It Strikes Me Funny 2002

One of Life's Little Lessons

Be patient. Keep cool under pressure.

Then let 'em have it!!

Jackie Boy, don't mess with Grandpa!

Link to It Strikes Me Funny

Photos GH

Gord's Journal 4: "a new man"

Do you own a laugh track?

Insert it after "a new man."

Gord's Journal 3

winter hair is so yesterday

Winter arrived sometime last November and my head got cold. So, I grew my hair out. Then out some more. My bushy winter beard eventually made me look like Yosemite Sam, said some brave family members.

A week's worth of summer-like weather arrived this morning - or so I was told - so, while envisioning myself in snazzy short shorts, I snipped off several month's worth of winter hair.

["Hair fell into the sink, one 'snip snip' at a time"]

["Don't cry for me, Argentina"]

I've heard it said, "Hair today, gone tomorrow." So true.

Photos by GH 

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Gordie Boy: "Sing us a tune"

I didn't learn to play the guitar at a very early age, I was no child prodigy in any musical department, and I struggle to thumb a few chords to this day on my Norman acoustic. But still, I like to sing - alone in my study is best for all concerned - and I've written scores of campfire songs. One day I'll likely put out a CD that will send shivers down the spine of all unsuspecting listeners.

["I am too young here to recall this musical memory"]

The guitar in this black and white photo from about 1953 belonged to my father and he occasionally played a few tunes for his family, Hawaiian-style, with the guitar flat on his lap and with a steel in his left hand. I liked listening to him sing, at least while I was quite young, before The Beatles and Bob Dylan came along. Perhaps because of Dad's influence, I purchased my first guitar (electric) from an Eaton's catalogue and bought my first amp and speaker from the town barber when I was about sixteen. My favourite song to play was 'The House of the Rising Son' and after I figured out the chords I played it about 400 times a day for two years.

As far as I know, my dad was self-taught, learned a few chords in his teens as I did, bought one guitar while in the Navy circa 1943 and another - perhaps the one in the photo - from a small shop in his hometown, Norwich as a young man.

In his Navy memoirs he shares a few enlightening lines about his musical interests while aboard the SS Silver Walnut and on his way from Scotland to D-Day Sicily, 1943: 

The Walnut remained in Cape Town for two weeks. We all enjoyed ourselves and I purchased a guitar and brushed up on some chords that I knew so my friends could share time singing navy ditties and other songs. (pg. 66 "Dad, Well Done")

Later Dad writes that all his WW2 souvenirs, including shrapnel from the first German bombing raid he experienced, and I assume the guitar, were stolen shortly after he arrived in Egypt a few weeks later. I'm sure that was a sad loss for him.

Two years ago, while passing through a small town not far from London, Ontario I saw a familiar looking piece of steel (or guitar slide as I call it) at an antique shop and I was happy to part with ten dollars in order to have it.

["This is a concrete (and steel) link to my father's musical past"]

Somewhere I have a story Dad wrote in the 1990s about his early memories concerning a music store in his hometown and it may touch on the purchase of his last guitar. Until I find it all I have are a few faint thoughts about the instrument and Dad's love for music, including one about how I secretly changed the height of the bridge so that I could more easily practise playing his guitar.

I'll look for the story now, sing you a song later.

Photos by GH

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Gordie Boy: 'Be Prepared' and straighten up

In June, 1959 I was nine going on ten and able to stand still long enough to have my picture taken at a Cub Scout event at the Norwich ball park. I look at the photo now, see my poor posture and hear the words my mother said to me time and time again - "Stand up straight, Gordon. Push your shoulders back."

(I am still a bit of a sloucher but a week doesn't go by without me reminding myself to stand a little taller and push my shoulders back while, for example, walking to a local coffee shop or grocery store.)

I enjoyed being a Cub Scout and can recall some of the weekly meetings, routines and activities. Members sat in a large circle during a typical meeting, for roll call and the collection of dues. Dues (pennies, nickels, dimes) were dropped into a hat in the centre of the circle and boys would indicate the amount by saying, "five bones" or "ten bones".

I also recall when one of my parents put a Cub Scout decal on our front door window. It said 'Be Prepared' and I asked for an explanation of some kind because I was worried about what expectations would be placed upon me.

Though the answer is lost in the fog of my well-spent youth I must say some of the words stuck and on more than one occasion over the years I have been described as 'a bit of a Boy Scout.' I now take that as a compliment even if I'm not sure what the person means!

Sorry, someone's at the door.

Photo by GH

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Were you a Cub or Scout?

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Gordie Boy: Twinkly self-portrait

I've been told I have twinkly eyes but it's hard to tell by looking at photographs because I'm usually the one using the camera at our house.

This self-portrait is illuminating. I may have twinkly eyes or I may just be standing in line with the florescent lights over my workbench. It's a tough call.

Photo by GH

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Gordie Boy: "I'm sure I winged 'em"

I learned early in life that it pays to be vigilent. Danger comes dressed in many guises and can leap at you at any time. And family and friends don't always pay attention to the lions hiding behind lawn chairs.

 ["Gordie Boy is ready for bear"]

To this day I thank my dad for giving me a trusty rifle when I was three years old along with - surely I was told - a few safety tips: Don't point it at your sisters. Don't look down the barrel. Don't fill the barrel with sand... or anything else. Lions and bears are everywhere. Shoot them on sight. Don't take time to ask questions. Aim for the kidneys.

I protected my family for an entire week one summer while vacationing at Turkey Point. Lions and bears and tigers and elephants and snakes roamed the yard, hid behind lawn chairs and tables and sheds and bushes.

["I winged 'em all and can sit for a few seconds"]

[Back row: Unknown, sisters Lannie and Dale Harrison

Front row: Gordie Boy, cousin Bernice Malcolm]

The beach was a particularly dangerous place and I went through ammo - pow, pow, pikoo, pikoo, shing, shing - by the bushel. And because I didn't understand how ricochets worked I was probably in as much danger as the wild beasts that lurked around every corner. I realized later in life I am fortunate to have lived so long.

I am vigilent to this day. And my aim is still pretty darn good.

Photos of old photos by GH

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Point me toward a story about your childhood.

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Gordie Boy: "I'm outta here!"

I was new to the neighbourhood and didn't know any of the household routines followed by others around me. I didn't understand the ins and outs of modern society and conversations between larger members of the ruling class went right over my head. I reached a breaking point after 12 months of life.

Early one morning, while the two adults who shared living space with me were occupied, I planned my escape. I felt the farther away I could get from the woman who regularly shoved warm oatmeal or mushy peas into my mouth the better. Offerings from the plate of the wavy-haired man who sat at one side of the kitchen table were no better and if I never bounced on his lap and spit up breakfast on my shirt again that would be fine with me.

When I felt no one was watching I headed for a screen door that faced a narrow porch, a yard surrounded by spruce trees, a sidewalk that pointed toward Wettlaufer's General Store and a sideroad that connected with The King's Highway 59. I calculated - if I ran as fast as my little kegs could carry me - I would reach the yard in two minutes, the sidewalk in three and be running past the general store and west toward the bright lights of Woodstock in ten. I just hoped Mrs. Hilliker, the old lady who lived in the next house, didn't spot me or pick me up before I had a chance to 'blow this pop stand'.

Before I snuck out the screen door I spied my favourite felt hat on the floor. It was mine so I grabbed it. I also saw some shiny black shoes - they were mine too, I was sure of it - so I put my feet inside them and clunked out the door. I tried to tuck in my shirt but it wouldn't tuck and I had the awful feeling that my shorts needed some tucking too but my hands were not up to the job and I was in a hurry.

I approached the porch steps and heard the door slam behind me. Did I do that? I asked myself. Is that my door? I wondered also if I should slam the door again because it made an interesting noise. And I wondered how I would get down the first step and if I was wearing the right shoes for the job. I also wondered why my shorts were so baggy and why a cool draft kept sneaking up from behind me.

I don't know who took my picture. But I guess I didn't escape town that day. And these days I think warm mushy peas taste pretty darn good with fish and chips.

Photo of old photo by GH

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Gordie Boy: "And the winner is..."

My younger son Paul, age 38, saw the family resemblance immediately and he wasn't joking. "That's very interesting," he said. I wasn't overjoyed.

Recently I've been studying old photos of people on both sides of my family and, as is often the case, I spent time looking for any resemblance to me - to see if I belong, to determine where I fit in, to see why my hair goes off in all directions after it reaches a certain length - but until this morning I've come up short.

I feel I don't look like my parents, though my posture is said to be similar to my father's. I'm sure I don't look like my grandparents. And I have only a few pictures of one of my many great-grandparents, so chasing down that trail has been fruitless as well. "Who do I look like?" has been unanswered for years!

A few hours ago, however, I examined a rare photo of a group of people on the front porch of a log cabin in Hatchley, Ontario, circa 1945. The woman second from the left is Aunt Tharon Malcolm Moore and the woman in the middle is my great-grandmother Lydia Jane Gordon.

Tharon's nose caught my eye. Very straight, very unlike my own. I don't look like her.

Then I looked at Lydia's general appearance.

Her hair goes off in all directions. She has a familiar twinkle in her eye. Her forehead looks similar to mine and - GOOD GRIEF - her nose is just like mine!

I think if you put glasses on the old girl and picture me forty years from now you'll think what I do. Lydia and I could be twins.

"That's very interesting," my son said when I showed him the photos. As I said, I'm not overjoyed, but I do hope I have Lydia's genes. She lived to be 105.

Score another one for Gordie Boy

Photos by GH

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Will you still love me when I'm 105?

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Gordie Boy: "Score me a cake"

Yesterday (if you can believe what I said in a related post), I was the life of my sister's birthday party.

Today I see I'm celebrating my third birthday. Maybe it's my fourth. I was known to eat the candles.

That being said, lookit the big grin. That's me all over, smiling through the trials of life. Whereas my sister was allowed four guests at her party I was allowed one, i.e., my little brother Kim, and he doesn't even appear in the photo with me because he was afraid of the lit candles and ran to the far end of the playpen. Or maybe I pinched his little chubby fingers.

"Gitouttahere'causeit'smycake!Takemypicturetakemypicture!" I likely said to Ma.

Score one cake for Gordie Boy.

Photo of old photo by GH

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59 years later I'm not as excited about birthdays. Why is that?

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Gordie Boy: "Always the life of the party"

I have been the life of parties since I was five years old, as the photo below reveals (taken at my oldest sister Lannie's 10th birthday party, Sept. 19, 1954, in Burgessville; my 5th birthday was one day earlier).

"Lookit my cool haircut," I said, and the girls gawked and laughed.

"My dad put a bowl over my head and cut it," I said. They laughed again. I had them eating out of my hand.

"Lookit how fast I can drink my juice," I said, and emptied my cup in a split second.

Older sister Dale (middle) was enthralled. Lannie (second from right) couldn't help but laugh. Carroll Butler from Norwich (far right), Lannie's close friend (to this day), had never seen anyone drink juice as fast.

Terry Brooks (left) from Burgessville wasn't immediately convinced I was the coolest kid in the village but I'm sure she did after I let go a good burp.

"Did you hear that, Terry? Did you hear that?"

Presenting the first of many brilliant lines from Gordie Boy.

Photo of old photo by GH 

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Gordie Boy: “Don’t throw out my old hockey gloves”

I have a long list of items that should go into a box for the curb. Some day I’ll get around to throwing these things out. I won’t miss them a bit.

I have another long list. On it are things long gone that I should have set aside for some sort of museum. E.g., my dad’s Navy duffel bag (circa 1940s); his yellow and black hockey pants lined on the inside with wooden slats; my baseball cards from the 1950s and ‘60s; my comic book collection from the same era; family letters; my first pair of leather CCM Tacks (skates), etc. Occasionally I shake my head about my losses.

And I have another list that includes things I won’t throw out for a long time. Maybe my sons will appreciate them - just for a year or two, that would be fine - after I’m gone.

On that last list appears the following entry - Gordie Boy’s first pair of new hockey gloves.

They are one of my favourite things. They were a Christmas gift from my mother, circa 1964 (Dad didn’t buy many gifts and I’m now much the same way). Once the gift was opened I whooped for joy. They currently hang in my workshop and wood dust becomes them. And members of my immediate family know they must not throw the battered gloves out with the trash.

I hang onto the old leather gloves - in part - for the following reasons:

They link me to my mother. She scrimped and saved for those gloves much like she did for my first new bicycle.

The gloves and I travelled a lot of miles together in the 1960s. I played in an intercounty league, got used to losing by wide margins, but learned to love the sport of hockey.

My gloves and I were seldom parted, but in case we were, I put an ‘X’ on them - with white adhesive tape - so I could find them easily after any melee.

When I look at them I am taken back 4 - 5 decades in the blink of an eye.

They help me recall a few glorious games and funny stories.

They are old warriors and are perfect companions for my first leather helmet (also hanging in my shop).

They smell like cramped dressing rooms in small town arenas.

They smell like hockey. 

And so it goes.

I’m certain I have a few more years of hockey in me and I’m pretty sure when I hang up my skates they won’t owe me anything, much like my first new pair of black leather hockey gloves.

Score one for Gordie Boy.

Photos by GH

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What are you hanging onto until the last minute?

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Gordie Boy: “simple fried egg” 2

It’s true. I turn up my pretty nose at expensive kitchen luxuries. And the habit started early in life.

Here I am at age 7 or 8 - with oldest sister Lannie and Dad - taking in the news. Look at my smile. 

“You clean up your room, Gordie Boy, and you’ll get two fried eggs for supper.”

Throw in a slice of old cheddar and I’d even clean up Lannie’s room!

‘Family Photo’ by GH

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