The bong people

The Holy Father passed to his reward on Easter Monday. Of course he did! Funny how his health management, or should I say, death management team, managed to make his demise rhyme like that. The only possible dates more apropos for the death of a pontiff are Good Friday and Easter Sunday. A week before, on what is known in households more pious than mine as Holy Monday, my earthly father went to his reward. He was a modest enough man and made no claims to holiness. In fact, he would have seen his demise on Holy Monday as a happy accident rather than pre-ordained. It was only a week before that a keen young doctor had informed me, after a brief hospital stay, that I was fast in the grip of congestive heart failure, or CHF as the acronym-happy medical profession shorthands it. That’s something I’d normally consider a newsworthy development, but under the circumstances I decided to keep it under my hat for the time being. Dad only gets to die once, and I don’t want to steal his thunder. So, the Pope’s a goner, Dad’s a goner, but, at least for now, I’ve got a life to live and many medical appointments to attend. In fact, I had one in Guelph the day after Dad’s funeral. Decided to get a room and stay over instead of making the five hour round trip afresh the next day. Set up camp at the Super Eight out on Woodlawn. It’s right next to the former Holiday Inn Express. I say “former” because during the Covid times the city leased the property and turned it into a homeless shelter. I shit you not! Homeless in Guelph? Y’all come on down to the Holiday Inn and take a load off, courtesy of the Guelph taxpayer! Stay as long as you like! That boondoggle must be over, because they’ve tidied up around the joint and it sports new Hilton badging. Jeez, you just wanna hope they had the fumigators cranked to eleven! But what a beautiful Easter story… death and resurrection! But I digress. At the edge of the parking lot Super Eight’s got a couple picnic tables and a gas BBQ under an enclosure, with a sign; Designated Smoking Area. Don’t let anybody tell you Super Eight has no amenities! I had a good view of the set-up from my room, and it appeared many of the clientele took the sign literally. Nevermind an old codger guiltily pulling on a ciggy, or perhaps even a joint - this crowd brought out the neon-coloured two-foot-tall glass bongs! Oh, well, live and let live, I always say. Next morning, long before anything is astir, I’m the old codger guiltily puffing on a smoke at the picnic table. Somewhere a door slams. There’s three pre-teen girls heading my way, wearing pajamas and carrying a Walmart bag. I quickly stub the smoke because I’m acutely aware I’m setting a bad example. They sit down across from me and pull out a two-foot-tall neon orange bong out of the Walmart bag. Holy shit! Now I’ve seen everything! At some level you want to scream, where are the friggin’ parents, but you know it’s way too late for that. What I learned at my medical appointment was I have two options. One. Put my feet up, fire up a bong, and wait for CHF to carry me to a better place. Two. Put my feet on the ground and lace up the walking shoes. Between diet and exercise I’ll get another ten-fifteen years out of this mortal coil…Or die trying!