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.

STAND ON YOUR HANDS DAY

Saturday was National Handstand Day in Canada, in case you missed it. I know I did.

At 2:00 PM precisely, fitness freaks from coast to coast to coast went wrong-way-round and tried to stay that way for as long as they were able.

I must admit that, even if I had known about the event, you wouldn't have found me there.

There was only one course I ever flunked in school and that was Phys Ed. I failed to do a decent chin-up or handstand. And when it came to the parallel bars, I was unparalleled in demonstrating my incompetence - a positive menace to myself and anyone else who was standing too close.

I suspect my problem was motivation, since I'd never seen the point of standing on one's hands and (no matter how I tried) could never imagine an occasion on which such a position might prove useful.

Of course, that was before I'd heard of National Handstand Day.

Now, when it's much too late to take up the practice, I'm finally able to understand the value of looking at things from an inverted perspective, of standing a cock-eyed world on its head by doing the same with my own.

After all, inversion of logic seems the order of the day. The country's currently run by a minority government which represents no more than one out of every three Canadians yet acts like it's been given divine permission to seize the reins of power and drive us straight back into the Nineteenth Century (or over a cliff, which is pretty much the same thing).

The fellow we call Prime Minister has even prorogued the next sitting of Parliament (in other words, told the Members not to bother showing up). 

There were English kings who were dethroned or even beheaded for pulling a stunt like that. But this PM insists he only did it so that our elected officials could "enjoy the Olympics" without troublesome things on their mind like Afghanistan or the economy or threats to democracy from religious extremists.

Of course, there are some folks who figure he's doing it because his Party has been slipping in the polls, and he needs time to scramble for an excuse to stay in power. But there's not much chance of those cynics making a fuss with Parliament shut down.

So, I can't really blame Canadians for going wrong-side-up to see if they can't find a way of understanding what the hell is going on.

As for me, I'll content myself with simply watching my fellow citizens stand on their hands, while I do some exercises to strengthen my right hand - the one I use to mark a ballot. 

And while I train, I'll do my best to sustain the hope that an election will be coming soon and apathy won't win the day. Because if it should, it wouldn't be long before we began having National Sit On Your Hands Days. 


And then, we'd be in even worse shape!

CALL ME ISHMAEL

A friend who teaches art classes in the local schools recently showed me a thank-you card his students made him. And I was startled to notice that among the 30-some signatures on it, there wasn't one Mary or Jane or Fred or Jim.

In fact, it was hard to find any recognizable moniker in the lot!

There was a Twanda and a Gorin and a lot of other names which were obviously designed to give those who do business by phone real headaches. "And how do you spell that, sir?"

I suppose, of all people, I should be able to understand the desire to be unconventional and stand out in a crowd.

But it was only when I joined FACEBOOK that I realized how ordinary were the names of most of my old friends and co-workers and how hard that made it to find them in a vast sea of similarity. 

And when, like so many others, I finally gave into the temptation to Google myself, I was shocked to find just how many Jim Farrells swam in that ocean, as well. I had to wade through 13 pages of faces before I found my own (which isn't bad, I suppose, considering there were a million and a half Jim Farrells in all).

I really don't know why it should surprise me that there are tall Jim Farrells and small Jim Farrells and fat ones and thin ones, some with more hair than I have and some who have no hair at all. There were bound to be other broadcasters and writers and cameramen. And it shouldn't have come as a surprise there were even some who did become priests.

I once asked my maternal grandmother why she hadn't drawn up a family tree for her side of the clan. And she replied, "Because I'm afraid who I might find hanging from it." And the more I Googled along, the more I knew what she meant.

I got some taste of finding myself among other, unrelated Farrells in the seminary. There were three of us who spent all of highschool and much of college not only in the same classes but usually sitting in them in neat, alphabetical order (an obsession with Catholic educators I have never understood).

But, at least, they weren't Jims.

Oddly enough, though, they were both Dans: Daniel James and Daniel Michael. And this made for great fun whenever a new professor scanned his class list looking for someone to answer a question.

"Mr. Farrell," he'd say. And the three of us would respond in chorus, "Which one?" Then, he'd furl his brow and go back to his list and try, "Daniel Farrell". And I'd sit back relieved, while the two of them would repeat, "Which one?" 

By this time, the professor's patience was usually wearing thin. So, when he'd finally settled on a single Farrell, he was unlikely to show that poor soul any mercy.

There was a point some years ago when I even considered staging an international reunion of Jim Farrells - just to see how many would show up. But the more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea. 

Wherever the event was held, it could only create bad feelings. 

Airline reservation people, hotel desk clerks and anybody who had to take and transmit phone messages for us would have been tearing their hair out in no time and vowing revenge on anyone they met named Farrell. And the mere act of shouting "Jim" in the lobby or meeting hall would have created unspeakable chaos!

So, I've given up the notion and decided to settle back into the comfortable anonymity of my name. And I strongly suggest that my million-odd brethren do the same.

To them, I offer this advice.

Stay out of trouble! Stay out of debt, as much as possible! And please, stay off the No-Fly list!

And if, as will happen from time to time, you do find yourself in a spot of trouble, do what I intend to do. When asked to give your name, just say, "Call me Ishmael!"

THE PAINTING I NEVER POSED FOR - HONEST!

It was Christmas, and Rae Katherine and Carol and I were standing in the lobby of the Paramount waiting to fulfill that most sacred of seasonal obligations: seeing a movie. And the place was packed!

The theater had recently been split into two sections - the lower reserved for the more popular films and the upper (formerly the balcony) converted to a screening room for those less likely to draw huge crowds. And leading up to Cinema Two was a wide, winding staircase, which was where I spotted her.

"Oh, no!" I muttered.

And since I stood a good 6 inches over the rest of the pack, I had to explain to my companions who it was that I'd just seen.

"It's Hildegarde!" 


And they exchanged meaningful glances and began to chuckle. 

I'd already regaled them with the tale of my visit to her house to record an interview for CBC. And the two of them seemed excessively gleeful, I thought, now that they expected something even more entertaining than the movie we were about to see.

Hildegarde descended the staircase like Gloria Swanson in SUNSET BOULEVARD. And when she spotted me, she virtually shrieked my name across the crowded room.

"Jeeem! Jeeem!" she shouted, then proceeded to elbow her way through the throng to reach me.

When she got to us, I tried to slow her down a bit by resorting to the usual social conventions.

"I don't believe you've met my wife," I said.

But she just tossed Rae Katherine a perfunctory nod, ignored Carol altogether and zeroed in on me with Valkyrien intensity.

"I am painting again," she announced proudly.

Painting was a talent I'd only discovered Hildegarde possessed after I went to her house. It was her experience in the German film industry that had drawn me there in the first place. She'd been a young starlet at the UFA Studios during and after World War II and had even worked under Leni Riefenstahl, the director of TRIUMPH OF THE WILL.

So, Hildegarde's abilities in the graphic arts came as a complete surprise. 

Her work sold in a number of local galleries, although the most famous thing she'd ever painted must have been Hermann Goering's toenails. But that's another story!

I stood staring at her renditions of wild flowers and found myself in awe of them, in spite of the fact that still lifes usually bore me to tears. 

But what caught my attention most was a remarkable study in oils she'd done of four female friends of hers lounging in the sauna. It wasn't so much the painting's erotic flavour that appealed to me, but its bold style and use of colour reminded me strongly of Paul Gaugin, one of my favourite Post-Impressionists.

"That's a remarkable piece," I raved. "But how did you ever get four local women - let alone one - to pose in the nude?"

"Ahhh!" she declared disdainfully. "I don't need models! I have a wonderful imagination!"

She also had a wonderful knack for creating an irresistable focus of attention, which is what she'd managed to do so well that night in that crowded theater lobby. 

She chattered on about her work and about stories she'd failed to tell me the last time we  met which she was sure would make great radio. And I listened and nodded my agreement and secretly wondered if my embarrassment could be any greater than it was at that moment. 


And then, as she finally left us to ascend the staircase once more, she proved that it could.

"Don't forget!" she hollered back from the steps. "You must come again to see me... because I vant to paint you naked!" 

I half expected a round of applause, but it didn't come. I just got a series of strange looks and furtive whispers from our audience.

And for the rest of the night and for weeks afterward, both Carol and Rae Katherine took special delight in needling me about the incident. 


I was only able to find some measure of relief when a friend confessed that Hildegarde had once said the very same thing to him.

"But I figure I'm safe," he explained, "because there's no way in this world she'd ever get me to take off my clothes and pose for her."

So, I broke the news to him about Hildegarde's sauna painting and her "wonderful imagination". And that took the smile off his face.

"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed. "And if she painted us like that, no one would ever believe we hadn't posed for her!"

"That's right," I said, feeling better because I was no longer alone in my fear. For after all, isn't fear (like embarrassment) something that's meant to be shared?

Oh, and by the way, the painting above is not really of me. It's by a fellow named Nicholas Haritonoff - to whose dear, departed spirit I offer my sincere apologies for the changes I made to it. 


But I'm sure he'd have understood. After all, they were just the product of this "wonderful imagination" we artists have.

THE DAY HOPE DIED

It was the Summer Of Love. Rae Katherine was working in the library at Sir George Williams University in Montreal. And there was excitement building as Library Week approached - well, at least among librarians.

That year, they vowed, their excitement would spill out and flood the entire campus and make people truly appreciative of the wonderful resource they had. And the key to this miracle was going to be a catchy slogan.

The Head Librarian (wife of a noted Montreal columnist) was spearheading the drive. And it had been her idea to include everyone working in the library in the hunt for a great motto - even the "stack runners", those part-timers whose job it was to return borrowed books to their rightful places on the shelves.

Now, at that time, most of the stack runners were hippies - anxious to earn a few bucks and still able (even after multiple hits of purple acid) to comprehend and employ the Dewey Decimal System (that number coding scheme that designated how and where volumes were to be stored).

Until that time, the runners had been little more than shadowy figures pushing carts of books back and forth through the stacks - there but not altogether there, so to speak.

But all that was about to change, if the Head Librarian had anything to say about it.

She called a meeting and laid out her idea. This selection of a slogan, she assured them, would be real democracy at work - not the imposition of some boring platitude handed down from on high. This motto would be their creation!

And while Rae Katherine wasn't so sure about the whole business, she told me she had to admit the stack runners did seem to respond. Before long, little, hand-written notices began to appear on the staff bulletin board announcing the dates and times of brainstorming sessions. And the energy level of the whole library seemed to increase.

Then came the day for the runners to present their choice. And there was an air of giddy anticipation as they waited for their chance to share the results of their labours.

"You're gonna love it!" they insisted all that day before the unveiling. "The students are gonna love it, because it's really, really cool!"

Their excitement had even infected their boss who found herself watching the clock and anticipating the grand moment. Then, finally, it arrived.

The entire contingent of stack runners was there. And even if some of the faces seemed unfamiliar, it was only because they'd never surfaced before that moment to make themselves known.

Their elected spokesperson stood and asked "Are you ready for this?" And the rest of the staff assured her they were.

"Our suggestion," explained the spokesperson, "is that we distribute brightly coloured, pin-on buttons with our slogan printed on them in great big letters. Just two words!"

And every one leaned closer to catch those long-awaited words.

"Book you!"

And a ripple of excitement passed through every one of the runners... but no further than that.

They looked around eagerly for some glimmer of enthusiasm, some sign of congratulation from the others; but all they got was the weak parody of a smile from the boss.

In what must have been the most difficult speech she ever had to deliver, the Head Librarian tried her best to explain that what they'd worked so long and hard to achieve might not be precisely the slogan she was looking for.

And as she spoke, the fires that had been burning in eager eyes began to go out; and the hope that had kindled them began to die.

And the very next day, the runners returned to their work as shadows once more. They  retreated into the stacks like so many defeated guerilla fighters. And as they shelved their books, they shelved with them any faith they'd ever had in democracy.

But, as far as I'm concerned, their slogan lives on!

And to this day, I feel I'm keeping some hint of their long-lost hope alive when, come Library Week, I offer it to yet another generation of librarians. And one day, in some better world, someone will listen to me and proudly take up the clarion call.

"Book You!" they'll say... and really mean it.

 

THE MARTHA CLUB MASSACRE

My maternal grandmother belonged to an unusual group of church ladies known as The Martha Club. 

They took the name from a peculiar story in the New Testament in which Jesus visits the home of two sisters. Martha (the older, more practical one) finds herself slaving away in the kitchen preparing their meal, while Mary (the younger, prettier one) just sits at the feet of their guest, listening to his stories and laughing at his jokes.

And when Martha complains about the inequity of the situation, Jesus says something to the effect that everybody should do what they're good at.

Now, since these friends of my grandmother always found themselves in the kitchen at parish events, they'd long since decided to simply accept their lot and get on with the work.

But don't think for a minute that's all they did!

At least once a month, they gathered at one of their houses for a lavish luncheon, an exchange of gossip, a cocktail or two and a ferocious game of canasta. And the competition to outdo each other in the role of hostess was usually subtle but intense.

On these occasions, I noticed that my grandfather always managed to be somewhere else. But as a young lad with an appetite for cakes, pies and petit fours, I didn't mind hanging about and making myself available for handouts.

Then, one day, after an elegant meal, my grandmother served dessert - slices of her famous, homemade pumpkin pie. And with them, she brought to the table the very latest in modern consumer comforts: whipped cream in an aerosol container.

There were ooo's and ahhh's all around. And Grandma proceeded to give careful instructions on the use of this new technology.

"You have to be sure to tip the can so the nozzle is pointing down," she warned. "Otherwise the cream won't lather up and come out in a nice, fluted pattern." 

But in spite of this caution, the first lady to try, kept the can level and ended up shooting a big wet wad of cream straight into the face of the woman sitting opposite.

The whole table burst into howls of laughter. But Grandma didn't stay to enjoy it. She quickly ducked back into the kitchen and reappeared with a second can. 

She handed it to the woman still wiping cream from her face and with an evil grin asked her, "Are you going to take that?"

Apparently not, since the lady seized the can and returned fire. Then, before my astonished young eyes, a full-fledged whipped cream fight broke out. And not one elegantly-dressed matron at that table remained unblemished.

Suddenly, I was seized by that same fear that overcomes innocent bystanders when they find they've just been witnesses to a Mafia hit. 

So, I did my best to become invisible in the chaos and discretely retreated to the living room where I plopped myself down in front of the television. And when it came time for the women to set up their card table there, I decided to go outside and play.

But at the end of that day, I felt I'd come away with some valuable life lessons. 

I'd come to understand that a kitchen isn't always the boring place it's made out to be. And I'd gained a new perspective on the Martha's of this world - as well as a new appreciation and healthy respect for my grandfather's instincts.

HOW TO DEAL WITH YOUR BANK

Every now and then, a writer (however experienced he may be) must defer to a better one, as I do now. The following letter (reprinted in The Times) was composed by a 98-yr-old female customer of a British bank and proves one is never too old to write well.

"Dear Sir,

I am writing to thank you for bouncing my cheque with which I endeavoured to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations, three nanoseconds must have elapsed between his presenting the cheque and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honour it. I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my Pension, an arrangement, which, I admit, has been in place for only thirty eight years.

You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account £30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank. My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways.

I noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become. From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person.

My mortgage and loan payments will therefore and hereafter no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank by cheque, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must nominate. Be aware that it is an offence under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application Contact Status, which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative.

Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Solicitor, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and  liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof.

In due course, I will issue your employee with PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modelled it on the number of button presses required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service.

As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Let me level the playing field even further.

When you call me, press buttons as follows:

1. To make an appointment to see me.
2. To query a missing payment.
3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.
4. To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.
5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.
6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.
7. To leave a message on my computer (a password to access my computer  is required. A password will be communicated to you at a later date to the Authorized Contact.)
8. To return to the main menu and listen to options 1 through to 8. 
9. To make a general complaint or inquiry, the contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. 


While some of these may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration of the call. 

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement.

May I wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous, New Year.

Your Humble Client"




Remarkably enough, it was the bank manager who forwarded this letter to The Times. However, I suspect that was the only departure from the bank's ruthlessly rigorous routine. And I sincerely doubt that any revision of their customer-handling system can be expected.

A BELLY-FULL OF SCANS

Canadians are in an uproar over the announcement that full-body scanners are going to be installed at a number of our major airports. And most of the controversy seems centered around issues of invasion of privacy rather than evasion of terror (which would make more sense to me).

It might be that I have a rather different appreciation of airport security than most, born out of my experience of it.

Back in the days when commercial flying was still fun (and airlines treated people like guests and served them meals without charge), the main threat to a passenger's sense of security was the worry that some slipshod mechanic had forgotten to tighten a crucial bolt. And "domestic terrorism" usually meant that a vengeful husband had insured his wife for a bundle, then packed a bomb in her Samsonite. 


And that was scary enough!

Before long, highjackings came into fashion; and 'Fly this plane to Cuba!' became the mantra-du-jour. But, usually, all that a highjacking entailed was a temporary diversion to a warmer clime, a brief stop at Havana Airport and (with luck) a complimentary glass or two of rum.

Then came organized terrorism, and things turned nasty.

At first, airports ran only selective checks on passengers: a simple wave of a hand-held metal detector up and down the body. And even that was reserved only for the more "suspicious" - in other words, people like me.

If one out of every 30 or 40 people was chosen to undergo this routine, I was that one. But I really didn't mind. After all, I'd spent most of the 1960s and 70s proving to people that just because my hair hung down to my shoulder blades didn't mean I was any more evil than people whose hair never touched their ears. And if I had to make the point all over again in the name of effective airline security, so be it!

And yet, being constantly culled from the herd for extra inspection did become rather tiresome when I became the token Northerner on the Board of Directors of The Ontario Film Association and had to fly down to Toronto for meetings every month.

One day, while walking down the ramp to my aircraft, I was stopped by a young man-in-black for the customary detector drill. I submitted without protest (as I always did); but when he'd finished, I felt compelled to give him a bit of advice.

"I know that security is important," I admitted, "but I think you ought to be checking everyone, especially the respectable-looking people."

He gave me a puzzled look, so I explained.

"If I wanted to highjack a plane," I said, "the first thing I'd do would be to cut my hair, put on a new suit and tie, buy a fancy attache case and put my bomb or weapon in it. And if I did that, you'd let me pass without a second glance. Am I right?"

He nodded thoughtfully.

"I suppose so."

"All I'm saying," I said, "is that security measures must be universally applied if they're to do any good. That way, they become part of the normal routine. And you'd never have to fear offending any well-dressed businessmen or mothers with infants, would you?"

He had to agree.

So, I smiled, commended him for taking on a tough job and headed to my plane. But before I boarded, I glanced back. And what should I see but a fellow just like the potential highjacker I described coming down the ramp - haircut, suit, attache case and all! So, I paused to see what the screener would do.

At first, he made as if to stop the man, then held back, then started to move towards him again, then retreated in confusion and finally simply allowed the man to pass unchallenged. And the little drama gave me quite a chuckle.

But once I'd strapped myself into my seat, it dawned on me. What if the fellow in the suit did have a gun or bomb in his briefcase? And through the entire flight, I couldn't get that notion out of my head.

So, now, when people moan about having their body space invaded, I think they're missing the point. It should be everybody or nobody that has to stand electronically naked before the airport scanners. Everyone or no one - there is no middle ground!

And as for me, I can handle a bit of exposure. God knows, I don't get half as many requests for that these days as I used to!

A SQUAD OF DRUMMERS DRUMMING

There is something about pounding on things with a stick that stirs our most primitive urges. And God knows, they need a good stir now and then.

In fact, I suspect we were drumming long before we were chanting or dancing around a fire - maybe, even before we had fire.

So, there would seem to be no better way to end this little series of stories than to indulge in a bit of lively percussion and no better person to lead us in that ritual than Rick "Shadrach" Lazar, one of Thunder Bay's favourite and (by anybody's definition) coolest of its many musical sons.

Rick got his earliest musical training in piano and woodwinds from his father. Then, in high school, he sat down to his first drum kit when he and Paul Shaffer formed a band. Even to this day, Paul fondly remembers Rick's enormous collection of DOWNBEAT magazines and his encyclopedic knowledge of music and the people who make it.

In later years, Rick would get a chance to meet and play with some of those folks: Bruce Cockburn, Jesse Cook, Moe Koffman, Barry White and even The Blues Brothers, to name just a few. In the '80s, he had two bands of his own (Coconut Groove and Montuno Police) and in the '90s began to teach as well as perform.

Then, around about the time the Millennium clock turned over, Rick began spending his Sunday afternoons with a number of people who simply loved percussion and wanted to learn from a master. And as their numbers grew (thanks to Rick's policy of taking in just about anyone who expressed a desire to bang on things with a stick), the group soon morphed into Samba Squad.

Within little more than a year (and under Rick's inspired direction), Samba Squad was busking and doing other small gigs and recording in a studio and ended up winning The Urban Music Association of Canada's Best World Recording of 2001 Award.

You might say that Rick has spent most of his life not only entertaining audiences around the world but also showing people they don't have to just sit and listen - not that anyone can sit for long when Rick gets drumming!

So, now, as the Holiday Season winds down and we've heard The Little Drummer Boy so many times we could scream, I'd like to suggest we drown out all memory of that timid little rat-a-tat-tatter with a good, sharp blast from Shadrach's whistle followed by some hot, hip-shaking Latin rhythms.

And let me wish you all a Happy and Useful 2010 the best way I know how: by sending you to www.sambasquad.com where we can watch the Squad perform and dance and drum our way into the New Year.

Over to you, Rick!

(Thanks so much for joining me for THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS. You can review all the days again just by scrolling down. And I'll be back with new entries on The Zipper Report in a day or two - once I've caught my breath.)

A CRAVEN PIPER FLEEING

I always thought pipers were supposed to be brave.

I mean, they lead troops into battle armed with nothing more than a vacuum cleaner that squawks. And they march in public wearing a skirt. So, with nerve like that, you'd figure they'd never desert their post.

And yet, I had a piper lead me into battle once and watched as he fled in the face of a force of no more than three hundred women!

It was the night I'd been invited to Lakehead University to speak to a group of ladies from all across Canada who'd earned post-graduate degrees in one subject or another.

Now, I've never been shy about getting up to speak in front of any group, especially if they give me a good dinner into the bargain. In fact, Jackie Mason and I are of the same mind on this subject. "I'd go to talk to a bunch of Nazis," he once said, "if they served decent cake."

Of course, this wasn't a hostile force I was about to confront. Although I will admit I had some reservations about going, because I've come to discover that most people who've endured excessively long periods of formal education tend to be incredibly boring.

Nevertheless, I was being offered a chance to talk on a subject near and dear to my heart: the regionalization of Canadian culture. So, off I went.

I was met at the door of the hall by a lady who smiled and said, "I'm your 'bunny' for the evening." And I immediately felt relieved to find that my escort and minder was someone with a sense of humour.

She led me inside, where we joined a line of big shots who were waiting to be piped to the head table. The young lad with the bagpipes glanced back nervously at us, then took a deep breath and began to wail.

It wasn't hard to understand the terror such sound must have struck into an enemy on the battlefield. And even in that apparently less dangerous environment, I was sure there was no one who wouldn't tremble at our advance.

I tried to maintain a polite smile, but the noise was hurting my ears. And I found myself praying for it to end - but wondering if, when it did, I'd ever be able to hear anything again.

Of course, I didn't expect them to allow a mere musician to sit at head table with us muckity-mucks. But I was surprised to see the piper beat such a hasty retreat when his brief gig was finished - leaving me and the bartender the only two males in the room.

My speech went well enough, although I did notice a few glares when I ranted on about how we had to stop relying on genetics to find new broadcasting talent and had to start looking somewhere other than just among our country's prominent families and only in the greater metropolitan areas.

And then, it occurred to me that I was bound to be speaking to members of some of those families, most of whom lived in those greater metropolitan areas.

But I carried on, regardless.

And once I'd finished (having castigated the CBC and National Film Board for promising to decentralize their production centres and then failing to deliver on their promises), I got a more-than-respectable round of applause.

And afterward, as I was mingling with the crowd, one woman in particular worked her way through the throng to get to me. And after she and I had spoken for a bit, my 'bunny' (looking very nervous indeed) rushed over and asked, "What did she say to you?"

I told her the lady said she'd especially enjoyed what I had to say, since her husband often came home saying much the same thing about the CBC and their myopic view of Canadian culture.

My 'bunny' heaved a sigh of relief. "You know who her husband is, don't you?" she asked. And when I said I didn't, she explained he was the head of French Language Programming at CBC.

And suddenly, I wished that craven piper hadn't fled or that I could have dragged him back to pipe me around the room again. And this time, I'd have had him play a tune of my own choosing: a little ditty by the Rolling Stones.

And I'd have sung along, as we went.

"Oh, you can't always get what you want,

No, you can't always get what you want.

But if you try sometimes,

You just might get what you need!"

(Scroll down for days you've missed. And don't forget: tomorrow is the twelfth and final day of THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS. And I can guarantee I'll leave you happily drumming your way into the New Year.)

NO LORD A-LEAVIN'

Gather 'round, children! And let me tell you the story of the Black Lord who had all the money in the world and knew all the most famous people and who believed he had all the power there was, so that he needn't care a jot or tittle for the rules the rest of us are expected to live by.

Well, it seemed that one day, some nasty, little people (who obviously envied him for all his wealth and friends and power) dragged him in front of a judge and claimed he'd been stealing gold from his own companies' treasure chests and then carting off and destroying the evidence of what he'd done when he thought someone was about to catch him at it.

And the mean, old judge sat and listened and banged his gavel and sent the Black Lord off to Florida - not the nice part, where he had his mansion, or to Disney World or Palm Beach or any place like that, but to Coleman Federal Correctional Complex to get corrected, where he couldn't wear his ermine robes or sleep late or play golf.

And he couldn't get any help from Canada where he'd been born, because he'd thumbed his nose at them when the Prime Minister tried to tell him he couldn't, by law, be Baron Black of Crossharbour and a citizen of the country at the same time.

But the Baron couldn't help being baronial. He'd been that way all his life, when he was pitched out of one college for allegedly selling stolen exam papers and from another for "insubordinate behaviour" or when he was busy being a media baron.

But what did he care?!

He was rich... and getting richer... and richer... and owned newspapers and hung out with really famous people and had tea with the Queen and got married to a pretty second wife who was just as snobbish as he was.

So, when Tony Blair told Her Majesty, "You should make this guy a Lord." She said, "OK."

But once he was convicted in the U.S., he had to give up his seat in the House Of Lords. And when he thought of running back to Toronto, they said, "Sorry! We don't let foreigners with a rap sheet in!" And with the appeals of his conviction being rejected by other nasty judges, things were looking pretty bleak.

And he remembered how, at a book signing in Toronto some time before his trial, he'd  been surprised to see that so many of his old chums had failed to show up for the event. And the Black Lord turned to his Lady and asked, "Would you love me if I wasn't rich?" And as cool as an iceberg, she replied, "No, of course not!" And when he got that hurt puppy dog look in his eyes, she quickly explained, "Because you wouldn't be you if you weren't rich!"

And that made him feel better.

And just before Christmas, children, the Baron tried one more time to get his sentence quashed - or at least reduced - and failed. So, today, as the song goes, "He's stuck in Coleman Prison and time keeps draggin' on. This Lord wont be a-leavin', he's gotta be a con."

I tell you this story in the spirit of Charles Dickens, who (better than anyone) understood the importance at this time of year of remembering that, no matter how bad things may seem for us, there's always someone else for whom they're even worse!

(Scroll down to see any days of THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS you may have missed. Tomorrow: A CRAVEN PIPER FLEEING.)

ME BELLY DANCING

When I was in Grade Seven, my mother decided I should take ballroom dancing lessons. And when I argued that since I was planning to enter the priesthood and couldn't see the need, she countered that I'd be attending my share of weddings and should be able to accept an invitation to dance without making a fool of myself.

And I could see her point.

So, I dutifully went along every two weeks to don my white gloves and learn the waltz and foxtrot and tango and even some silly two-step called the Lindy Hop (named after Charles Lindberg - which should give you a rough idea of how up-to-date that was).

But even after I'd left the seminary, I almost never had the urge to show my stuff on the dance floor. And, as the years went by, I became positively stubborn about my refusal to shake it about in public - for any reason.

Then, in my second year at CBC, I got called down to Toronto to appear on Morningside (the radio network's flagship show) to talk about my tabloid days with then-host and former Liberal Cabinet Minister, Judy LaMarsh.

LaMarsh had been a pretty hard-nosed politician in her day and proved just as tough as an interviewer. Before the broadcast, when I was brought into the studio to be introduced to her, the program's producer warned, "Judy's a bit old-fashioned, Jim. So, I hope you won't be offended if she makes some comment about the length of your hair."

I assured her I could take care of myself.

And as she predicted, no sooner had the introductions been completed than LaMarsh squinted hard at me and demanded to know if I was going to let my hair grow long enough that I could sit on it. And I shot back, "Judy, I intend to let it grow long enough that I can stand on it!"

The producer smiled and said, "Well, I guess you two will be alright then." And she disappeared back into the control room.

It appeared the only other guest was a lawyer come to talk about changes to the country's divorce laws. But not long after the show had begun, LaMarsh announced that we'd be joined later by a man who taught belly dancing in Toronto. And right away, I saw where this was headed.

Our host, who had a reputation as something of a militant feminist and who had insisted on having a staff of female production assistants, was notorious for humiliating on air any male who tried to cross her. So, I suspected that, at the conclusion of the show, the lawyer and I were going to be asked to get up and take lessons from the belly dance instructor. And God help us if we refused!

Brave as I might have been, I decided to meekly acquiesce and do the dance. And anyway, who was going to see me dance on radio?!

My fellow guest was not so wise and - just as I'd expected - she gave him a good raking over the coals (live and from coast to coast) before she finally shamed him into submission.

So, up we got and - move for move - dutifully followed the instructions of our teacher. But I made sure to ask him lots of questions in the process, since I reasoned that the more questions I asked, the less I'd have to wiggle.

Everything was going fine. And while I may not have been as limber as Elvis, I was managing pretty well, I thought - until I looked up at the window of the control room. And there stood all six of the production assistants laughing and pointing and enjoying themselves far too much.

And, in spite of the fact that they tried to make up for it by taking me to lunch, I made myself a promise there and then.

From that moment on, belly dancing was going to remain for me what it always should have been: purely a spectator sport.

(Scroll down to catch up on the days you've missed. Tomorrow: Day Ten - NO LORD A-LEAVING.)

EIGHT MAIDS A-MOOING

Hymers, Ontario is a tiny place - for all but once a year. 

Come Labour Day Weekend, the empty field at the edge of the community suddenly sprouts tents and booths and amusement rides, the exhibition buildings fill with the prize produce of local farmers, the barns come alive with the sounds and smells of champion livestock and cars packed with people from every community within a 100-mile radius circle the grounds in search of a parking spot.

And it all adds up to one of the most appealing Fall Fairs in the Province.

Most of that appeal, I've always thought, comes from the fact that the Hymers Fall Fair is the genuine article. It features not only judging and competitions for riding horses but for draft animals, as well. Most of the refreshment booths are local - as is the musical talent. And the turkey dinner served in the old hall is home cooking at its best.

I took a friend from New Zealand there one autumn and will never forget the shock she felt when we entered the cow barn. There was a Jersey hunkered down comfortably in one of the stalls. And when my friend rounded a corner and spotted the animal, she took a sudden step back.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"I never realized how BIG cows were!" she stammered. Or how beautiful, either, I suppose. 

The competition in Hymer's Bovine Beauty Pageant is fierce - as fierce as the Cow Calling and Milking Contests are fun. After all, what could compare to a group of city folk having their first try at milking. And, of course, cow calling is a sort of dairyman's joke. You don't call a cow. They come when they damn well feel like it!

I remember, as a young boy, making a tour of my Uncle Leonard's barn at milking time and remarking in my innocence that he must really love his cows. He turned and gave me that gaunt, Abe Lincoln look of his and said, "Son! Nobody loves a cow!"

Watching the crowds at Hymers, you could have fooled me!

I used to compete myself in the old days at the Fair. We called it a Liars Contest, but my opponent, Doc Skinner (a self-proclaimed Professional Liar and Certified Fish-ician) always won. And we both participated not so much for the small honorarium they gave us or even for the free turkey dinner but mostly for the fun of getting together and working to the toughest crowd there is: a bunch of farmers.

One year, I arrived for the gig and discovered that Doc hadn't shown (a mix-up in dates he later claimed). That meant I was required to stretch the material I'd prepared to cover his absence. But  I didn't mind, because I knew that this time I finally had first prize locked up.

So, you can imagine my surprise when they announced that, despite failing to appear, Doc would be declared the winner at any rate.

"After all," the emcee explained, "He told the biggest lie of all. He said he was going to be here!"

At that point, I gave up all hope and consoled myself by going off to watch the city-slickers make udder fools of themselves.

(Scroll down for any days you've missed. Tomorrow: Day Nine of THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS - ME BELLY DANCING!)