This throwback's a keeper

Some places are evocative of a city or a time. Try to imagine Quebec City without the citadel, Ottawa without Capitol hill. Some places capture what it is to be in a given city, they encapsulate the very ethos of the place. They are the kind of places that you want to tell tourists not to miss. The experience would just not be complete without a visit. These places breathe life into the history, culture, or people of a given area. They also have to be different. No cookie cutter chain franchises allowed. These places have to have character, they have to make up their own rules, they are by their nature not necessarily for everybody. Those weak kneed tourists who complain how different everything is here need not apply. Hey buddy, want some place where the food and the service is just like home, I got one for ya! It' called home, STAY THERE!

Now Yellowknife is a unique place. A frontier town, born on the Canadian shield, a rolling carpet of bedrock scoured by glaciers and pock marked with small lakes. Tiny trees cling to the cracks in the rocks a true testament to the tenacity of life in the north. It is located on Great Slave Lake, the ninth largest lake in the world and the deepest lake in North America at more than 2,000 feet! Yellowknife takes its' name from the Yellowknives Dene who take their name from the tools they made of copper ore. The Dogrib name for the town is Somba K'e which means money town. It is a literal translation. Much money has changed hands in this town. Starting in the early days of Yellowknife, in the 1930s she is a young town with very old roots. She started as a gold mining town, with gold being discovered right under the town. It was said that Yellowknife was the place where the gold was paved with streets. Today not even one of the many gold mines is still operating. In the late nineties a new mineral rush started. Diamonds! A word to conjure with. The current economic problems have slowed the diamond rush, but they are still there and one day the world will want them again. Nothing new to Yellowknife she has known more booms and busts than a bass drummer in a Hooters.Yellowknife is a town more than a city. At only 20,000 people it is small. It also tends to be fairly high turnover. It has the reputation of a place that people hate to live but love the money that they can make there. It is expensive by southern standards. Yellowknife is a city in work clothes. Business suits are the exception. The preferred dress clothes usually have strips of reflective material on them and room for long johns under them. Fur hats and jack shirts are common. More people smoke than don't. People are different up here, they color outside the lines. Rugged individualists mostly. Ir is the only way to survive the long winter months. We like to say that we have ten months of winter and two months of poor skidooing.

If you want to come north and not look like a southerner you have to learn to talk like a northerner First of all they are ski doos. No matter who makes them, Arctic Cat, Kawasaki, whatever. It's like kleenex no matter who makes them they are all kleenex. A cat doesn't have fur it has tracks and a blade. A kicker is an outboard motor. A mickey is a pint bottle of booze going bootleg price is $50. Brew or home brew is a type of home made hootch usually made with raisins yeast and sugar. A gallon of it goes for the same as a mickey bottle and will get you about as drunk and gives you a funky smell. It takes 24-48 hours to ferment, although it will continue to ferment in your belly. Often making you foam at the mouth. . A musher is a dog sledder. An Otter or a Beaver could be a fur bearing critter or a plane. A honey bucket is a commode, and is more likely to contain pooh than to attract Pooh.

I have a love hate relationship with Yellowknife. I respect her but I really don't spend a lot of time there. When I am there there is one place I love to go. Yellowknife is famous for a couple of places, the Gold Range Bar and the Wildcat restaurant. Both have their charms. The range rocks on a Saturday night and is as raucous as any Bar in Canada. The Wildcat has charm, but it is only open in the summer. When i come to Yellowknife I head to Bullock's Bistro.

Located in Old Town, an area of town located on Back Bay. The Bistro isn't much to look at. An elongated log cabin it rightfully blends in to the landscape. It is a heritage building dating to the very founding of Yellowknife. There aint much in YK that's older. Not much that is non-aboriginal anyhow. Our hegemony seems like a blink of an eye compared to the time that aboriginal people have lived here. Aboriginal people being so much more environmentally friendly, do not leave big footprints. They can occupy an area for millenia and leave no more behind than some stones stacked on each other. They walk in moose hide moccasins and leave little in the way of relics. Relic is a good description of this place. Time has melted it into the muskeg. The permafrost has molded the floors and skewed the straight lines that the logs once formed. Like a well worn glove, it fits this place. There are two doors. Both open. One leads you into a part of the kitchen. That's O.K. there are few rules here, just come on in. Eclectic, I would call what meets the eye. Yeah, eclectic, only on steroids. My online dictionary denies eclectic as: composed of elements drawn from various sources, Heterogeneous. Thank God! I have always been kind of homogeneousophobic. The decor is a melange of postcards, business cards, foreign money, newspaper articles. The walls and tables and, well, every flat surface is covered in signatures. Plastic snowflakes hang from the ceiling. A sign says NO Clothing Permitted beyond This Point. A Caribou head serves as a coat rack. The caribou wears a toque and a ladies bra garnishes the antlers. Bumper stickers and fridge magnets plaster the hood over the grill. A large plastic Salmon hangs from the wall. Fitting. It is after all mainly a fish restaurant.

I arrived about 7:00 pm the place was just short of packed. Even in March in Yellowknife a good restaurant is busy. There are about 7 or eight tables, one large one and a half dozen stools at the bar. Being alone I sidled up to the bar and took an empty stool next to this guy with an obvious Aussie accent, he was sitting, not coincidentally I suspect, under an Australian flag that was stuck into the ceiling. There was a giggling group of Japanese tourists in the corner wearing the parkas that the hotel provides for them. You see them on racks in the foyer, under the jackets are rows of sturdy boots to complete the look. Thus armored against what must be a full frontal assault by the arctic climate they waddle about taking pictures of the Polar Bear at the airport and the Inukshuk outside the hotel. The same way I stood next to a Buzzbied British soldier in Red Serge at Windsor castle. Two people are speaking french at the first table. A guy in a big white cowboy hat sits in the front window. Quite the cosmopolitan crowd.

I hate eating alone. But seeing as I am alone, I settle down with a good book at await the server who is busy juggling plates at the table of joyful Japanese. How happy they look as they jump the language barrier and happily juggle the dishes back and forth to get the right meal in front of the right customer. Their laughter is infectious. I wish I spoke Japanese so I could figure out what was so funny. I think they are enjoying the very funny, funky nature of this place. It is different than the sterile, franchise, muzak atmosphere of most restaurants, in most cities. I settle into my stool and my book, almost oblivious, until a plate containing a huge, triangular bun, its' top dusted with flour. It was fresh baked and smelled delicious. My server was wearing an apron and a red check hunters hat. "I saw you here, I've just been busy! Want a menu?" She proffered a laminated single piece of white paper that serves as a menu. A word about that. This place is principally a fish restaurant. They do carry meat, some caribou, some Bison too, I think. But I am a maritime boy. I was here for the fish. When you do something and do it well, do that thing. Don't try to be everything to everybody. Nobody understands this better than the bistro. The menu is not exactly carved in store. What they got is what got caught. Catch of the day, literally. Don't get hung up on the menu and remember to ask before you get your heart set on something. "Nah," I answered. "What's the fish today?" I've been here before I just told her. "You're in luck today, I got Pickerel, Char and Trout." My mouth was watering. "I'll have the pickerel, pan fried!" I practically had to dab my mouth. "Feta or Herb dressing?" "Oh Feta, Please!" I dragged out the please. She smiled and pointed to a gray plastic container "The cutlery is there." I tore the bun in half smeared some of the butter on it and devoured it. I was famished. I fought off the urge to eat the second piece. I have something in mind for that. I picked up my book and started to read. Occasionally I would take in the scene around me. I watched as the lady cooking plated the salads. She heaped the dressing on top and the feta smelled wonderful. There was a lot of it too. She finished a couple of dinners for the french speaking couple at the first table. Turning to the Australian guy she handed him the plates and said "You mind handing these to that table?" He was laughing as he turned. "I'll be your waiter this evening!" He said cheerily as he set the plates down in front of the french couple who were laughing heartily. The Japanese table found this hilarious and a wave of laughter crashed over their table. The atmosphere of this place is so casual and so

The cook walked to the grill and turned a fish in a pan. The sound it made as the fresh fish hit the hot pan was magic. The smell is indescribable. I would love to know what is in the sauce that they apply to there fish. It is as addictive as crack cocaine. The spicing is perfect. By the time my fish arrived I was famished. took a fork full of fish and raised it, first to mu nose for a brief moment to savor the smell and then to my mouth where the senses go wild. First there is the warmth of the flesh which releases the flavor and the scent of the spices. Then there is the mouth feel of the seared surface of the fish which, upon meeting the teeth and the jaws responds with the feel of perfectly cooked fish, the caramelized surface created by the hot pan and the tender center, nut overcooked one bit. The flavor released is pure heaven. I enjoy every chew. I then raise my glass and with ice cold Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale, the pride of my native Nova Scotia, and washed it down with that cold clean taste. I am an unabashed homer. I follow that with a fork full of crisp greens, lathered in feta cheese, ambrosia. The fries, which had never seen the inside of a blast freezer, had only minutes before been potatoes. Potatoes! I had watched while the cook had inserted the potatoes in the chopper that had spat out the fries seconds before they had been put in the fryer. This is how french fries were meant to be made. There is no freezer in the equation. The fries too are perfect. the quintessence of their kind. Crisp, perfectly salted, Devinne. If I were on death row this would be my last supper, but thank the good Lord I am not so I can come back and have this same meal many more times.
By now some of the people are getting up to leave, there is conversation, among tables not just at tables. Fitting. For in the North, a place f immense size and tiny population, restaurants are meeting places as much as eating places. In years gone by people could go weeks or even months without even seeing or talking to another soul. So many restaurants suppress joy and conversation, to maintain a cold and controlled environment. Not here. This place is a throwback to another time when people treasured the company of strangers. The old saying "Strangers are just friends you haven't met." really suits this place.
Soon I too am finished and get up to wait for my cab. The sun is just setting in the spring sky. Back Bay is back lit by the amber rays. The Japanese are making there way to a waiting van. They are laughing and carrying on. My breath hangs in the air like smoke. My tummy is full and I have a glow from the experience that rivals the sunset. I am truly grateful that there are still places like this one. Places that defy the sterile uniformity of modern eating holes. Character, this place has it in spades. Yeah, this throwback's definitely a keeper.

Pracitically every joke is practical

"While you're in town we should get together!" My friend John said with his usual ebullience. You get these invites but usually they never happen. "I'll call Mark , Scott and Peter. How about calling Richard and Ken?" "Sure !" I said. "What about my wife?" "Bring her along, we'll meet at my bar and I'll put on some snacks." It sounded great. I would love to see that old gang, or most of them anyways. Time and the tides of life had cast us adrift over a very large coastline. We had washed up on disparate shores from Toronto and B.C. to Newfoundland and the NWT. Still here we were a band of brothers brought together by virtue of having worked at the same McDonald's on Main St. in Dartmouth N.S. in the late seventies and early eighties.

It truly was a remarkable place. Perhaps a remarkable time, but we formed a bond that has stayed with many of us. I think it was the environment. The pressure of working in that high speed world. It was also that fact that our restaurant was special. We received a Triple A rating from the franchise that few restaurants could match. The building itself was old, being the first one built by the chain east of Montreal. The floors were sloped and the building was falling apart. But we kept it clean and we painted everything every year. The service was fast and we took pride in what we did. If you did something to let the side down you heard it from your coworkers before you heard it from the boss. Before you decide that I am still working for the Golden Arches, I credit the people for the success of the restaurant. They were a phenomenal bunch.

The shifts were long, the wages low, the pressure intense. You could go one of two ways. First you could let the pressure get you and quit in a huff. Or you could let off steam and have a laugh and carry on. We did carry on and we had some great times.

On the appointed night we met at the small bar that my friend John ran. It was a cheery place the walls festooned with Polaroids of patrons, a smile on every face. John was born to do this, run a bar and restaurant, he made you smile with his exuberance. We congregated at the corner table. As each arrived there were heartfelt handshakes and high fives. John jumped up and talked to customers, flitting back and forth with trays of hot wings and garlic fingers, all delicious. We had a great time and the years melted away. Once more we were back in time, sharing the moments that had forged these bonds. Once again peeling back the layers of separation, underneath the laminated layers of care and the reinforcement of laughter that had built the fiberglass of friendship so much stronger than steel. "Remember the time you made the Lard Sundae?" Richard said, more of a statement than a question. I smacked my forehead with my open palm. I had forgotten. Like so many other details, I had forgotten the minutia and remembered only the whole happy ethos of those times and that place. "Tell Lina!" Scott chimed in. "Tell us all, I would love to hear it!"

The sundae story was one of a thousand such tales I could tell. It was a relief valve. A safety feature of life in that pressure cooker. I was older than most of this group. Not much older but a year or two is a lot when you are twenty. I was the boss, or the assistant manager of their shift. I set the tone. It is not in my nature to be a tyrant. I want to keep up the standards by making those around me want it too. Keep it light, keep it positive. You get more flies with honey than vinegar. Except I didn't collect flies, I collected remarkable young people like these who did so much and did it well and did it with a smile on their face. We had fun.

I have always had a bizarre sense of humour. If we started telling stories we might never leave this place. Some jokes were one of's. Mostly there was a theme. I remember when we were all on breakfast shift. We started at 5:30 am. Breakfast set-up it was called. My friend Steve did it, he would arrive two hours after I started. I therefore had two hours to set the most diabolical traps you have ever seen. They started simple and got more complex as time passed. Once I took a pickle can. This was the size of a 2lb coffee can. I tied a string around the bottom of the can. I tied another around the top of the can. I tied the bottom to the shelf above the maintenance room door The top string I tied to the top of the door. I filled the can with ice and waited. Two hours later the ice had melted, mostly. Steve had to open the door to get his tools. When he did the string on the top and bottom of the can came taught suspending the can in mid air above Steve's head. Sending a cascade of water as cold as the glaciers down his back. At 5:30 this was a rude shock indeed. I had been doing my job when I heard "TURNBULL!" A cry I would hear many times over the years. Steve flew around the corner still dripping wet and threw a bucket of water over me. I laughed as we stood their each in our own respective puddle.

You can't leave it at that. So the following week I removed everything from the two huge cupboards over the back room sinks. I hid them in boxes in the stockroom. I filled the cupboards with water balloons made from the balloons for children's birthday parties. There were well over a hundred of them. I had to come in an hour early, but it was worth it. Steve arrived a little groggy from the party he had attended the night before. He opened the door and was positively bombarded with balloons full of cold water. "TURNBULL!" He bellowed, rounding the corner lobbing two huge balloons that had somehow survived the fall. I was soaked and laughing, so was he.

On the night shift there was a guy named Robert who drove a motorbike. He always wore leathers and looked the part, but he drove a smallish bike I think it was a 150cc. That poor bike became the bane of his existence. One night we rolled his bike into the lobby while he was on his break. I hung a handwritten sign on it that read "Buy a Big Mac get a free motorbike" when he rounded the corner from the break room he flew over the counter "Hey, that's my bike!" "Yeah and so far no takers!" I quipped. Another time we wrestled the bike into the men's bathroom and put the rear tire in the toilet of the single stall, knowing that he would have to use the washroom, before returning to his shift. "TURNBULL!" Is all I heard when he passed through the door. The piece de resistance, though was the night that I enlisted two other friends or maybe fiends to drag the bike up on the roof. We tied it to the sign on the front of the restaurant. It sat there for hours, drawing quite the crowd. Finally Rob had to do a lot pick up. He dashed back in the restaurant "Get that thing down right now!" He said. He tried to look mad but he was smiling, ear to ear.

There were thousands of other incidents too many to remember or to relate. Water balloons full of big mac sauce down jacket sleeves that had been tied off first. Shoes full of ketchup packets. Lockers rigged to propel bowls of mustard. Lots of laughs, lots of reprisals. Even our host had been a victim. He used to drive an old rust bucket. You could not unlock the doors with the key so John never locked the beast. One night we crept to where he parked his car in front of his parents place. We knew he was on the early shift The next day the boss thought we were psychic. "That'll be John." we predicted when the phone rang a few minutes before his appointed hour."Locked out of his car, eh?" "I didn't say that!" said the boss. "hey, what goes on here?" he didn't have so good a sense of humor so we didn't elaborate. on chuckling when he got to work.I would have loved to have heard his cry of "TURNBULL" We had left the window down a millimeter or two. Lots of fun. We built the bonds that still endure.

"Tell her!" Scott repeated. "I love it when you tell it!" So I told Lina and all present, most of whom had been present that night. Although I had been told that the story had become a legend and that if everyone who claimed to be there had been there there would have been standing room only. We worked with a guy I will call Stan. Stan was a nice enough guy but he had a few annoying habits. One habit was to come into the break room, grab your cigarette and "suck it out" meaning to draw so hard on it that it took all the good out of the cigarette. The other habit was to come into the break room while you were eating and "ask" if he could have some fries, a bite of your burger or a spoon full of your dessert. He always "asked" as he was scarfing down a wad of fries that would choke a hippo. Or scooping all the topping and nuts off your precious sundae. I was determined to put him in his place, once and for all. All great works of art take time. To become a legend you have to pay your dues. I started before my shift, long before Stan even got to work. I took shortening, as pure and white as driven snow. I filled a sundae cup. I took a butter knife and sculpted the perfect curl, just like the swirling crest that the soft serve ice cream machine created. "What on earth are you dong?" Ken asked his voice tinged with incredulity. "You will see, my friend, you are in the presence of the master!" I said in my best radio emcee voice. As I sculpted a small crowd formed. I heard the word shortening so I swore them all to secrecy and let them in on the purpose of my labor. Nearly all had been victims of Stan's larceny and all were rapt with glee at my scheme. I took my creation to the sundae station and added caramel sauce and peanuts. I then snapped on a lid and put it in the freezer. It was so good I had to hide it so no one save my intended victim fell into my trap. As the evening progressed I was worried that someone would spill the beans. But not a soul did. In time I went for my break. I had arranged for Stan to be asked to do a lot pick up, thus sending him past the staff room. Timing is everything. It had to be after I had eaten my burger and fries. It was text book. He dashed into the room with his usual zeal. He saw the sundae looking so inviting its' creamy head poking out through the caramel robe that covered her beautiful shoulders. She sported peanuts like diamonds. This sundae could have graced on of the posters in the lobby. Stan grabbed the sundae, as usual he would ask permission as the first mouthful descended his greedy throat. It seemed as if he slipped into slow motion. I can still see the gleeful look on his face as he scooped the entire quantity of caramel and nuts and a good healthy scoop of lard cream into his mouth. He set the cup down and half turned to leave the room. He never made it. The next thing I knew Stan was on his knees spitting cold lard into the garbage can. The entire restaurant was in pandemonium. Everyone filed past for a look. It had been so simple yet so perfect. It had relied only on one thing, human nature. Everyone around the table was laughing, including my wife who was hearing the story for the first time. We spent a wonderful evening, which, all too soon was at an end.

As had happened years before we had to go our separate ways.The old restaurant is gone, they built a new one on the site. In September of 2005 John and I both suffered heart attacks. I made it, John did not. It makes that night even more special. We all miss him. I miss his smile. I know he knew who locked his doors. He got the joke. He got that it was done because we loved him. I know too that he is up in heaven right now and he is probably planing something big. If I am lucky enough to make it there I will be watching what I eat!

The Break In...

You really shouldn't listen in on the conversations of others. That's a given. I wasn't raised to do it. But like all the great rules that keep the planets aligned in our universe there are exceptions . Shane and I have been friends for years. Each year our company has a conference, In the interest of economy we are asked to double up. The first year we roomed together Shane's wife warned me about his snoring. It is legendary. Like in a Flintstone's cartoon the drawers in the room go in and out and the curtains move. No, seriously! Well I am known to saw some wood at night myself so no harm done. Shane also has the remarkable ability to fall asleep the nano second that his head hits the pillow. This precludes the idea of getting to sleep before him. I swear that there is an electrical contact on his ear lobe and the second it makes contact with the pillow the pressure completes a circuit and BLAM! He is unconscious, AND snoring. It truly is one of the wonders of the modern world.

So it was that last week we wound up together in the windy city (Winnipeg, Brrrr!). Now Winnipeg prides itself on being the geographical center, not only of Canada but of North America as well. While in location it may be in the middle in terms of climate it lives on both extremes. It can be hot and muggy in summer and brutally cold in winter. "It's a dry cold Winnipergers (Winnipegonians?) will tell you. You should slap these people. They are the same crowd who, in the summer, say "It's not the heat it's the humidity!" Actually it is neither the heat nor the humidity it is foolish government laws that prevent normal human beings like me and you from shooting inane motor mouths who peddle such dribble.

In any case, I digress. Back to the call, back to the overheard news that froze my blood worse than the twelve thousand kilometer per hour wind in fair Winterpeg that gave us a a windchill factor of forty degrees below absolute zero kelvin. Shane's phone was on the bed. I heard it whir and buzz as he had it set not to ring so as not to wake anyone during the endless hours of meetings we must endure every year as our penance for getting a free trip to sunny Winnipeg in March.

I think that Wireton Willy not only saw his shadow he met his maker. I am sure that someone killed the poor little bugger and buried his fuzzy little carcass good and deep. Spring might not come for six months, let alone six weeks.

Shane and I are old veterans of these meetings. We have developed a patented method of dealing with the afternoon nod offs that inevitably come from the sadistically early 6:30 starts. When I say 6:30 that means you must be there at 6:30 with a roommate you must be up and in the shower by 5:30. If you are to have a hope of getting an elevator. Not too bad if you are only a floor or two above the lobby. But the eighth floor is actually 10 floors up due to the upper lobby and mezzanine. Each floor has three flights of marble stairs as slippery as an eel`s keester. What do we do to counter the mid afternoon nods. It is called the snort and snap. The moment your snoozing chin hits your chest you let out a micro snore which wakes you from your reverie and your head snaps up with alarming speed. If you wear reading glasses, as I do you must be care full that you do not propel them through the air as this is a dead give away to ever vigilant Vice Presidents who may be watching.

One thing that helps is that Shane rents a car and we drive ourselves to the venues. Along the way, of course we have a few extra minutes as we are not lined up with the plebes on the buses provided by the company. They are herded in like cattle, we crank the stereo and head for the Timmy`s drive through. We show up a few minutes after the buses arrive, imparting just the right amount of tension into our boss. We pat his back and congratulate him on his skill at kitten herding. We in his district are a willful lot of old sinners and young mavericks and are about as easy to round up and a bucket of quicksilver on a gravel hill. We sport our steaming cups of Tim`s finest and make a slow deliberate motion as we suck back the lovely nectar. "What's that?" one of the new guys asked as we both emitted deep mocking sighs. "That my young friend is the rarest of creatures at the Wintering Partners conference. That is a large double double!" He stepped back "You buggers! How did you get that?" "That is one of the advantages of being a vet. Do I have any Maple dip on my face?" I asked sounding like that cat that ate the canary. "I takes mine black, if you should happen to slip out at lunch!" my boss added cheerily.

At lunch we of course slipped out and availed ourselves of the local fare. On the way back we stopped and filled our bosses order for a large black coffee. This time when the rookie manager eyed us enviously I quipped. "Do I have anything on my nose? Anything brown?" Again he shook his head and walked away, while Shane and I laughed. "It;s all about the comfort!" Shane postulated, loud enough for all to hear. Our compatriots are used to our shenanigans. Shane and I color outside the lines. We have what they call character. My wife would say that we are a couple of cards and that we should be dealt with.

Anyways none of this is getting us any closer to the overheard conversation. Shane scanned the room once it occurred to us what the noise was. Our room could not be described as a mess, but we must have been a bane to the cleaning staff. Shane seldom travels light. He brings robe and slippers. His own coffee mug, pillows from home and quite often his own travel coffee maker as this hotel is too posh to provide one in the room. Finally he decided that he had left the phone in his pants pocket. Retrieving it he said hello. We have an understanding.if the call is private we retreat to the bathroom and close the door. We seldom do this. Usually the calls are of a mundane nature and we simply have the entire conversation with comments being chimed in by the party not on the phone. "Tell Lina to go home, the store is closed!" Shane will pipe when Lina complains about working late. "Shane the peelers are here, get off the phone with your girlfriend or I will tell your wife!" He is on the phone with his wife, of course, the whole thing is done for her benefit. Listening in is simply practical, it saves us repeating the entire conversation after we hang up. Five thirty comes early you know!

Shanes wife likes to talk about the time that Shane and I were driving around in Edmonton. She called and since Shane was driving I answered. She gave me a brief message to pass on, I then hung up. Or at least that's what I thought I did. I have a flip style cell phone. You just close it and that's it. On Shane's cell phone you have to press a button to hang up and in my ignorance I pressed the wrong button. For the next two hours we drove around Edmonton with an open phone line. Apparently she tried yelling but we were so busy yakking that we did not hear her. "Any worries I had about you fooling around on me were completely assuaged." She told us later. "You guys are the two most boring guys in history." As we had discussed such racy subjects as concentrated detergent and the latest Phil Collins compilation. "You guys could put Evel Kneivel to sleep!" she added.

Anyways, where was I, oh yeah the cal ll... "What's wrong honey?" Shane said his voice raised out of it's normal laid back tone. "Two of them?" he said. My ears perked up. "Right in the porch?!!!" He sounded serious now. "It's O.K. dear calm down!" He was doing his best to sound calming. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. "Don't worry I'm sure they won't be back tonight." I was transfixed. "Right in the porch?!! Bold as brass, eh?!!" My mind raced. What should we do. Had she called the police? Was she alone? Had they left or were they still in the house? Were they armed? A thousand things went through my mind. "You do know how to bar the porch door right?" Oh my GOD! Bar the door? I looked around for my cell phone, in case Shane wanted to stay on the line while I called the R.C.M.P. I motion towards the phone and made the numbers 911 in the air with my finger. Shane waved his palm at me, to tell me to wait. I stood poised. My senses tingling. "What are you going to do? Are you going to sleep there tonight?" Oh man, it must be serious, she's thinking of moving out! "Staring right at you, eh? Poor baby!" Shane consoled. Man, eye to eye, I thought. How frightening. No wonder the poor girl was upset. Still Shane seemed to be calming and now he was in full consolation mode. "You poor thing. Just go to bed and call me first thing in the morning. Good night dear!"

Shane put the phone back in his pants pocket and tossed the pants on the back of a chair. "Poor girl, she came home and they were right there in the porch, big as life. Not the least bit scared! Just staring at her with those beady eyes.They didn't even run until she stamped her feet!" "No kidding!" I added trying to sound supportive. "Yeah, she really hates mice and they were fat ones!"

"Mice?!!!!: I replied. "Yeah, she's terrified of them." Maybe there shouldn't be exceptions to those rules after all. Maybe we should just mind our own business.