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I call this site "everything but onions"
for a couple of reasons. In the first place, I hate onions! No apologies to onion lovers out
there. You are all sick, the whole lot of you!
Too bad, but that's just the way it is.
Onions simply happen to be God's second mistake. I won't tell you about his first
mistake until a little later on. I would like you to get to know me a little better first,
before ALL YOU CAT LOVERS OUT THERE ACCUSE ME OF BEING... (Oh, did I say that out loud,
already?) Oh, well, I guess the cat's out of the bag, then. It's not my fault. After
all, I didn't create the whining, conniving, sneaky, self-centered balls of fur.
Getting back on track, the second reason for the name of my site reflects my eclectic tastes. Don't even try to talk to me
about onions (or cats), but most everything else out there, in this vast, beautiful and everchanging
world, is worth examining, discussing and, ultimately participating in.
As a child of the 1950s and 1960s, growing up in South End, Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, life was good; it held everything that a child needed for a life of wonder and miracles. It required only the element of imagination. We were the first TV generation, but we were in no way dominated by it. Pre-computers and pre-video games, only two channels coming in to the house, the idiot box was little more than a novelty and relatively harmless then. Our days were spent roving the neighborhood and inventing entertainments. All us kids had the same middle name: “Get-out-and-play.” And that’s just what we did, from sunup till sundown. Our heroes came from comic books and Saturday matinees. We were cowboys or Indians, Bowery boys, Superman or Green Lantern. The only thing dangerous about our neighborhood was getting caught shirking chores by your grandmother, or by anyone’s grandmother, they were all the same. They would feed you homemade cookies or bread or chase you with a broom, if they thought you deserved either. And they were almost always right.
We played pickup hockey in the winter on just about any piece of running or still water that allowed its molecules to glaze over and solidify long enough to hold our weight. Read more about growing up in the Sixties...
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