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Pyat and The Giant Barbeque Pit of Fire
Jan. 7th, 2002 04:58 pmThe old woman didn’t tell us about the cows.
We, that is, myself and my co-op student, were there to take photos of her burnt down barn. She was very happy with the way her neighbours had rallied around her in her time of the need. The barn was a smouldering wreck, nothing left but a 4 foot cinderblock wall and odd piles of charred wood, sheet metal, and unidentifiable blackened mounds, which I assumed were hay bales and feed bags.
I interviewed her in her spic-and-span farmhouse kitchen, but she was far too upset to say much. Instead, she handed me a long handwritten account of the fire, in extremely neat penmanship. She pointed the way to the barn, and we headed out across a frozen field. An extremely enthusiastic puppy followed us, nipping at our shoes. As we approached the barn, I noticed a pile of rubble in the middle was still smoking, and intermittently flaming. An obvious choice for the picture. So, we trooped towards the centre of the ruin, heads bowed in the biting wind. After a few steps, my feet sank in ashes to the ankle. The wind tossed handfuls of hot ash into our faces. I noticed my feet were rather warm, despite the freezing wind. Time for a strategic withdrawal.
As we pulled back, I noted a definite yummy smell borne on the wind. BBQ? Pot roast? I also noted a blackened hoof, jutting at an angle from the ashes. Closer inspection of those unidentifiable blackened mounds showed them to be very dead, very charred cattle. Perhaps two dozen of these mounds lay all around us. Yes, the old woman forgot to mention the cattle she and her husband kept. About 40 cows died in the fire, barely 12 hours before.
As we hustled out of the barn proper and back into the field, two disturbing images presented themselves. First, I passed close by a carcasse, and in that nasty charnel pit of black, white, and grey, was surprised by a grisly patch of bright, glistening, damp redness. One of the dead cows had been decapitated, and the exposed mess was entirely unburnt. Second, the playful puppy reappeared, carrying a charred strip of something in his mouth, shaking it around like a chew toy. We didn’t stop to examine it more closely.
Oh, as the above anecdote reveals, my co-op student (Gloomy Joe Pothead) did eventually return to work, to my great disappointment. However, he only has three weeks left here, whereupon he will be cut loose into the world, utterly, utterly unprepared for anything but a career as Cayuga’s official Pusherman. If I’m still working for The Regional five years hence, I fully expect to write a lead story along the lines of “Local Moron dies in Autoerotic Asphyxsiation Mishap,” with Mr. Pothead in a starring role. “Death underlines danger of Self-Pollution,” say cops, would be a good subhead.
Speak of the devil, and he craps on your head. The kid (well, actually, he’s 20, and still in highschool) just walked in, and immediately started moaning. He SORELY tests the limit of the genial facade I put up when he’s around. Right now, he’s got his head in his hands, and is moaning about a “joyous weekend,” clearly waiting for me to ask him what happened. What really gets me is that I AM a confidante of this little sneak. He does ask for advice, though he never takes it. Hence my general tolerance. I’m a sucker. More later...
There, he’s gone home now. I will speak no more of him! Well, one more thing. On Friday he lipped off to the provincial Minister of Health, Tony Clement. We were at a glad-hand ceremony at a tailor’s shop in Dunnville. Clement was in town to congratulate an elderly former mayor and Conservative party supporter, who’s run a menswear store in the town for 50 years. Dope-boy was peeved at waiting so long for the ceremony to end - he’d left his notebook at home, you see, and had nothing to do.... bah! Enough of him.
I had a very busy weekend. On Friday, Justin (who now has an LJ under the name “thebitterman”) and Cindy came over for supper. Later, Bill and Margaret stopped by, and we played a lively game of Beyond Balderdash. I defeated everyone quite handily. We reporters are inveterate bullshitters, you see. Justin and Cindy stayed until about 1 AM, and as they left, I realized I had to be up early in the morning to get to a D&D game in Toronto.
The game, a continuation, of the Imperial Rome campaign I mentioned in an entry last year, went well. A good, solid dungeon crawl. Sure, my lawful evil cleric ran out of spells, and was reduced to throwing rocks, but a good time was had by all, I think. I got home from the game about 7:30 PM, and found my wife and my two sisters playing a fast-paced card game called “Dutch Blitz” in the dining room. I hobknobbed with them for a bit, then settled in for the evening.
Sunday was church, followed by a free lunch at Jose’s Noodle Factory, on the dime of my mom-in-law. Then I went home and played Civilization III until I lost all feeling in my buttocks.
And now, it is Monday afternoon, about 30 minutes before I knock off work for the day. And that is all for now.
The end.
We, that is, myself and my co-op student, were there to take photos of her burnt down barn. She was very happy with the way her neighbours had rallied around her in her time of the need. The barn was a smouldering wreck, nothing left but a 4 foot cinderblock wall and odd piles of charred wood, sheet metal, and unidentifiable blackened mounds, which I assumed were hay bales and feed bags.
I interviewed her in her spic-and-span farmhouse kitchen, but she was far too upset to say much. Instead, she handed me a long handwritten account of the fire, in extremely neat penmanship. She pointed the way to the barn, and we headed out across a frozen field. An extremely enthusiastic puppy followed us, nipping at our shoes. As we approached the barn, I noticed a pile of rubble in the middle was still smoking, and intermittently flaming. An obvious choice for the picture. So, we trooped towards the centre of the ruin, heads bowed in the biting wind. After a few steps, my feet sank in ashes to the ankle. The wind tossed handfuls of hot ash into our faces. I noticed my feet were rather warm, despite the freezing wind. Time for a strategic withdrawal.
As we pulled back, I noted a definite yummy smell borne on the wind. BBQ? Pot roast? I also noted a blackened hoof, jutting at an angle from the ashes. Closer inspection of those unidentifiable blackened mounds showed them to be very dead, very charred cattle. Perhaps two dozen of these mounds lay all around us. Yes, the old woman forgot to mention the cattle she and her husband kept. About 40 cows died in the fire, barely 12 hours before.
As we hustled out of the barn proper and back into the field, two disturbing images presented themselves. First, I passed close by a carcasse, and in that nasty charnel pit of black, white, and grey, was surprised by a grisly patch of bright, glistening, damp redness. One of the dead cows had been decapitated, and the exposed mess was entirely unburnt. Second, the playful puppy reappeared, carrying a charred strip of something in his mouth, shaking it around like a chew toy. We didn’t stop to examine it more closely.
Oh, as the above anecdote reveals, my co-op student (Gloomy Joe Pothead) did eventually return to work, to my great disappointment. However, he only has three weeks left here, whereupon he will be cut loose into the world, utterly, utterly unprepared for anything but a career as Cayuga’s official Pusherman. If I’m still working for The Regional five years hence, I fully expect to write a lead story along the lines of “Local Moron dies in Autoerotic Asphyxsiation Mishap,” with Mr. Pothead in a starring role. “Death underlines danger of Self-Pollution,” say cops, would be a good subhead.
Speak of the devil, and he craps on your head. The kid (well, actually, he’s 20, and still in highschool) just walked in, and immediately started moaning. He SORELY tests the limit of the genial facade I put up when he’s around. Right now, he’s got his head in his hands, and is moaning about a “joyous weekend,” clearly waiting for me to ask him what happened. What really gets me is that I AM a confidante of this little sneak. He does ask for advice, though he never takes it. Hence my general tolerance. I’m a sucker. More later...
There, he’s gone home now. I will speak no more of him! Well, one more thing. On Friday he lipped off to the provincial Minister of Health, Tony Clement. We were at a glad-hand ceremony at a tailor’s shop in Dunnville. Clement was in town to congratulate an elderly former mayor and Conservative party supporter, who’s run a menswear store in the town for 50 years. Dope-boy was peeved at waiting so long for the ceremony to end - he’d left his notebook at home, you see, and had nothing to do.... bah! Enough of him.
I had a very busy weekend. On Friday, Justin (who now has an LJ under the name “thebitterman”) and Cindy came over for supper. Later, Bill and Margaret stopped by, and we played a lively game of Beyond Balderdash. I defeated everyone quite handily. We reporters are inveterate bullshitters, you see. Justin and Cindy stayed until about 1 AM, and as they left, I realized I had to be up early in the morning to get to a D&D game in Toronto.
The game, a continuation, of the Imperial Rome campaign I mentioned in an entry last year, went well. A good, solid dungeon crawl. Sure, my lawful evil cleric ran out of spells, and was reduced to throwing rocks, but a good time was had by all, I think. I got home from the game about 7:30 PM, and found my wife and my two sisters playing a fast-paced card game called “Dutch Blitz” in the dining room. I hobknobbed with them for a bit, then settled in for the evening.
Sunday was church, followed by a free lunch at Jose’s Noodle Factory, on the dime of my mom-in-law. Then I went home and played Civilization III until I lost all feeling in my buttocks.
And now, it is Monday afternoon, about 30 minutes before I knock off work for the day. And that is all for now.
The end.
