Pardon My Pen
By George Campbell
Powell River Syndrome can be an annoying affliction
It's been an interesting summer.
Number One: An old Powell River friend of mine, who now lives in Alberta, returned to town to help me celebrate my 81st birthday. He told me all about the Powell River Syndrome.
Number Two: I met a guy who grows his own golf clubs and invented the game of Blindfolded Golf.
And Number Three: My cat, Cleo (short for Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt), threatened to squeal on me to the SPCA because I wouldn't buy her the expensive brand of cat food that she likes.
First, my birthday. Now, an 81st birthday is better forgotten than celebrated. But try and tell that to my family--or my old friend Jerry M.
Jerry's birthday happens to fall on the day before mine in July, so the two of us, who keep in touch via email, planned to get together here in Powell River and toast each other when our birthdays rolled around. This we did, drinking several toasts to our mutual good health and wellbeing. It was between these toasts that Jerry told me about PRS, the Powell River Syndrome.
The Powell River Syndrome is a disease carried only by people who live, or have lived, in Powell River. It manifests itself when the carrier of the disease is away from his hometown, either visiting or living someplace other than Powell River. This occurs especially if they happen to be in a place where the summers are too hot and the winters too cold and icy. The ex-Powell Riverite begins raving about his hometown and how wonderful it is - the glorious sunsets, the magnificent scenery, the friendly people, and the temperate climate. He drives those around him crazy with his ranting about the seaside paradise that he has left behind.
Jerry explained that he himself doesn't suffer from it. On the contrary, he enjoys every minute of it.
PRS. According to Jerry's neighbours in Alberta, it's worse than PMS.
Next is the guy who invented Blindfolded Golf. Early in August, a friend of mine came up to me all excited, and waving a strange looking object in the air. "I've got a great item for your column," he cried. (This is a phenomenon that happens to columnists all the time.) "Just look at this," he went on enthusiastically, shoving the strange looking object into my face. "It's a golf club, see? I grew it in my garden, and I've got a bunch more just like it."
It turned out to be a mutated garlic plant. The stem on the thing was about four feet long and the clump of garlic at the bottom had grown out at right angles to the stem. It did, indeed, look just like a golf club. My friend had carefully dried the thing so that stem had become rigid, just like the handle on a regular golf club.
He went on to explain that when you played golf with one of his garlic clubs, you could do so blindfolded, and then sniff your way to the ball because it would smell like garlic from where the club had connected with it.
I walked away slowly and carefully, leaving him happily sniffing and waving his garlic club in the air.
Finally, my cat threatened to squeal on me to the SPCA regarding the cheap brand of cat food I have been buying for her. Hey, I no longer buy that brand. I switched to a brand she likes. The last thing I need is to have the SPCA after me. Those folks like animals better than human beings! If it came to their attention that I was going cheap on Cleo's cat food I'd be toast. I want them to think that I'm an animal lover, too. And, I guess I am, at that. Especially when it comes to Cleo.
So went my summer. Hope yours was just as interesting.
