about the problem of identity. 

"Who am I?" he'd moan, obviously never expecting an answer but perfectly willing to share the pain of his doubt with the rest of us. "I mean, who am I?!"

This went on for a number of days, until I could stand no more.

"You really want to know?" I finally asked him. And he looked shocked that I should even try to tackle such a weighty issue but managed to nod his assent.

I leaned close and spoke in a whisper.

"You're the one who's asking 'Who am I?' And now that we've settled that, will you please shut up!"

It may have been the most profound bit of philosophizing I ever did, but I will admit it's not the best philosophical argument I've heard. That was delivered by a professor at the seminary, an evil old bully named McPharland (who naturally became known as "Spanky").

Spanky liked to pace the floor with his thumbs stuck proudly in his Jesuit sash (which I always thought was meant to keep their knuckles from getting scratched on the floor). And he'd purse his lips and drone on in Latin (as if we didn't have enough to worry about!). He'd carefully explain the tenets of each new branch of philosophical thought and then gleefully demolish them with cunning arguments.

And we'd sit and take notes and wait for the day when he'd get to the subject of Solipsism, that school of thought which insists that nothing exists outside the thinker's mind, that what we call reality is nothing more than a product of our own imagination. 

"Let him try to argue with them!" we thought.

But when the day came, Spanky surprised us all by suddenly slipping into English to tell a remarkable story.

He and a friend (a professor at the University of Chicago and an avowed solipsist) were having lunch at the Palmer House. And when the waiter brought them their martinis, Spanky calmly reached across the table, picked up his friend's drink, drank it down, then started in on his own.

His friend sat in stunned silence for a minute or two before demanding, "What the devil do you think you're doing?!"

To which Spanky calmly replied, "Don't ask me! You're the one who's making all this up."

It is the only thing I remember of all the things he said, because (I think) it's the only thing he ever said that was worth remembering. And in the years that followed, I've used that line of argument to great effect.

I've met my share of philosophers, too - and in some of the strangest places: at a tiny, rural post office, behind the wheel of a cab and over the counter of a diner, just to name a few.  In fact, you might say that some of my best friends are philosophers.

And if you were considering becoming one yourself, there are one or two things you should remember. 

You're going to have to develop some sort of camouflage to hide your work. And you'll have to have another source of income, as well. 


Because, as we all should know by now, thinking rarely pays. And it can be very dangerous.

SHADY IN THE SNOW WITH DIAMONDS

If the spirit of a horse can haunt a place, then the ghost of an Arabian I know returns on moonlit winter nights to a snowy hill high in the Dog River Valley. 

Her name is Shady Lady; and of all the females who ever lived in my old neighbourhood, she was the one least impressed with me.

It wasn't as if I hadn't tried to be friends or had ever given her cause to dislike me. Nevertheless, she developed an attitude toward me that seemed to fall somewhere between disdainful indifference and outright contempt.

I put it down to all those times when Pauline, her owner (or rather, the woman she allowed to pamper her) would ride her along the road to my little shack and invite me back to their place for tea and gossip. Shady could gallop the half-mile there but had to make the return trip at a walk, since that's how I preferred to travel.

All the way, as Pauline and I chatted, Shady would give me a sideways glare that spoke volumes about her displeasure. And little by little, she'd edge closer and closer, until she'd finally manage to shoulder me into the ditch.

"Shady!" Pauline would shout. And slowly, grudgingly, the chestnut filly would allow herself to be yanked back to the middle of the road. Then, she'd give a little snort and glare at me all the harder.

Now, most people might simply have accepted that sort of treatment, but I'd always had a remarkably good relationship with animals - even the ones who roam free. So, I tried everything I could to persuade that haughty horse that I was really Mr. Nice.

I brought her carrots and apples. I patted and stroked the broad, brown shoulders that nudged me into ditches and spoke softly, hypnotically of her equine magnificence. But it was all to no avail.

Then, one particularly cold January weekend, Pauline asked if I could keep an eye on Shady and feed her, while she spent the night in town at her parents'.

"Ahah!" I thought. "Here's my chance at last to bond with this peevish pony."

And so, despite minus-40 temperatures, I made regular treks to her barn to be sure she had a fresh bale of hay, a measured amount of oats from her blue, plastic pail and a bit of human company, as well.

Her corral was ringed by a thin wire attached to a small battery. This was meant to discourage her from wandering, since (although the powder snow that blanketed the huge clearing was waist-deep) there were wolves about and no reason to take chances.

During these visits, Shady treated me much like a servant and took her blue pail in her teeth and shook it at me insistently in the hope of getting more oats. But I stood my ground, gently explaining that I had strict instructions from Pauline. 

When I'd finished, I'd let myself out and reconnect the perimeter wire before I went.

Then, one clear, cold, full-moon night, after watching the Late Movie at a friend's, I walked back along the road past Pauline's and noticed a dark shape looming on the hill above me. It was too big to be a wolf and, given the season, unlikely to be a black bear. But it might have been a moose. So, I walked farther down the road to get a better look. And that's when I heard the dark shape whinny.

"Shady!" I shouted, doing my best to imitate Pauline's stern tone. "What are you doing out of your enclosure?!"

Suddenly, the horse lifted its head and began to bound down the hillside, sending great, sparkling plumes of powder into the air as she came. I sighed, resigned myself to a laborious climb through the deep snow and set off to meet her. 


I trudged, while Shady danced - down the incline, then around and around me, as we slowly made our way back up to the barn.

The field was covered in diamond snow with large, flat crystals that flashed brilliantly in the blue-white light of the full moon. They turned to stardust on Shady's shaggy winter coat and clung to her long, flowing mane like glistening gems. 

Her sheer exuberance was almost as dazzling. She appeared to become a colt again, cavorting with some less agile playmate and refusing to let anything disturb her fun - not even the thought of having to return to confinement. 

In short, she was a happy, playful creature whom I barely recognized. And it was only when I'd gotten her back inside her enclosure that I thought to ask her, "How the devil did you get out?"

She turned, picked up the loose end of the perimeter wire in her mouth and shook it at me. And I couldn't help but laugh.

I hooked it up again before I left and begged her not to repeat the trick. Then, I walked home to my own little barn where I was greeted enthusiastically by more compliant animals: my Samoyed dog and two Siamese cats.

And even now, long years after I've moved to town, long after dear Shady is dead and gone, I still remember that moment as clearly as I remember anything. 


And if you should happen to be walking that road some cold and snowy, moonlit night and see a phantom horse with flowing, stardust mane dancing up that hill, don't be afraid. It's only Shady Lady. 

And one day, when I'm just a memory, there'll be another phantom climbing the hill beside her, its own long mane dusted with snowy diamonds. And that ghost will be me.