O brother, where art thou?

Pat Fule
Fule for Thought

 

A couple of weeks ago, I had a chance to watch the chuckwagon races in the town booth. We use this booth to thank volunteers, board members, and if possible, people who’ve worked in other ways to help Strathmore.
I actually got crap from my publisher for slacking on my column lately, but heck … he’s got to be getting his money’s worth! I mean, free, is free! Colin Huxted was also there, and the whole booth had made small wagers on the various chucks. When his own sponsored teams lost in a few heats, he had an explanation.
“If you’ve bought a tarp for advertising, you don’t want to be the winner,” he said. “If my chuck goes too fast, you can’t read my name! Remember, we have a lot of seniors in the crowd, the slower my team goes, the better my advertising is!”
When you think about it, it makes a lot of business sense! I mean, if the Huxted Chuckwagon wagon crosses over the finish line turtle-like, his name will be seen that much longer! Okay, it may sound like weird logic, but maybe there’s a touch of genius to that idea!
My only brother from Vancouver was also visiting this past week. My brother is married to a nice, retired teacher, and she’s a pretty patient person. She’d have to be, because when she and Gary drive out here in one shot, he hates to stop … not even for bathroom breaks! He does know where some roadside outhouses are, but they’re always on a pretty tight schedule. One of the last times Gary was out, we were at the Chestermere pub. If you’re a long time reader (I know … why would you be?!), then you remember this story. That last visit of his found us at the Chestermere pub, and he met us there, carrying what I thought was a purse. Now this is Southern Alberta, and briefly, I feared for our lives! Truth be told, I don’t care what men carry, but it really did look like a purse, and I may have jokingly said that. With a death-like stare, Gary grimly stated, “it’s not a purse, Pat. It’s a satchel, a carry-all … lots of Vancouver men have them.”
“Okay, Gary, call it what you want … whatever helps you sleep at night. But, I’ll make you a bet. If you have all five things in your satchel that I name, it’s a purse!”
With another glare (man, he does that a lot!), Gary agreed.
“Okay, here we go,” I stated. “Nail clippers, chap stick, a file, band-aids, and a brush.”
Gary grew pale, and slowly pulled out each of the items!
“Alright, now we can all agree that it’s not a satchel, or an Indiana Jones bag, or one that Jack Bauer might carry … it’s a purse!” I cried.
“Alright, alright, call it what you want,” Gary stated glumly, as he began to put back the items.
“Wait, wait, wait!” I cried. “Could I borrow the file from your purse, I think I have a hangnail!”
Ah, there’s nothing like tormenting an older brother you don’t see often!
So … back to this latest visit of my brother. Those of you who know me, know I wear shorts as long as I can, even into the winter. I also don’t have any hair on my legs, and they may not be the most muscular. Oh, I’ve heard them all: do I wax, or shave them? They look like a big guy riding a chicken, and of course, why don’t I wear a skirt? People can be so cruel! I noticed Gary’s legs were the same as mine!
“Hey, you have no hair on your legs, either! You really are my brother!” I cried.
With no hesitation, Gary replied, “I shave them.”
For a moment I was a bit stunned, and then I asked why.
“Well, you know that bicycle racers in Europe shave their legs, don’t you?” I replied yes, even though I had no clue about this.
“Well, they shave their legs to cut down resistance, and in case they crash, there’s less chance of infection on a road burn,” he stated in a matter-of-fact way.
“Uh, Gary … you’re 57, and you don’t race bikes! Why do you need to shave your legs?” I asked.
Once again, I got his death-like glare! I was at a loss, as to the intentional plucking of his legs!
He calmly replied that he does ride his bicycle a lot around Vancouver, and that he takes spin classes. Spin classes … on a stationary bike.
“Uh Gary, three questions … do you tip over a lot in spin classes?” Nothing. “Do you wear a helmet, too?” Nothing.
He did not seem to like this, and again came the death-glare. Last question: “when you ride your bike in spin class, do you have a basket on the handlebars to hold your purse?!”
I ran out laughing, feeling his cold, icy stare on my back!

(“Fule for Thought” is a slice of life humourous column that appears in the Strathmore Times, written by long-time resident, town councillor, high school teacher, coach, husband and father of two – Pat Fule. If you would like to get in touch with Pat, you can send him an e-mail at Pat.fule@shaw.ca)