It was a dark and stormy night...

See, I startle easy.

Yesterday I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and Dave walked by and said something to me, something inane like, "how's it going, eh?" and I shrieked. Scared him. Scared myself. Both of us crapped our drawers, and for what? Nothing. Other than I startle easy. I guess that's why I don't like balloons. I mean, they look so innocent, all colourful and happy, but then, BAM, they BURST in an EXPLOSION of BRRAAPPP, and I'm crapping my drawers again.

I don't mind those heavy duty helium-filled Happy Birthday balloons you get at the dollar store because they're made of military-grade tarp material and don't burst so much as just fizzle away. In fact I bought three of them for Dave's birthday back on December 1. Balloon 1 was killed off my by our son Sam on December 2 who sucked all the helium out of it and talked like Donald Duck for a hilarious couple of minutes. He wanted to do the same thing to Balloon 2 and Balloon 3 but I wouldn't let him, giving him a lecture on not ruining things right away and the evils of helium-inhalation.

A week later I sucked the helium out of Balloon 2. (Classic case of do what I say, not what I do.)

Balloon 3 has been floating around the house ever since, bobbing near the Christmas tree for a while, hanging in various bedrooms, blocking the TV and stuff. I think I dusted it on Christmas Eve. A month had gone by and it had pretty much become part of the scenery and we forgot about it.

Last night we were in bed and Dave said, "What the hell's that?"

His tone was that of someone about to be eaten in a horror flick.

"What?" I shrieked. "Where?"

"There!" He pointed to the end of the bed.

I looked. Something was moving at the level of the bed. Something dark, something round and oogery, bumping across the bed, something monstrous, something ...

"AAAAACCCK!" I screamed, crapping my drawers.

"For feck's sake," Dave said, "it's that stupid balloon!"

Most of the helium had finally dissipated and instead of clinging to the ceiling, it was now hovering around the house at bed level.

"Kill it!" I ordered.

Dave got out of bed and bravely wrestled the balloon to the ground, popping and tearing it and tossing it in the laundry basket where it wouldn't be able to hurt anybody, anymore. My hero.

Happy Birthday, Dave!

This is why I love you.

Because you match the canoe 

and you carry it, too.

At Killarney Provincial Park, George Lake, last summer.

Gussy's Spud Chucker

Granny had some leftover spuds from her chipmunk casserole so she gave 'em to Gussy to play with.
We can't afford store-bought toys. We're like them Waltons on Christmas, where Elizabeth gets the doll with the smashed-in face and it scars her for life. Only we don't live near no mountain – we live next to the kind of river you saw in Deliverance, that movie where Burt Reynolds was a real stud-muffin and the pudgy guy in dirty underwear had to squeal like a pig. When our friends from the city come to visit they hum Duelin' Banjos under their breath. They think it don't hurt our feelings and they're right, it don't. It's like the national anthem around our house.
Anyway, toys are scarce but every once in a while Gussy gets some rotten potatoes for his spud chucker.
That there is cause for big excitement. Gussy puts on his hand-me-down coat that's five sizes too big for him and Dave and him mosey on down to the river with a can of ether. You wouldn't believe how far those potatoes go! Whatever you do, don't stand in front of the chucker cause if you do, it'll be more than the potato that loses an eye
We're real proud of our son. He built his spud chucker all by himself from instructions on the world wide web. He only lost half an eyeball and his right toe in the process, which is pretty good. Dave's a little cranky about the loss of his left nut, but Dave is a little over-protective of his tools. Don't tell him I said that.
Tomorrow is Dave's birthday. If he's lucky, he'll get some spuds for a present so him and Gussy can go out and play some more. Dave likes the chucker as much as our son. He's shot potatoes and little squash and all kinds of fruit and vegetables. Who knows, maybe I'll even get him a cantaloupe for his big day. He's been going around mumbling something about never getting to play with melons anymore, now's we're married.
Men, eh?