Bachelor Brothers' Bed & Breakfast

by Bill Richardson | Humor | This book has not been rated.
ISBN: 1550541129 Global Overview for this book
Registered by wingPooker3wing of Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada on 8/23/2007
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1 journaler for this copy...
Journal Entry 1 by wingPooker3wing from Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada on Thursday, August 23, 2007
This is the second copy of this book to come into my hands. I must be destined to read it. I released the first copy unread. Will try to read it before the next Canada Day release challenge.

Journal Entry 2 by wingPooker3wing from Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada on Friday, January 04, 2008
Brief Lives

I must say that I very much enjoyed my stay at your fine establishment. My only regret is that my late father could not have experienced your hospitality as well. He would have polished off goodly portions of your breakfast eggs (sunny side up, liquidy enough to dip toast points, but not runny) and, after chatting up your other guests, would have pushed off from the table with nary a worry about the cleaning up. I quite enjoyed that myself but was particularly reminded of Dad and his dream to retire back to "the hill country" (as he called the place where he was born and raised and, if he'd had his druthers, spent his whole life) where he would open up a pie and coffee shop.

When I was a little girl, life in the hill country was pretty laid back. Much of the food on the table came from lazy summer days of fishing and berry picking. My dad did have a job. He'd show up at the railway station at 5:00 a.m. with his old truck, pick up whatever had come in over night and deliver it to the persons to whom it was intended - usually folks in the country. I often got to go along on these excursions with my dad and remember inevitably being invited into these folks' homes and being fed or permitted to play with the children or pets in the house while my dad and the
adults talked. Almost always I got a nickel or a dime from the country folk (not so much from the towns people) so I always looked forward to these excursions. I did not like it at all when my younger brothers and sisters became of an age where they began to figure out what was going on and began to clamour to be taken too. It seemed to me that my dad did not like it either because after a while he had to stop the delivery business, put on a suit and tie, drive to work and be gone all day.

Of course I learned as I grew up that, in the name of progress, trains did not stop in small towns any more and that it was nigh on impossible to support a family on fish and berries. My dad had to find work where it was and this resulted in several moves of his family to bigger and bigger towns and cities. He did not like the big city and as I say dreamed of his pie and coffee shop. He often talked of his plan. The shop would be on the little road we took to the lake and people would come from town and miles around just to sit and eat pie and talk to my dad. It was, according to my father, his job to chat up the customers. It was to be my mother's job to make the home-made pies and coffee and presumably worry about everything else such a business would entail. I was quite keen on the plan because my father agreed I could be a chatter too. Needless to say my mother was not keen on the idea.

But I'm sure that my mother would be quite happy to come along with me next summer. I'm sure I could convince her to whip us up a pie or two. I suspect she'd think it fair exchange for her morning coffee and a chance to peruse your library. Being an English teacher, I dare say that she'd have a book or two with her, likely of poems, that she'd be only too happy to "forget" on the bedside table at vacation's end.

Speaking of poetry, I imagine Mom'd get along famously with you, Virgil. She too seems to have an endless supply of poems she's learned by heart and is given to recite them when the spirit moves her.

It was a talent she clearly hoped lie in the genes of her children. Every year my brothers and sisters and I would find out, when my mother happily informed us, that we were participating in the annual talent competition. Other children would be in this thing too but they would get to sing or play the piano. My siblings and I always got stuck reciting poetry. I say stuck because none of us had the elocution talents to actually win these competitions. It was not an inability to learn a poem. My mother saw to it that we all had learned our pieces by heart. It was the sheer terror of performing in public that had our wee voices quivering and our knees knocking loudly enough to keep us out of the running. But it is the case that these childhood poems have stuck with me too. I was reminded of this just last night.

I had fallen asleep after reading Daphne du Maurier's, The Birds, a copy of which I had found on my bedside table before retiring. Now I must say, I'm surprised I was able to fall asleep at all. The Birds is definitely not sleep inducing material especially with a bird in the house. I must say that I share Sophy's opinion about birds as pets.

I've only once before lived with a bird. Nicky, its name was. Nicky belonged to my mother-in-law with whom my husband and I lived when we were first married. Nicky had the run of the house before I arrived and I'm quite sure she resented having to share any of her space when I came along. She was very fond of sitting on the curtain rod above the kitchen sink. She would sit there for hours and was always resentful when I showed up to do the evening dishes. She would show her displeasure by flying about my head, flapping her wings against hair and swooping headlong into my face, pointy little beak aimed, I am sure, directly at my eyes. She would continue her attack until I ran shrieking from the room when she would resume her post at the window.

My mother-in-law finally had to let me in on her little secret weapon for dealing with Nicky. It seemed that Nicky loved celery. Hang some from the curtain rod and she'd bury her face in the leaves and end up quite staggeringly drunk, unable to fly. In fact, she'd hang upside down from her perch on the curtain rod, dangling precariously and eventually falling in a stupor to the windowsill where she'd lie until the effects wore off (long enough to get the dishes done).

In any event,last night I am sure I was awoken by a knock at my bedroom door. But when I arose and opened the door, no one was there. It was then that the words of one of those childhood poems came to me.

Someone came knocking at my wee small door,
Someone came knocking, I'm sure-sure-sure;
I listened, I opened, I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a-stirring in the still dark night.
Only the busy beetle tap-tapping at the wall,
Only from the forest the screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling while the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking, at all, at all, at all.

Frankly, I think it was Mrs. Rochester.

I'm bringing some celery when I next visit.

Journal Entry 3 by wingPooker3wing from Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada on Monday, January 07, 2008
I remember having to study Stephen Leacock's *Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town* in high school. I remember my teacher attempting to sell us on the book before we read it by telling us it was a comedy. I also remember that I did not find *Sunshine Sketches* to be all that funny at all. Quite a disappointment.

Since then I have to say that the books that have won the Stephen Leacock medal for humour have not struck me as being particularly funny either. As such I really wasn't expecting too much humour from BBBB. Well, it was not laugh out loud funny for me, but it was worth a few inward chuckles and I enjoyed reading the book. It was a take your pantihose off, put on your slippersocks and ratty old robe kind of read for me. And that's all good.

Since I've had one or another copy of this book on my to-be-read heap, I've checked out others' reviews of it and noticed some talked of the B&B as being a real place and some lamented that it was only fictional.

As I read it, as bizarre as some of the folks and incidents are, I decided it had to be real. By the time I finished, I determined it was most definitely real and I'd been there. See previous entry.

This was my third read for The Canadian Book Challenge.

And, I'm reserving this book for wild release at gypsysmom's Canada Day release challenge.

Journal Entry 4 by wingPooker3wing at Delta Hotel - 350 St. Mary in Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada on Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Released 12 yrs ago (2/5/2008 UTC) at Delta Hotel - 350 St. Mary in Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada



in the 2nd floor ladies' room on the sink counter.

Obviously, I've changed my mind about waiting for the Canada Day challenge. I've released this for two current challenges:

The Never Judge a Book by its Cover release challenge (week #5 - drinking vessels) for the martini glass in the cover art, and

crrcookie's award winning book challenge, because this book won the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour.

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