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NOT WHAT I HAD IN MIND "Tell me you didn't." "Hell, it was a simple unplug this and plug in that!" "Yeah, right, what if we get a run?" "It's Monday, ya dip, nothing ever happens the first of the week --" BLAAAAAAAA-- "Fireland Emergency Squad, woman in labor, Firelands grade school, second floor office, time out ten-oh-three." The German Irishman looked at the Welsh Irishman, clapped the lid on the siren box, wound in one screw, slid it back into the dash, wound in one screw and dropped back, sliding out of the squad's cab. He pulled back as the Captain and his daughter swarmed into the squad -- shoreline was grabbed, turned, pulled free -- the door hummed and rattled open and bright mountain sunlight roared into the shadowed bay. The Welsh Irishman grabbed the breakaway on the exhaust, twisted pulled: they saw the brake lights come on, just before high powered lights began to flash, just before the squad rolled out, turned, started up the street. Two Irishmen looked at one another, uncertain, then grinning, then laughing like two schoolboys. The door was halfway shut by the time the Captain reached for the siren switch. Sheriff Linn Keller came out of his inner office, frowning a little, pencil crosswise between even white teeth: he held a folder, turned a page over, another, clearly studying the material he carried. Sheriff Linn Keller looked up, his frown going from study to puzzled, one eyebrow raised as the squad accelerated past the Sheriff's office, all lights and swift response and bagpipes. The folder, forgotten, was snapped closed, laid on the sidetable beside the coffee pot. Sharon looked up, looked at the Sheriff: Linn looked back, and two voices said, "What was that?" Captain Crane jerked his hand back from the siren box like it was hot. Then the drums started: deep, commanding, punctuating the warpipes' screaming "Scotland the Brave": he was too busy driving, to worry about what was coming out of the siren speakers, only that something was, and it was loud, and it was working! Crane swung the wheel left, came down on the throttle, around two suddenly-stopped cars, up the street and over the rise, braked, turned right, accelerated uphill, toward the schoolhouse. Shelly looked over at her father, as surprised at her father's reaction as she was at what was coming out of two, 100 watt, waxed, polished, chromed Federal siren speakers: "PLAY IT, DAMN YOU!" the Captain yelled cheerfully: he killed the siren and they pulled up right in front of the grade school's front door. Sheriff Linn Keller braked hard, skidding a little: he ran up the front steps of his own house, tapped quickly at the panel on the door frame, shoved his key into the lock, twisted: burnished Wellington boot heels were loud on spotless wood as he strode for the stairs, as he sprinted up to the bedroom: a slam, another, as he got into one dresser drawer, then another, muttering "Dammit Mama, you had it in here!" -- he ran downstairs, heedless of the racket he was making in the silent house. The Bear Killer was dancing at the foot of the stairs, then galloped out the front door ahead of the Sheriff, hit the ground, took one bounding leap and sailed across the driver's seat and into the passenger side. Linn held a bundle clamped tight under his left arm: he slammed and locked the front door, re-armed the system, turned and jumped off the front steps, grinning like he did when he jumped the steps as a boy: he got in, slammed the Jeep's door, set the precious bundle between himself and The Bear Killer. Linn grinned, pulled ahead, turned around quickly: he stopped, closed his eyes, took a long breath, laughed at himself. "Old habit," she said aloud. "You're not delivering this baby. Relax, Linn!" He laughed again, reached over, rubbed the grinning Bear Killer, then came off the brake and proceeded down the driveway in considerably less of a hurry. "Firelands ER, Firelands Squad One." "Firelands ER, go." "Firelands ER, we are on scene with a woman in labor, para three gravida four, active labor, mother states child is a month early. Mother is three fingers and fully effaced, preparing to transport." Linn frowned when he heard this: his jaw slid out as he considered, then he reached over, wiped his finger across three rocker switches, horizontally mounted so they could be turned on by running a finger from far to near. Blue indicators glowed on the switches as Linn's Jeep lit up with blue-white-and-red LEDs. "Showtime," Linn said seriously. "Cap better have his ball glove. They'll never make the hospital." A woman's scream echoed down the hallway, down the stairs. Two medics stopped, lowered the cot, swung it to the side. "Aren't you going to do something?" a teacher demanded. The Captain stifled the desire to backhand her. "Keep this hall empty," he said firmly, tearing the plastic wrap off the box they hoped they'd really, really not have to use: Shelly murmured to the laboring woman, brought the laboring mother's knees up, lowered the head of the cot: she raised her talkie. "Dispatch, Firelands Squad One. Active delivery, water just broke. We are not yet loaded. Send lifting assistance." "Dispatch, Firelands Actual on scene." "Firelands Squad One, sending lifting assistance. Firelands Actual, I roger your on-scene. Break, break. Firelands Fire Department second squad, lifting assistance, Firelands Grade School, the stork is landing." The Captain thrust one hand, then the other, into the sterile gloves, bent, reached in, looked at his daughter, nodded. Shelly gripped the laboring teacher's hands: "Squeeze if it hurts," she said quietly, looked at her father. "Para three, gravida four," Shelly said in a worried voice. "Whatta we got?" "IN THE BUILDING!" a man's voice boomed from below. Linn turned: "UP HERE! FOUR MAN LIFT!" Irishmen assaulted the stairs at a dead run, their commanding shout preceding their charge: "WHATTAYA NEED, CAP!" Boots pounded up the stairs, a mountain Mastiff gave a happy whuff! as he crested the stairs with the running Irishmen. "Mother, deep breath," the Captain said, his voice deep, reassuring. "Blow out, deep breath again, OKAY, MOTHER, PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH!" Linn stopped, looked at his wife. "Whattaya need?" "CROWNING!" the Captain grinned, glanced over. "Linn, keep this hallway clear!" Linn looked up: the principal was coming toward him, looking big-eyed from the cot to the Sheriff and back. Linn powered forward, gripped the principal by her shoulder. "Get on the PA," he said quietly. "Until I say otherwise, nobody leaves their room, tell them the stork is landing and we have to keep the runway clear. This is not a lockdown, this is --" "IT'S A BOY!" the Captain yelled. Irishmen swarmed the cot, pounded one another on the back, looked approvingly at the Captain: "WILLY MAYS DOES IT AGAIN!" came the delighted shout. The principal turned pale, swallowed hard: the Sheriff took her by the elbows to steady her. Linn looked at the principal. "Do you need to sit down?" She nodded: Linn eased her down, patted her hand: "Just sit here for a minute," he said quietly. The Captain looked up: "Mother," he said in a gentle voice, "do you plan to breastfeed?" The teacher nodded, biting her bottom lip, tears streaking down her cheeks. "Give me a minute," he said softly. "I need to cut the cord. Afterbirth should come right after, then we'll change the sheet under you." The Captain wrapped the infant in the fluffy receiving blanket, then the Sheriff sidled in close. "Here," he said. "Wrap him in this." When the newest member of the community arrived at their hospital, when he was examined and pronounced healthy and perfect, he was again wrapped in the Sheriff's gift, and formally presented to his father and his family. Sheriff Linn Keller stood back and watched, grinning, as this youngest Maxwell of the Clan Maxwell, was presented to Clan and Kin, wrapped in the correct Clan Maxwell plaid. For some odd reason, the next time the siren was used, it sounded like a siren, and no official mention was made of what two of the Irish Brigade swore privately was just a joke, it was sheer and fantastic coincidence that bagpipes heralded the birth of another Maxwell, but someone with a steady hand and a rotten sense of humor, painted a blue stork beside the yellow storks on the squad's fender ... this newest stork did not carry a blue sling for a boy, or pink sling for a girl. The stork itself was blue, and its sling was Clan Maxwell plaid.

McDonalds DC-3 Restaurant

NSW Police Ford Paddy Wagon from back in the day

Haggis and Black Pudding Pizza, hold the Marmite Sauce.

Hey, kid...Santa Claus is at the front door...why don't you go take a look.

Daylight savings ending Sunday morning brekky

ONE BEDROOM HOUSE - 1875 Shaws Court - off Kent St (between Druitt & Fowler Sts) Sydney. One bedroom house.

Notes of life 1 - I'd kill for a Nobel Peace Prize. 2 - Borrow money from pessimists -- they don't expect it back. 3 - Half the people you know are below average. 4 - 99% of lawyers give the rest a bad name. 5 - 82.7% of all statistics are made up on the spot. 6 - A conscience is what hurts when all your other parts feel so good. 7 - A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory. 8 - If you want the rainbow, you got to put up with the rain. 9 - All those who believe in psycho kinesis, raise my hand. 10 - The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. 11 - I almost had a psychic girlfriend, ..... But she left me before we met. 12 - OK, so what's the speed of dark? 13 - How do you tell when you're out of invisible ink? 14 - If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something. 15 - Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm. 16 - When everything is coming your way, you're in the wrong lane. 17 - Ambition is a poor excuse for not having enough sense to be lazy. 18 - Hard work pays off in the future; laziness pays off now. 19 - I intend to live forever ... So far, so good. 20 - If Barbie is so popular, why do you have to buy her friends? 21 - Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines. 22 - What happens if you get scared half to death twice? 23 - My mechanic told me, "I couldn't repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder." 24 - Why do psychics have to ask you for your name 25 - If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried. 26 - A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking. 27 - Experience is something you don't get until just after you need it. 28 - The hardness of the butter is proportional to the softness of the bread. 29 - To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism; to steal from many is research. 30 - The problem with the gene pool is that there is no lifeguard. 31 - The sooner you fall behind, the more time you'll have to catch up. 32 - The colder the x-ray table, the more of your body is required to be on it. 33 - Everyone has a photographic memory; some just don't have film. 34 - If at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you. 35 - If your car could travel at the speed of light, would your headlights work?

1927 The chop picnic explained Although we can find references to “chop picnics” as early as 1923, the idea was still novel enough in 1927 to require an explanation. In that year, “Corinella” described the chop picnic in her column in the children’s pages of The Sun News-Pictorial: It’s a picnic really only instead of wasting half the morning cutting sandwiches and buttering bread, you simply buy some chops at the butcher’s, take a loaf of bread, some butter, knives and a box of matches. When you’ve got a good fire burning, grill the chops on the red coals. Cut a pointed stick, poke it through the chop, and then cook it. When it’s beautifully done, and smelling delicious, pop it on some bread and butter and eat it the best way you can. When you’re finished you are certainly a little choppy round the mouth, but you’ll vote it the best chop you’ve tasted. In her book Bold Palates, food historian Barbara Santich has written at length about the chop picnic. As Santich explains, the practice of grilling meat on a stick suspended over a campfire already had a long history in colonial times. She quotes a detailed description from Louisa Meredith, from her 1850 book My Home in Tasmania. Here I was initiated into the bush art of ‘sticker-up’ cookery, and for the benefit of all who ‘go a-gypsying’ I will expound the mystery. The orthodox material here is of course kangaroo, a piece of which is divided neatly into cutlets two or three inches broad and a third of an inch thick. The next prerequisite is a straight clean stick, about four feel long, sharpened at both ends. On the narrow part of this, for the space of a foot or more, the cutlets are spotted at intervals, and on the end is placed a piece of delicately rosy fat bacon. The strong end of the stick-spit is now stuck fast and effect in the ground, close by the fire, to leeward; care being taken that it does not burn. The bacon on the summit of the spit, speedily softening in the genial blaze, drops a lubricating shower of tich and savoury tears on the leaner kangaroo cutlets below, which forthwith drizzle and steam and sputter with as much ado as if they were illustrious Christmas beef grilling in some London chop-house under the gratified nose of the expectant consumer. The meat, more often, was not kangaroo but mutton chops – a staple, along with damper and tea, of the bushman’s meal. While the practice was long established, the earliest use of the term chop picnic that I can find refers to an event proposed for the Girl Guides in Victor Harbour in 1923. “All who attend the festivity bring a chop or cutlet and so on,” the local paper reported. “And the girls are to be taught how to cook in the open similar to the Boy Scouts.” In following years, there are a many references to organised excursions featuring a chop picnic for groups such as the Guides, the Y.W.C.A. and church youth fellowships. But the idea of grilling a chop in the great outdoors had growing appeal, with organised events (not always in the bush) to support charity. By the 1930s, the chop picnic had made it into the social pages, when a British baroness and cookbook author visited the colonies: One of Lady Sysonby’s anticipated pleasures during her short visit to Sydney is a “chop picnic” in which she will participate with Mrs. Hubert Fairfax on Saturday. Their busy day will include a visit to Koala Park, and in between they will draw up their car in some bushy spot, light their own fire, and grill chops on a griller. “I know it should be a green stick,” Mrs. Fairfax said, “but a grill iron is easier.” (Sydney Morning Herald, 17 January 1936) The Macquarie Dictionary’s Australian Word Map section suggests the term may have persisted for longer in South Australia than elsewhere. Even in the 1930s – and certainly through the 1940s and ’50s – most of the references to chop picnics are in South Australian newspapers, with Victoria coming in a distant second. By the 1960s, the South Australians are almost the only ones not to have universally adopted the term barbecue.

You both are in my thoughts and prayers.

My Father's side of the family and my Mother's side lost members there, although most survived. Members and survivors of both sides of my family were there for the Vimy Pilgrimage and dedication of the memorial in 1936 by King Edward. At the time, they did not know one another.

I had to look this up. I'm glad I did, eh? Battle of Vimy Ridge - Wikipedia

Reminds me of something from a Bill Cosby routine. I don't remember what he did, but Cos is telling his wife, "Bring me -- THE BOY!!"

#7 is one of the few things I never believed or forgave my parents for.