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It was while working at a Nuclear Generating Station in Ontario, Canada that the author met many American contractors who specialized in nuclear contract work within North America.

These men and women jokingly called themselves Nuclear Whores and the website in which they found work was called http://www.roadwhore.com/.

According to the online ‘Urban Dictionary’, a Road Whore is defined as: “A temporary worker from out of town. In engineering and construction, road whores seek out and find massive bonuses, high pay rates, hazardous duty pay, per diem, housing allowances and any form of premium remuneration”.

These new friends taught him the ways of the contractor and he soon began a life as a nuclear contract engineer, moving from project to project around Ontario.

Soon after beginning his life as a nuclear contract worker, the author met and fell in love with a news journalist while doing improvisation at Second City in Toronto.

Three years later they got married. A year after that they gave birth to a son.

Unfortunately their love was short-lived. It ended two years into their marriage while living in Kincardine, Ontario while working under contract at the Bruce Nuclear Facility and she was home with their son.

One day, she packed everything including their son and moved to Oakville leaving the author in Kincardine, all alone.


Like many parents who suddenly find themselves inthis position, the author was surprised when told he was not an equal parent of his 1 year old son, but was what his divorce lawyer referred to as a “Secondary Parent”.

As such, he was not allowed to talk to his son whenever he wanted or to see him whenever he wanted. He had to fight to see his own son, and this took time.Without his boy in his daily life, he couldn’t eat, sleep or work. He was absolutely devastated.

After a few days, he went to his family physician who was immediately concerned for the author’s well‑being. This country doctor suggested a personal remedy of his for overcoming difficult times; he told him to concentrate all his thoughts away from the negativity of the present to the funny, happy stories of his past. He suggested trying to relive these memories, by recollecting them through painting, writing, songs, etc...

So, he wrote.

Each day, he concentrated on one funny, true story from his past. He would think about it for hours at a time, sometimes all day, and then would write it down. It took 42 days for the author’s lawyer to get visitation permission to visit his son in Oakville and in that time he wrote the stories that compile this blog.





The Revenge of the Grandkids


Mom called up her two sisters to discuss their father and the fact that he was way past due for a prank. Having just pulled a cruel prank on his two young grandchildren, myself at age 5 and my sister Charlene who was 6, they quickly decided to give him a taste of his own medicine.

They figured the best time would be during the upcoming Thanksgiving long weekend. My grandfather, a retired minister, had been asked to officiate an outdoor wedding for a friend of the family. My mom, her sisters and each of their families had also been invited as guests.

My grandfather was a man of habit, and before each wedding he liked to go for a walk around the block. He used that time to practise what he was going to say and to relax before the service.

My mom gave my sister, Charlene and I one job, an important job, for this prank...when my grandfather returned from his walk, as he approached the front door of the house we both ran up to him and said, "Oh my goodness! You smell like a skunk! Oh no! Were you sprayed during your walk?"

You see, my grandfather was born without any sense of smell.

Not having the ability to smell anything, he was always very cautious, afraid of having embarrassing odours of any kind; after all, he was a retired-minister and had to present himself at all times as such.

So, upon hearing this from his pure and innocent young grandchildren, he ran to find my grandmother, who was waiting for him.

Before even arriving at her location, my grandmother yelled out, "Oh Charlie, what is that smell?? Have you been sprayed by a skunk?"

Hook, line and sinker. Not bad for our first time at a prank.

My grandfather raced to the washroom and started running a bath. He jumped in and started scrubbing his body with everything he had.

His three daughters, who just 'coincidentally' happened to arrive all at the same time, looked into the washroom to see their father frantically washing. They were all very helpful, telling him that they heard tomato juice was good for removing skunk smell.....and wouldn't you know it, they just happened to have 10 cans of the stuff on hand.

At this point my grandfather wasn't thinking about the whys or about anything suspicious at all. He was only concerned that he had to officiate a wedding in less than two hours and he smelled like a skunk.

I can still picture my grandfather pouring can after can of tomato juice over his head.

After fifteen minutes of dousing himself, my mother and her sisters told him they thought he was starting to smell a little better. They told him that it would probably be better if he wore a few pairs of long underwear and shirts underneath his suit, to keep the rest of the smell in.

So he did. I mean, why wouldn't he believe his wonderful daughters who were only trying to help?

He left for the service with plenty of time. The extra clothes he had on made him look like he had gained 10 or 15 pounds. Others who didn't know him wouldn't have guessed he was wearing half his wardrobe under his nice suit. To us, his family, it looked like he was wearing a ‘fat-suit’ under his clothes.

The ceremony went off without a hitch. The bride and groom may have wondered why our grandfather stood ten feet from them during the ceremony but if they did wonder they didn't say anything.

Our family did notice that he seemed to be sweating a little bit more than usual, even though it was a cool fall day. Perhaps it was the four pairs of long underwear he was wearing.

As you probably know, during the service, a collection is taken. Plates are passed from row to row and money is donated by the congregation to help support the church's activities. Many people put their donation in an envelope so that it remains private.

My mom gave my sister a small envelope to place on the plate as it went by us.

Instead of money inside it was a handwritten note on a small card my mother had written on our behalf. She knew that part of my grandfather's responsibilities was to deposit the collection at the bank and so he would open every collection envelope in the process.

Later that evening, my mom later read the note aloud for all to hear.

Just in case you were wondering, my grandfather laughed hardest of all, I think he loved a practical joke even more when it was played on him. The card read;

"Dear Rev. Clarke,
We paid our donation earlier by 'credit card'.
Love, your grandchildren,
Max & Charlene
p.s. Gotcha!"

3 comments:

n1wgk said...

Absolutely AWESOME! You have a gift for writing...I came across your site by accident and I think it's great!

Unknown said...

Excellent!

Tara Galberg said...

Max, I don't even know how I came across this but clearly you are still as witty and charming as I remember you being. Hope you are well.