Frank Magazine Issue 583.pdf - Besthostingplanever.com

BARKEEP MEL ON THE MEND
BY A. FRANK GRUNT
FRANKLAND BEST WISHES FOR A SPEEDY RECOVERY MUST GO OUT
TO HALIFAX’S MEL CHISHOLM.
Mel, 55, originally from Antigonish, is recovering from a heart attack.
A speedy and full recovery on Mel’s part is of the utmost importance
to a certain bi-weekly family magazine, because Mel is a fixture
at the Annual Frankland Xmas Party.
He’s one of the barkeeps at Barrington Street’s Henry House
where, in recent years the social event of the Xmas season has been
staged.
Over the years he’s also tended bar and/managed at two former
Spring Garden Road institutions: Thackery’s and Pepi’s.
Up until recently he also kept his second job at the now-also-closed
Carsand Mosher photographic shop on the virtually deserted
Barrington Street.
In fact, Mel was coming from one of his last shifts at the CM location
on Barrington Street, on his 55th birthday in February when he
was stricken.
We should also duly note that for many years Frankland World
Enterprises had its photographic needs met at Carsand Mosher, and
it was Mel Chisholm who also covered our ass on that front.
So, Mel Chisholm, a friend to all Franklanders, was noteworthy to
the evolution of the enterprise in those early days.
As for the heart attack, Mel told me he felt like there was an elephant
standing on his chest.
We had started out, I think, talking about
newspapers and a Mr. Conrad Black, before
moving on to Genghis Khan (a completely
different fellow, I think) and the Jin Dynasty,
and, then, we moved almost effortlessly to The
Crusades, before some proper reflection and,
or speculation on whether or not the said Mr.
Black had at any time been in possession of
a Miracle Whip jar in which contained the
cherished and pickled remains of the Napoleonic
penis. Who woulda thunk it?
Of course, we couldn’t get through this farreaching
discussion without added refreshment
and added discourse on Monty Python’s
Life of Brian and The Holy Grail.
Flesh wounds and blasphemy.
That’s about all I remember. Until the next
morning when living in this overpriced hole in
the ground on Kent Street, Halifax (thank
you, Mr. Singh, sorry about that last rent
cheque thingy), I woke up to the sound of
Bob’s voice waxing on about the Sociology
of Organizational Behaviour Management
or something v. weird like that. What the hell
was he doing talkin’ to himself? And where
the hell was he?
I could hear Bob, but I couldn’t find him.
Couldn’t see him. I checked the bathroom. No
Bob. Looked out the dungeon window onto
the Kent Street sidewalk. Still no Bob.
I then surveyed the alleged living room,
where I found Bob on top of a milk crate.
I had fallen asleep with the television roaring
and Professor Bob was on a roll, on the
television, doing one of his always entertaining
continuing education taped encore performances
for, I believe, Mount Saint Vincent
University. I greeted this circumstance with
a sense of relief.
No. If we had been cartoon characters, Bob
Bagg had all the flare and optimism of Foghorn
Leghorn and I was Sad Sack.
One night, vowing not to return to sleep on
the steps of St. Thomas Aquinas Church on
Oxford Street, I had nowhere to bunk down.
I didn’t even have to ask. Bob and Gay quite
generously said “You’re coming with us.”
A night on the couch
I spent the night on their couch near the
Armdale Rotary. Not exactly like taking the
baby Jesus home from the IWK, but still a
welcome, not to be forgotten gesture on the
part of two very fine individuals. Unfortunately,
neither Bob nor Gay wanted to keep me. Heck,
I thought I would have made an excellent addition
to their annual tax return, Line 305, Eligible
Dependent. For a couple of years or
so, anyway.
And a few years back, right on Frankland
Deadline, I had to get a photograph of this
lawyer’s house who was in the soup. Lawyer
Marvin Block was this one’s name.
He lived, I was told, on Armview Crescent,
or Armdale Drive, or Armpit Terrace. Whatever
the hell it was — I couldn’t find it.
Every corner store I walked into, nobody
knew what, where or who, I was talking about.
Fortunately, he was near his Hollis Street home when the thing
came down, and his honey, the talented & fragrant Susan Shepard
of Communications Nova Scotia fame was quick to get him up to
the Queasy, Too hospital.
The pair had planned to go out to dinner that night, but instead Mel
spent the better part of week in hospital after having a stent implanted.
Everything looks good.
Now, for the bad news. It’s undecided at this point if Mel will return
to the rigors of the Henry House, or, like, take up water colours or
something like that.
“I really don’t know. For now I’m playing it my ear,” Mel said over
the phone.
Of course that still leaves the Henry House with the lovely Jessica
Alsop, surfer gal extraordinaire and the daughter of the owners who,
like Mel, is no slouch in the hospitality industry.
And, we will close on this little known fact: the consistently health
conscious Mel in his prime was a talented track athlete.
In fact, in the Canada Summer Games in 1973, in Burnaby, B.C.,
he was a silver medalist in stent ... er, um, I mean the sprint competition.
Betcha didn’t know that, now, did ya?
Myself, I am not exactly sure what sprinting is. It either has something
to do with your cellphone network, or something to do with
moving your legs quite fast.
I think it’s the cellphone thing, actually....
Final answer.
I ran (it was years ago!) down to Bob & Gay’s
place at the Rotary, you know, the place with
the big comfy couch.
I cannot recall with commanding certainty if
I buzzed my way in, or just did the Jack Ruby
Thingy and walked down into the underground
parking.
In any event, there was Bob hovering over
his red compact. It was springtime he was
cleaning his car.
“Get in,” he said. “I know where it’s at, I’ll
take you there. Keep your money.”
He dropped everything and we were off. Bob
should have gotten a photo credit on that one.
Now, it’s springtime again: Easter, renewal,
resurrection, all that good stuff. Unfortunately,
though, mortality ain’t no seasonal business.
It’s often said in times of disappointment,
crisis, confusion, heartbreak, tragedy and the
like, that “things happen for a reason.”
I guess that’s what we say when our grasp
of things isn’t quite within our grasp. But, as a
jury of one, I see no reasonableness in the
very cruel hand my friend was dealt.
For now, I’ll leave that blah-blah-blah to the
Elisabeth Kubler-Rosses and Billy
Grahams of the world.
I understand only that Bob Bagg stands out
in my mind as a man who lived up to the potential
within, and, with no small measure of
irony, I am beginning to realize that I did take
a course from Bob Bagg, after all.
That’s not a bad thing, I guess.
Thank you, Robert. Godspeed.
APRIL 27, 2010 ATLANTIC CANADA FRANK 19