Cauliflower Corners-Part 1

From Hamlet To Village

In 1911, Cauliflower Corners was on the verge of greatness. It had recently fully molted from hamlet to village. Two hundred and fifty six citizens in total, with two more expected in the spring. Like all small settlements, it had its eccentrics, geniuses, harmless lay-abouts, scads of decent folk and a budding sociopath, destined to destroy more than one august local institution with his ruthless ambition, vile arrogance and a brain three sizes too small for his already small cranium.

We mention the verge of greatness not without justification. With the County capital 32 miles away in the larger settlement of Hanover (population: 645), Cauliflower Corners had recently been appointed the auxiliary county seat, an honour it had been seeking for over a decade. Being the auxiliary meant that a circuit court judge would come by for Assizes four times a year. More importantly, the village would get its very own schoolteacher, the first of which was to be Miss Gracie Birdsong, all of seventeen years old.

It was a mystery why Miss Birdsong was not yet married. Not that suitors had not been plentiful. On at least five occasions, she had to summon all her tact to let down softly her ardent swains without bruising their fragile egos. Miss Birdsong had always known what she wanted and would not settle for less. Better single and little wishful rather than married and a lot regretful was her philosophy. This outlook had saved her from certain disappointment on several occasions.

Of course, Miss Birdsong’s arrival in Cauliflower Corners was anticipated with more than just a passing interest. The village fathers were pleased with the prestige a full time educator would bring them. Parents would no longer have to spend their exhausted day’s end, struggling to give their children what modest book learning they could. The eligible bachelors, sensing the opportunity of a lifetime, began bathing more frequently, cussing less and spitting their tobacco juice with much more ceremony and renewed accuracy.

Within days of the announcement of the new schoolteacher’s appointment, the whole village turned out to transform the underused church basement into a passable classroom. Desks were built, a blackboard imported from Hanover and the pot bellied stove replaced with one that actually functioned. Walls were scrubbed spotless.

With great solemnity, the children were taught the brand new official welcoming song crafted by Mrs. Gustavia Squeers, church organist, choir leader, and neglected wife of the presiding minister of the Glorious Church of Golgotha, The Most Reverend Cornelius Augustus Ramses Squeers, Doctor of Divinity. The Most Reverend Squeers had, hitherto, been doubling his meager clerical stipend with an annual salary from the County for acting as the local judge, jury and executioner. This annual salary was, of course, augmented by the fifty percent of all fines he greedily meted out and collected, one way or another: usually another.

Cornelius Augustus Ramses Squeers: it was a rather long and imposing name for a man who stood no more than five feet tall in best Sunday shoes. The Reverend believed himself to be a just man, a merciful man even. Under his munificent legal rule, no one was ever flogged more than once a month unless he deserved it. And there was always the option to substitute any flogging or incarceration with the immediate payment, in cash or in kind, of a monetary penalty commensurate with the seriousness of the offence. Reverend Squeers was the richest man in Cauliflower Corners in 1911.

The Reverend and Mrs. Squeers (nee Burden) had met as quietly desperate Hanoverians. He was 38 at the time and Gustavia was in the last month of her twenty third year. The courtship was short and their marriage was propelled more out of resignation than love. Cornelius’s mother had passed away the year previous and he needed someone to starch his collars and prepare his meals. Gustavia had been flirting with spinsterhood and was willing to bargain away her limited autonomy for what she considered “respectability”. She thought of her husband as a somewhat less than adequate catch, despite Cornelius’s recent inexpensive acquisition of a Doctor of Divinity degree from an obscure diploma mill somewhere in Michigan; or maybe it was Utah or Central Africa. Gustavia summoned all her will and decided she would make do with a less than optimal situation.

Within the year, they were blessed with a son. He was christened in a converted wash basin near the altar of the Glorious Church of Golgotha, an institution hastily established by The Most Reverend Squeers only months before his betrothal to Gustavia. Difficult negotiations had preceded the christening and the newborn child was finally labeled, after much compromising and tears. Gorgis Cornelius Gustavius Burden Squeers was adored by his mother and grudgingly tolerated by his father, who, given his druthers, would have been content with a barren yet quieter childlessness. Crying babies interfered with his digestion and customary afternoon naps. Plus, there would have been more money for his secret habits.

Fortunately for Gorgis, his mother loved him to the point of spoliation. The sun rose and set upon Lil Gorgeous (or just plain “Gorgeous”, as she often called him).  It would be her life’s mission to mould him into something special. And special he turned out, as we shall soon see.

Cauliflower Corners-Part 2

Lil’ Gorgeous

In 1886, Gorgis Cornelius Gustavius Burden Squeers emerged into this world as the unfortunate by-product of a loveless, passably convenient marriage between two undistinguished citizens of Hanover. His father, Cornelius Augustus Ramses Squeers, Doctor of Divinity, was practised in the profitable use of an elastic moral code. His mother was a gentle creature, chosen by fate to spend too large a portion of her life regretting her desperate marital compromise.

Before acquiring his dubious ecclesiastical credentials in 1885, Cornelius Squeers skulked about the countryside looking for suckers. He would rotate his moral and intellectual mediocrity through the villages and hamlets of Hanover County. Places like Cauliflower Corners, Heart’s Content and Lansing’s Ford were among his favourite haunts. He would stay in one place until the probability of his detection became too great. It was his genius to move on just before disaster hit. Never caught. Infrequently suspected. Always guilty. A human weasel. Polished scum.

Gorgis, or Lil’ Gorgeous as he was fondly called by his mother, never really had a chance. His mother, though doting, was weak and detestable in his view. His father, distant and calculating, had no time for him. As a child, Gorgis ached for his father’s approval. Until he turned 10 years old, everything Lil’ Gorgeous did was designed to squeeze out the tiniest evidence of paternal affection. The best he ever got back was a grudging indifference. Finally, he just plain gave up. By this time, he was already a budding sociopath, unknowingly following in his father’s oily footsteps.

At age 11, Gorgis had set fire to his first stray cat. At age 12, he graduated from burning cats to torching abandoned barns. By age 13, he had been banned from Anson’s Feed and Hardware Store, having been rightly suspected of lacing the bundled oats with a strong laxative purloined from the apothecary of Dr. Finch. The accusation, though never proven, clung to him like a bad smell, immune to any attempts at cleansing.

As can be readily guessed, Gorgis had no friends. He spent his solitary hours imagining his rise to sociopathic glory. By what means, he had not yet determined. He used everyone and everything in his path. He read voraciously. While fumbling through a well-thumbed comic book being passed around among his classmates, he came upon an advertisement whose shadowy nature appealed strongly to him. It read, in part:

“Are you tired of getting no respect? Then buy it!

Bachelor of Agriculture Degree…98 cents. Optician’s Licence…$1.10

Chemist’s Licence…$1.15. Doctor of Divinity…$1.48

All framing of the highest quality.

University of Ledes. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

Little by little, Gorgis removed small amounts of money from his mother’s purse until he had amassed sufficient funds for his own mail order Doctor of Divinity. Wouldn’t his father, whose own fake credentials had been acquired by the same means, be taken aback when he saw his son’s purchased diploma hanging proudly in the den?

Alas, after waiting six months for his credentials to appear by post, Gorgis finally admitted to himself that he had been had. “How could these hucksters live with themselves?” he muttered, oblivious to the irony.

Despite his growing sociopathy, Lil’ Gorgeous was not without a warped sense of humour. Once, in 1901, on a visit to the movie theatre in Hanover, he executed an anonymous prank, still now remembered in awe. Saturday afternoons at the Hanover Cinematopia were reserved for kids only. For five cents, children could watch six hours of movies and stuff down cheap candy until they were green to the gills. No one was allowed in the balcony. If caught, the trespasser would have to deal with Big Bubba, a post-pubescent Cro-Magnon Man so thick he signed his name with a single downward slash (\) because he had trouble completing a full X.

Gorgis waited until the third feature had begun before entering the theatre. He kept the admission money given to him by his mother and snuck into the Cinematopia through a washroom window. He emerged from the washroom unseen and scurried to the refreshment counter. He ordered the Monster Tub of Popcorn and paid the full price, a thing which never failed to make him feel cheated.

While making sure no one was watching, Gorgis sidled up to the water fountain and, by a miracle of science, used the water to turn his mountain of popcorn into a gelatinous goop. Armed with his newly christened Monster Tub of Ooze, he climbed the stairs to the balcony as soon as he saw Big Bubba slide out an exit door for a well-deserved smoke. Up, up he went, smiling his fiendish smile. As he reached the edge of the balcony, he donned his mask. On the screen, the evil gunman was tying a fair maiden to the railway tracks. Every kid in the theatre was on the edge of his seat as the train stormed down the rails.

As the train rounded the last bend, Gorgis, hanging over the balcony railing, wailed in his loudest voice:

“I feel sick! Gawd! Oh Gawd! I’M GOING TO THROW UP!

AAAAAAHHHHHH! RAAAAALLPH!”

One hundred and twenty faces simultaneously turned up to the balcony as Gorgis squeezed the Monster Bucket of Ooze against his chest, thus causing its contents to fly up and over the throng below. Gorgis intensified his wretching noises as the slimy, snot-like tsunami splattered his helpless victims. Already stuffed to the gills with Gummy Bears, Sweet and Sours, popcorn, peanuts, licorice and soda pop, it did not take long for the first be-gooed kid to throw up. He was followed by the next, and the next, and the next, until the theatre was transformed into one gigantic vomitorium.

Gorgis calmly dropped the empty bucket and dashed out of the theatre in the same way he had come in. His exploit became the stuff of legend, a perfect crime in Gorgis’s eyes. Perfect because he would never be caught. 

The Karma of Sophia Dolce and Malicio Gigio

Karma:            In Hinduism and Buddhism, the idea that your destiny is determined by your past actions.

The universe is one strange place. Every philosopher worth his salt has tried to make sense of it. As far as I know, no one has solved this enigma wrapped in a riddle, veiled in mystery.

 This is a story of Sophia Dolce, a country girl. It is also the story of Malicio Gigio, a man blinded by the poison of his ambitions. Sophia was born on a farm near Gaeta, Italy, a small town about three hundred kilometers from Rome. All her life, she was surrounded by animals. Of all God’s creatures, she loved dogs the most, especially those poor unfortunate ones who were never loved in return. At the age of eighteen, Sophia left home. For twenty years she worked diligently in the Gaeta Rescue Shelter, happy to be in the company of her four-legged friends.

Malicio Gigio spent most of his youth in the same town. By some cosmic oversight, he was born with a spectacular lack of social skills. Some attributed this to an absent father and a cold mother. Others believed he actively cultivated hissociopathy. Malicio, as you can imagine, was shunned by his young peers. It was not out of normal school yard cruelty. No, it was for other reasons. Malicio would, within weeks, abandon any friend he had managed to make, in favour of another more useful. Over and over, he would shamelessly piggy-back on the work of others, rarely contributing, but ready to put his name first on any project handed in. He was a middling student at best.

 Following his graduation, Malicio roamed the whole of Italy.  After four years of applied  laziness, he achieved nothing more notable than acquire a beautifully framed Bachelor’s of Medieval Fauna degree  from La Universita Di Pinnochio, an obscure organization  run out of the basement of a small time Florentine forger.

Armed with his purchased credentials, Malicio flitted from job to job to job. He was asked to leave every position he had ever had because his mediocrity and his duplicity always became unbearable to his employers.  And what a strange, unhideable duplicity it was. Whenever Malicio was in the throes of taking liberties with the truth (or, for that matter, under any pressure whatsoever), his ears would turn as red as apples and his hands would tremble uncontrollably.  Malicio trembled a lot.

It was noted earlier that Sophia worked for many years at the Rescue Shelter in Gaeta. The shelter had, at various times, been run by a succession of excellent directors. The director was always known by the title “Il Direttore”.  Il Diretorre, sometimes male, sometimes of the superior sex, was overseen by the local, long-serving Justice of the Peace, Signora Maria Del Mar. Signora Del Mar was a kind, trusting woman with a particular abhorrence for cruelty, whatever its form. She was also Malicio’s great aunt.

As the town of Gaeta became smaller, what with smaller families and children moving on to the fascination of Rome, money for charitable causes became tighter. The Rescue Shelter found itself in financial difficulties: significant but not fatal. It was an accident of fate that at this very moment, two things occurred. Firstly, the current Il Diretorre fell ill and could not continue in his important position. Secondly, and more importantly, Malicio got wind of the vacancy. With unctuous charm, he descended upon his great aunt under the guise of a long overdue visit. Somehow he talked and schmoozed his way into the vacant sinecure. Malicio Gigio, Il Direttore  of the Gaeta Rescue Shelter: he loved the sound of it. To his credit, he did manage to limit, to a mere seventeen occurrences, the number of times his ears glowed crimson over the course of the relentless siege of his poor great aunt.

In Malicio’s mind, the position of Il Diretorre would be a superb stepping stone on his path to glory. What he really wanted (coveted would be more exact) was a lifetime job at the Ministry of Animal Husbandry in Rome. Sweet, exhilarating Rome! He could lustily imagine his future: long lunches at Il Fiore in the Piazza Navona and afternoon trysts with movie stars, all of it funded by the foolish taxpayer.

 From his first day at the shelter, Malicio, fueled by his blind ambition, set to work to impress the big wigs in the Capital. He slashed everyone from the shelter payroll, except for Sophia. He needed her and the volunteers to do the actual work. The welfare of his canine charges barely registered on his deficient mental radar.

Sophia was worried. Her animals started to suffer. She redoubled her efforts on their behalf. She continued to feed them, to walk them daily, to groom them and to clean up their inevitable messes. The cleanup was a dirty but necessary job. Without flinching, she would scoop up the doggy deposits and transport them to the large Honey Box located just inside the entranceway to their play area. At the end of the day, the Honey Box would be emptied and the cycle would begin anew. In spite of her Herculean efforts, Sophia would be mercilessly browbeaten by Malicio. He would accuse her of sloppy work and idling about. The volunteers were treated with the same disdain. Yet not as much disdain as Malicio reserved for the rescued dogs. These he liked to beat with his walking stick for any barking or other imagined slight. Sophia pleaded with him and eventually was rewarded with an unexpected discharge. It broke her heart.

The discharge may have broken Sophia’s heart but it did not break her iron will. She engaged the services of an attorney who sued Malicio and the Gaeta Rescue Shelter and won. With her 250,000 Euro award, much of which was in the form of punitive damages, she retired to the family farm to plan her future.

This, however, is not the end of the story. Not by a longshot. After Sophia’s departure, Malicio could find no one crazy enough to replace her. The volunteers were abandoning ship in droves. This state of affairs was indeed problematic: problematic for Malicio. You see, the Sub-Assistant Adjunct Deputy Minister of Animal Husbandry (Signor Buffoono) was scheduled to arrive for an inspection of the Gaeta Rescue Shelter within a few weeks of his ill-advised firing of Sophia. Malicio had to scramble.  If he failed to impress the Sub-Assistant Adjunct Deputy Minister, his dreams of a lengthy Roman holiday at great taxpayers’ expense would surely not come to pass.

Preparations were cobbled together for the impending ministerial visit. Then came the big day. The be-medalled, puffed up, and utterly self-important Signor Buffoono of the Ministry of Animal Husbandry arrived with his coterie of sycophantic underlings. Malicio regaled them all with an impressive tour of the facilities and a load of flattery fit for the vainest of the vain.

At one point, the little visiting mob approached the noisy play area where the imprisoned dogs were getting their irregular exercise. On this visit, Malicio was careful not to rattle the fence with his walking stick, as had always been his custom. The Sub-Assistant Adjunct Deputy Minister asked Malicio if he truly loved his animals.

“Of course, Excellency. As a matter of fact, I make it my pleasurable duty to play with each one of them a little every day.”

“Ah” uttered the Minister. “Signor Gigio, kindly oblige me and show me how it is done. You must be very brave to do it. I know that, I, myself, would be most terrified.”

“Malicio’s ears could not help themselves. In an instant, they flashed the red of a Cardinal’s biretta and his hands, hidden in his pockets, began to tremble.

“Excellency, I would like nothing better than to acquiesce to your most pleasant request. But I believe my esteemed canine charges are still quite exhausted from our earlier frolics.”

“It is no doubt true, Signor Gigio. Yet I have come a long way and I could conceive of no greater pleasure than to observe firsthand the weaving of your renowned magic upon our four-legged friends. Here, let me hold your walking stick” offered the Minister, not without a little malice.

Trapped and defenceless, Malicio inched his way into the play area. The dogs, sensing his fear and noting his lack of weaponry, immediately began to growl. The beaten dogs could smell an opportunity. Malicio positioned himself next to the Honey Box for what he hoped would be a little protection unnoticed by his visitors. A small Boxer, Alfredo, bared his teeth and leapt with all the fury of a hurricane at his nemesis’s flabby underbelly. Malicio panicked. He turned tail too quickly and landed, face first, in the Honey Box. Fortunately, its contents cushioned the fall. Unfortunately, the oozy mush of the day’s digestively processed Alpo packed his nostrils and glued his eyelids to his corneas. Sightless and dazed, Malicio frantically clawed his way out of his temporary coffin and screamed his way to the exit. He almost made it. As fate would have it, Alfredo, all twenty two furious pounds of him, was not done exacting his revenge. Maniacally, the little Boxer tore at the seat of Malicio’s pants. He managed to rip out the whole bottom of his enemy’s soiled trousers. Needless to say, the missing fabric, which revealed Malicio’s favourite pink Ballroom Barbie underwear, did nothing for his career advancement.

Sophia, on the other hand, was not so unlucky. Upon learning of her great nephew’s embarrassing display and subsequent ignominious flight from the jurisdiction, Signora Del Mar called upon Sophia to run the Gaeta Rescue Shelter. She accepted with gratitude, proving once more with Karmic perfection, that what goes around, comes around.

Thank You

After 24 years, I am leaving the place I have loved since the minute I stepped into one of its classrooms on that sunny but very cold day in January, 1988. I was nervous, excited and inordinately grateful for my good fortune. It turned out to be adventure of a lifetime.

It was not systems or bricks or money that I will remember. It is you beautiful, passionate and dedicated fellow travelers who have made the journey rich beyond measure or my ability to thank you. It is the thousands of kind. It is the sometimes exasperating, almost always curious and willing students whom I have had the immense pleasure of teaching and of knowing on a first name basis. I will miss you all more than I could ever say. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

I need to thank you personally. If I missed your name, it is for one of two reasons. Either I could not properly jog my faltering memory, or I’ve been calling you the wrong name for 24 years!

From the bottom of my heart, I thank Paulette A., Kelly A., Shawn A., Laure A., Nicole A., Deirdre B., Jennifer B., Erin B., Chris B., Peter B., Brian B., Joelle B., Brian B., Daniela B., Andrea B., Rick B., Joanne B., Catherine B., Denise B., Kelly B., Terra B., Joe B., Carol B., Janet B., Sandy B., Dan B., Mike B., Shelley B., Keith C., Bonnie C., Laura C., Michelle C., Pierre C., Ginette C., Claude C., Sue C-F., Teri-Lynn C., Roger C., Karen C., Mary C., Rob C., Mike C., Danielle C., Caroline C., Sonja C., Phil C., Dave D., Leo D., Frank D., Roseanne D., Carrie D., Marguerite D. (thank you for your incredible humanity), Liz D., Steve D., Ryan D., Robert D., Allan E., Derek E., Daniel E., Margia F., Kim F., Jeff F., Mark F., Christina F., Charles G., Wendy G., Gary G., Brad G., Melanie G., Dallas G., Cathy G., Barb G., Francoise G., Rob G. (my best friend and office mate extraordinaire), Richard G., Jean G., Ann G., Rick G., Pauline G., Dale H., Randy H., Tom H., Glenn H., Beth H., Valerie H., Jennifer H., Mary Anne H., Samantha H., Terry H., Heather H., Dave H., Arlene H., Paul H., Shandra H., Stephen H., Peter I., Patricia J., Jude J., Kim J., Leslie K., Peter K., Kathy K., Jim K.1, Jim K.2, Janet K., Elizabeth K., Kathy K., Mike L., Mark L., Linda L., Carole L., Linda L., Carol L., Steve L., Tom L., Diane L., Robert L., Peter L., Peggy L., Qun L., Barb L., Kim L., Suzanne L., Jan L., Tom M., Chantal M., Louanne M., Don M., Judy M., Beth M., Richard M., Tracie M-F., J-P. M., Peter M., Mike M., Lisa M., Karen M., Tara M., Bill M., Mike M., Jeanette M., Heather M., Anne M., Gerry M., Leette M., Shirley M., Yura M., Andrea M., Rebecca M., Janice M., Peggy M., Fraser M., Letitia N.-P., Amy N., Sandy N., Karugia N., Kathie N., Brian N., Dianne N., Stevie N., Rick O.,  Dave P., Rob P., John P., Lise P., Laurie P., Gary P., Gerard P., Joan P., Richard P., Janie P., Murray P., Dan P., Colleen P., Carrie P., Debbie P.-N., Robin P., Ric P., Susan P., Tom P., Jim Q., Joey R., Laura R., Bill R., Marty R., Traven R., Gail R., Susan R., Cynthia R., Finn R., Carrie R.-S., Sandy R., Lyse R., Jim R., Darren R., Cheryl R., Jill R., Kim S., Randy S., Trevor S., Monica S., Larry S., Kelly S., Chris S., Jocelyn S., Laurie S., Carmen S., Ron S., Trina S., Shawn S., Patti S., Caroline S., Bruce S., Harold T., Melanie T., Terry T., Dave T., Linda T., Susan T., Linda T., Jeff T., Darlene V., Joe V., Lynn V., Mike V., Mary W., Sandra W., Cheryl W., and Wendy W.

To Arlene, Sue, Laura, Gail, Charlotte and the rest of the library staff, thank you safeguarding our human heritage with such devotion. The library was always my favourite place in the whole school.

To Marilee, Gayle (my imaginary sister), Lenny, Louise and the rest of the cafeteria staff…thanks for 24 years of fattening me up.

Thanks to everyone at Nipissing U. who made my teaching there easier and rewarding.

Please keep in touch.  My email is theredcravat@yahoo.com. Let me know how my storytelling is working out in my weekly Small Victories column in the Community Voices (Nugget).

I wish you all health and happiness.

Bob

Part 3-The Absolutely True Adventures of Orphan Bob and The Killer Strawberries

Chapter 3- A Juggernaut Is Born


As you can see, hockey got into my blood early, what with the weekly visits to the orphanage by many of the lesser Leafs and even by Harold Ballard himself. I can’t be sure, but I always had the feeling that we wee orphans were not the sole reason for their visits. Orphan Jimmy suggested that there might be some courting going on. But he had a welcome propensity for tall tales.

Once a year, usually in March, Uncle Harold used to take selected inmates to skate on the real ice of Trinity Park pond. He would pull up to the orphanage in his big white limo, boldly emblazoned with the Leafs’ logo and with their motto: “A Cup Every Year From Now On”. His trunk would be half filled with old, discarded Leafs equipment from circa 1916. Unfortunately, there was never enough equipment for all us orphans. Although I was a gifted with tremendous hockey talent from age 2 onward, I was too small to battle the older Leviathans from the “Broda”. Consequently, until I was a little older, I was not able to wrestle from the trunk even the crappiest pair of dilapidated skates or a splintered hockey stick.

When I turned 6, I made my first trip to Trinity Park. Earlier in the day, I had managed to grab from Uncle Harold’s trunk half an elbow pad and a rivet from Ike The Spike Tannenbaum’s 1927 practice helmet. I played horribly on the pickup game, even by Gawdawful Gumby’s standards (more about him later). The pickup game also served as the tryout for the orphanage’s tournament team. I did not get chosen to represent our esteemed establishment at the annual Inner City Home For Discarded Kids Hockey Tournament (the renowned “ICHDKHT”). I left my first outing to Trinity Park crestfallen, dejected and nursing a bad case of frostbite which soon cost me half of each of my feet.

I may have been dejected, but I was determined to make the school team the following year. For the next twelve months, I worked daily to improve my strength and agility. Of course, we didn’t have anything as fancy as a training room. I was forced to improvise. I roped off the less dingy part of my refrigerator box/bedroom and turned it into my very own gym. Using as a starting point the cracked rivet from Ike “The Spike’s helmet, I went on to fashion a set of barbells by adding some reworked tuna cans and some discarded hosiery found in the Charm School’s refuse containers. Every day, I exercised relentlessly until I doubled my playing weight to 46 pounds of strapping orphanhood. To increase my agility, I practiced hanging from the top of my bedroom by wetting my fingertips and toetips and placing them gently against the ceiling, thus creating the capillary vacuums needed to stick to the cardboard above my head. It wasn’t my best use of science. But it worked.

As my next outing to the tryouts at Trinity Park approached (age 7), I felt confident I could make it to the ICHDKHT despite having to compete for a place against much bigger and better seasoned orphans than I. My biggest problem would be getting one of the few pairs of rotten skates and some kind of hockey stick from Uncle Harold’s trunk. Even if I were able, by some miracle, to get skates, they probably would not fit for two reasons. Firstly, I was only 7 years old at the time and men’s skates would undoubtedly by way too big for a kid, even a handsome and taut 46 pounder. Secondly, I had suffered from frostbite in the previous year and, if you were to add together what was left of my feet, you have ended up with just the equivalent of one. It looked like old Leafs skates were out of the question.

Well, I could have given up then and there. But I was no quitter. And I had a plan. A good plan. A plan I carried out to perfection. While Uncle Harold’s chauffeur was busy untangling the other orphans, who werebusy beating each other up while fighting in the enormous trunk for hockey equipment, I surreptitiously removed the steel studs from the limo’s tires. Using a jerry-rigged arc welder I fashioned out an old Raid spray can (it’s flammable, you know), I melted down the studs and turned them into makeshift hockey blades which I sharpened with my own teeth. Then, I secured the blades to my half feet by strapping them onto my socks with some barbed wire I had, only hours earlier, stolen off some escape-proof windows at the orphanage.

The stick problem was a little trickier. Luckily, I was able to collect enough wads of previously enjoyed bubblegum from under the baseball bleachers when we got to the park. I warmed up the abandoned rubbery wads to a workable level of malleability by salivating like a rotweiller in a hamburger factory, and then chewing on them quickly. From there, I applied the reworked gum to a couple of birch branches to form a stick. It looked like an awkward version of the Teeter Kennedy Slapper 5000. I reinforced the “blade” with leftover barbed wire and was now ready to show off the fruits of my ingenuity and demanding training regimen.

Now, I know it’s a sin to brag, so I won’t go into a lot of detail about that improbable day on Trinity pond. Suffice it to say that, on the strength of my 132 goals in 32 minutes of playing alone against the seventeen other hopefuls from the “Broda”, I was selected to my orphanage’s team. Sister Schadenfreude, normally taciturn and demurre, was so emotionally overwrought by my performance, that she kissed me on both cheeks and made a gift to me of the moniker I still cherish today: The Little Ice Marshal.

We went on to win the coveted ICHDKHT that year and in every subsequent year of my stay. Often, we played against richer orphanages and even sometimes against teams from well-funded homeless shelters who would bring in ringers from as far away as North Bay and Nipissing Junction. It did not matter. We were a juggernaut: my first but certainly not my last.

The Absolutely True Adventures of Orphan Bob and The Killer Strawberries-Chapter 2

Chapter 2- Orphan Bob Enters The Raffle Ticket Sweepstakes

It took a day or two to marshal all the arguments I wanted to use to get the waffling Vice to choose me to accompany him to the big Senators-Leafs match set for February 2. After many rewrites, here is what I sent to him by Special Delivery.


Raffle Sweepstakes Entry

January 14, Year of Our Lord MMMMXXOX

Re: Orphan Bob’s Plea To Accompany His Hero to The Upcoming Sens-Leafs Match

Dear Excellency, Mr. Vice,

I have been waiting desperately by the phone, hoping beyond all hope that I might possibly be chosen as the lucky fella to attend the BIG GAME with my superhero, Red Greentree (aka you,The Vice), the man without whom the earth would not revolve about the sun. It was only two days ago that I learned there would be a formal application process for this glorious honour. Perhaps you may have told me earlier, but I guess my whole body and brain were still frozen from scraping and watering the big rink we’ve been building together since New Year’s Day at The Compound For Minor Vice, the gorgeous roost you share with Madame Lachaise. I know it was only 45 below on most days. I should have worn a third toque. The horrible head cold I have been fighting at the “rink building work bees” hasn’t helped much either.

As I humbly perceive the situation, this honour would be best bestowed upon a constant fan who has, for innumerable arid years of desperate cheering, supported the Leafs in their quest to repeat the glory of 1967. I understand, ex post facto, the idiocy of such hope, but that’s what true fans do, despite decades of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

February 2nd is a very special day in my life. Approximately 11 months after I was born (my birthday is March 10, 1955 for those of you who send cards and small heartfelt tokens of friendship like $2 tickets for hockey raffles), my parents perished in a terrible catastrophe. I was left an orphan with no relatives anywhere in the world. My parents were orphans themselves and mere children on their wedding day. Somehow, on February 2nd, 1956, I ended up on the steps of the Turk Broda Sisters of Mercy Orphanage and Charm School on Church Street, just across from the Carlton Cash Box, also known as Maple Leaf Gardens. I was swaddled in a couple of tattered tea towels placed inside a crisp new Hush Puppies shoe box. Although I cannot recall the exact temperature, I have been told that it was about minus 72F outside that day. Fortunately, there was no wind chill.

The Sisters took me in and educated me, pro bono, until the age of 15. During my stay at the orphanage, we were visited weekly by one of the lesser stars from the Leafs, and one time ,even Harold Ballard came by to hand out penny candy emblazoned with the Leafs’ logo. You could not believe how this cheered us up. I still have all that candy in my Tickle Trunk of Treasures. The treats were a very rare occurrence at the Broda and I would dearly have loved to eat just one. Treats were uncommon, not because the Sisters were cruel, but because they were strict vegetarians with a fetish for perfect teeth.

We were never given any tickets to actual games as a result of the rampant TB and pneumonia which seemed to never leave the premises. Luckily though, in 1965, a small 4 inch black and white TV was donated to the orphanage and we all got to watch the first two periods of Saturday Leafs games, 9 pm being our curfew. We always managed to keep up with our favourite team from information gleaned at the infrequent player visits, shortened Saturday viewings, and from reading reports printed on the old newspapers used as curtains in our building. Sometimes the articles were three months old, but we were happy to have this small contact with the outside world.

The happiest day of my life (February 2, 1960) was when I learned I was going to be adopted by one of the Leaf alumni. Some speculated that it was to be Bill Barilko. I know now that this could not have been possible, since he went missing well before that time. In any event, the adoption never did occur, leaving me crestfallen and shaken. Perhaps it was for the best because, instead of getting to stay at the orphanage with its close ties to the Leafs, I could have ended up as a child labourer on some farm in the backwoods of Kemptville, the Smoking Capital of Canada, where every new mom is given six cartons of cigarettes by the Health Unit to ensure she still has enough money for formula for the first month. Don’t get me wrong. I am not afraid of hard work. I’ll shovel anybody’s rink, under any conditions, especially if that rink belongs to a friend.

We did not get formal schooling at the orphanage. There was very little time between the constant chores which I gratefully accomplished in return for my warm refrigerator box bedroom and that wonderful single square meal-a-day of carrots and slightly smelly tofu. We drank rainwater by sticking discarded straws, found on the sidewalk just outside the front doors, into the eavestroughs of nearby buildings. The water was not good but there was plenty of it.

Despite the lack of schooling, I was able to write a university entrance exam when I turned 14 and was accepted to Harvard, Western and Oxford. To pay for the entrance exam, I had to sell, for cheap, almost all the Leafs memorabilia I had managed to collect over the years. The buyer was some guy named Stavros. In turn, Stavros sold the goods to rabid fans and purchased a grocery chain with the proceeds. What can you do? I wasn’t then the businessman I am today.

Sister Perpetual Suffering helped me get a full scholarship to Western, where I dedicated myself for four years to the study of Anatomy, Nuclear Physics and Competitive Batik. I was also able to establish Leafs fan clubs at every university and college in Canada (Alberta and Quebec excepted), as well as in Mali and the United Arab Emirates. I designed the under-the-bench pyramids used successfully by coach Red Kelly in the 1975 playoffs against Philadelphia and the Islanders. (Note: my favourite players were Darryl Sittler and Errol Thompson). I singlehandedly ended the Harold Ballard Reign of Error, helped Cliff Fletcher acquire Dougie Gilmour, talked Molgilny into signing with Toronto and I continue to advise Paul Maurice on a daily basis. I do this last duty while holding down two jobs: head of the Einstein Children’s Science Development Project at Sick Kids during the day, and late night doorman at the Brass Rail. My anatomy education has not gone to waste.

Mr. Vice, I guess this is just a long-winded way of saying that I believe your Sens-Leafs game companion on February 2 should be someone who bleeds Leafian blue and who has an extremely strong attachment to February 2. This trip, not to put too fine a point on it, would be the highlight of my life.

Thank you most magnanimously for considering my candidacy.

Humbly yours,

Orphan Bob

P.S. The Brat is stealing your beer when you are not home.


Well, I’m not sure what swayed the Vice to my point of view. Maybe it was the missing beer. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the strength of our friendship. No matter. We went to Ottawa together. Our Leafs won 4-3.

The Absolutely True Adventures of Orphan Bob and The Killer Strawberries

Prologue

Some people call me a bold-faced liar. Funny thing is, I can only recall fibbing once and that got me into a lot of trouble with Sister Schadenfreude at the Turk Broda Sisters of Mercy Orphanage and Charm School where I was raised. “Sin” was a four letter word there and “lying” was the biggest four letter word of them all. I told my last lie on February 3, 1956. I still bear the scars today.

Chapter 1- The Raffle

Sometimes it’s best to start in the middle and work your way out. Sort of like eating an Oreo cookie. So that’s what I am going to do.

My best friend this week, and for the last 857 weeks has been Red Greenfield, also known to his teammates on the Killer Strawberries Hockey and Gentlemen’s Club as The Vice, short for Vice Ice Marshal. He presides magisterially over The Compound For Minor Vice on Driftwood Lake, but only when his life companion, the unflappable Madame LaChaise Lounge is not around. She is frequently absent from the Compound and can usually be found tearing strips off the numbskulls who run the provincial Government. When she is around, the Compound is run a little differently than under her paramour’s dictatorship. I still go there when she is residence, especially when I feel the urge to improve my posture or to relearn the meaning of the word “obsequious”. I owe a lot of the humility in my humble nature to her firm tutelage.

Not only is The Vice is good hockey player in his own mind, he’s a darned good procrastinator. He once burned down his house just to get rid of a pile of dirty dishes which had accumulated during one of Madame Lachaise’s absences. In any event, my friend, the Vice, is an avid Leafs fan…maybe a little too avid according to his amateur psychologist and sometimes defence partner, Dr. Bonehead Butc her Brophey.

Last February 2, in the Year of Our Lord MMMMXXOX, The Vice’s and my much maligned Leafs, heartbreakers extraordinaire, were to play the hated Senators in Ottawa, the City That Fell Asleep. Now, The Vice is a very lucky man…luckier than good…much luckier. I had bought for him at Christmas a small yet significant $2.00 token our friendship. It turned out to be the winning raffle ticket for the game against the Senators. Not only did he win a pair of once-in-a-lifetime tickets on the glass at the blueline, he also got princely accommodation for two at the same hotel where the Leafs would be staying. Upon learning of his great fortune, he was delirious with joy. I think he may have wet his pants too.

Upon hearing of The Vice’s good fortune, I waited by the phone, deliciously anticipating the invitation to Ottawa. But a strangely ominous silence emanated from the Compound for over 72 hours. And then, out of the silence, a heart-wrenching missive appeared on the Vice’s internet vanity site. The scoundrel was going to run a contest to determine who would go with him to see the sainted Leafs. I clutched my choking heart and almost passed out from the pain of disillusionment. My buddy, my favourite abettor in escapades best left unreported, had failed me miserably.

Once I regained what remained of my composure, I dialed the Compound’s unlisted number (705-456-8743) and caught the Vice at home, mixing margaritas in his bathtub. In his most unctuous voice, he explained to me that he had not yet got around to purchasing a Christmas present (already over two weeks late) for his impudent spawn, The Brat. He wanted to make up for his inexcusable procrastination by allowing her the opportunity to make a reasoned claim on the second half of his raffle prize. I understood his dilemma immediately, having met The Brat on several regrettable occasions.

I will not go into the sickening sycophantic depths to which The Brat sank on this occasion. Suffice it say that she tugged unashamedly upon her poor father’s aging heartstrings. What was truly galling was the fact that The Brat wasn’t after the extra ticket at all. She hates sports, men and little rabbits. What she wanted was to get even with me for outsmarting her on numerous previous situations. Hell hath no fury like a woman scotched.

Reluctantly, I decided to enter the contest, an underdog at best. With the fumes of unforeseen betrayal still lingering in my sobbing bosom, I composed myself and my thoughts. It was the first time I would ever let anyone know so much of my hidden past. My entry follows.

TO BE CONTINUED