"Dad, can I have shaved nuts?"
Uh, what?
"I want shaved nuts."
I-I'm pretty sure yours already are, Boyo.
"From the can like we had yesterday."
Shaved...? oh, shelled--you want the shelled nuts.
"Ya, of course. That's what I said, didn't I."
Uh-huh.
I live in the coolest neighbourhood. We do the same things most folks do, you know, we all do our share of baking. We could all use an extra cup of sugar now and then, but—here in my 'hood with my droogies—we sometimes need to borrow something else:
"Hey Denguy," a neighbour calls out as she walks by, "could I borrow a bottle of wine?"
Sure, red or white?
"Oh, red would be good."
No problem.
Cool beans, baby. Cool beans.
My wife used to buy most of my clothes, but, usually, I shop by myself now (I so grown up!). I'm pretty confident that I won't pick up the "wrong thing". I bought a new black shirt from a local clothing shop where the owner generally tells me what to buy. She makes sure I don't go home wearing anything too dorky. I pretty much buy all my clothes at her shop which is just down the street and I get a discount for such loyalty. My latest purchase was a short-sleeved button-up, cotton dress shirt by Quick Reflex. I washed and ironed this little number before wearing it. I found the shirt to be quite comfortable and rather styling if I do say so myself. However, towards the middle of the afternoon, I felt a mild burning sensation—a kind of scratchy-itchy rawness from the fabric. This is something completely new to me and I'm not sure how to cope. Honestly, my droogies, short of wearing an undershirt—what do I do about nipple chafing?
So, I's insulatin' the attic, eh, and, uh, I finds me this package.
It was neatly packed in kraft paper and bound with string. Actually, it wasn't in the attic, but in the wall—the knee wall to be exact. It's the bottom half of the walls in a room which has a vaulted ceiling. Basically, this is dead space that hasn't been disturbed since, well, the postage date on this package is 1962, so that's 47 years.
FORTY-SEVEN YEARS!
Right, so I found this package so neatly bound and tore into it and discovered a bevy of interesting things. Portraits, photographs and love letters. The letters were written to a woman who once lived here in my house from a man who was temporarily in Jamaica. Apparently, she was a clerk at the Don Mills Public Library and he, well, he was on the run. They were crazy in love and he had to leave the country for some nefarious reasons.
The letters are fantastic, but the most exciting bits from the package were the two portraits painted from black and white photos with colour information scribbled on the back of each. I'm pretty sure some one really wants these things—I know I would. I've tried looking up the names in the online phone book and came up with nothing. A Google search gave me only three listings of the woman (if that's still her name) all relating to library work with no contact information.
I wonder if I should publish their names and maybe some more of the images to this blog in hopes that a relation might find me. I'd like to return these possibly precious items to the original owners—or their family in the very least.
[Let me know what you think-should I print the names listed lest the family find them or not?]
Boyo told me that he'll live a long time. He won't die for ages, not till he's really old—like 40, maybe—and that's a long time any ways, so he's not worried.
I've safely returned from the long-weekend stag in Las Vegas with three friends. We lost no teeth and found no tigers or babies. The only real damage was inflicted upon my wallet.
We had Champagne & orange juice and a Guinness while awaiting our airport limo.
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We had a few pints at an airport bar while awaiting our flight home.
Sorry, but what happens in Vegas....
