Taking A Lie Detector Test

             My parents owned an acreage where our home was located.  On a corner of that land was a small house that my parents rented out.  Once when I was a freshman at university, living in my parent’s basement, they collected the rent from the small house and the cash was in an envelope, sitting on top of a chest of drawers in my mom and dad’s bedroom.

            One day when none of the family was home, my dad had a air conditioner repairman come to fix the ailing air conditioner in the bedroom.  Later it was discovered that the envelope full of rental money had disappeared.

            My father reported the robbery to the police and they sent a detective out to investigate.  When the detective found out that there was a long-haired teenage son living in the house, who do you supposed became suspect number one?   You guessed it, it was me.     

            The police wanted me to come down to the station to take a lie detector test.  I had, of course already told them I hadn’t taken the money, but they were skeptical.  I had seen lots of people taking lie detector test on TV shows and thought it might be an interesting experience, so I told them I would do it.

            I went to the police station and they sat me in a room and began to question me.  I told them again that I hadn’t taken the money and that I had never in my life felt any desire to steal anything.  I explained that if really needed money, I was sure that if I just ask my parents, they would give it too me.  I, of course, liked to have money, and worked to earn it, but I would never steal it.

            The police then rigged me up to the lie detector.  There was a strap that went around my chest, a blood pressure cuff that was wrapped around my upper arm, and small straps that went on the end of a couple of my fingers.

            They explained that I should just stay calm and not be excited.  They would just ask me some questions and I should answer them.  They told me that on the first question I should answer “Yes” even though that was not correct.  

            They ask me something like, “Is your name John Smith?”  I knew that I had to lie, but, I wanted to “beat” the machine, so I tried very hard to stay really calm and collected, and I answered matter-of-factly, “Yes”.

            The detective watched the needles swing across the rolling paper and said, “You are lying.” 

            I was pretty impressed with the accuracy of the lie detector, and then they began to question me in earnest.  

            “Is your name David Marchant?”

            “Yes”

            “Is David Marchant your name?”

            I replied excitedly, “You just asked me that.”

            That irritated the cop, who told me not to say anything except “Yes” or “No”.   He explained that all of the questions he asked, would be repeated in two different ways.

            My lie detector session continued and when it was completed, they confirmed that I had not lied, and was free to go.

            Having lost their main suspect, I am not sure what happened to the police investigation of the theft.  My parents never heard anything further from them and never got the rental money back.

            For me it was an interesting experience to take the lie detector test, “just like something you would see on television”.

You can view my paintings at:  davidmarchant2.ca

Michelle & Stephane Return for a Concert Tonight

         Because these two talented musicians have returned to give a concert tonight, I have repeated a review I posted about the concert they gave us last year.

            I haven’t been to a sit-down music concert for years, but one of our jam members arranged to have some musician friends who were passing through, to do a performance in a spectacular local “barn” (the most beautiful “barn” I have ever seen).  Having never heard of Michelle and Stephane, I wasn’t expecting a whole lot, but from the duo’s very first song, I was blown away.

              Their vocal harmonies were solid, crisp, and tight, taking some unexpected turns in their amazing vocal range.  When Stephane’s fingers started streaking up and down the neck of his guitar, I sat in my chair with my mouth open, considering hanging up my guitar for good.  He was an amazing guitarist.  Michelle on her stand-up bass gave a solid floor to the rapid guitar runs.  

            Their music was more Modern Country-oriented than I was used to, but they did the songs so professionally and with so much energy, I was quickly converted.  They did do one song I was familiar with:  “Seven Bridges Road” (also known as “Southern Sky) a song where the Eagles’s show off their amazing vocal harmonies, ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U61bPI8K04s )  Michelle and Stephane nailed the song with just two voices. 

            The two live in a small town in Alberta and I don’t know how much time they spend touring, but I was sure happy they had come to McBride and that I got to see and hear them.

           The other great thing about the concert was being in Froese’s spectacular barn.  It was wonderful to sit there, listening to the toe-tapping music while looking out of the big barn open-air window beside the duo, onto the blue slopes of the Rocky Mountains.   It was a great way to spend a gentle spring evening.

            Below is a photo of Froese’s beautiful barn.  The concert was held on the second floor, with the top two windows open.

You can take a look at my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

Another Memorable Jam Night

     It is getting so that I never know what to expect anymore when I go to our Tuesday Night Jam at the McBride Train Station.  Last night was another memorable event, not because of the music, but because for the first 40 minutes or so, there was now electricity.  The lobby was dark, but fortunately there was enough light shining through the windows in the back to illuminate things.  

    The lack of power did hamper those people who relied on amplifiers for their instruments to be heard, so we couldn’t hear the bass, electric guitar, or keyboard.  It didn’t effect me with my acoustic guitar and mandolin.   Once the power did finally come back on, our music got back to normal.

    The Robson Valley has been experiencing rain shower after rain shower, separated by periods of sunshine and blue skies.  Last night was no exception.  As we were taking the music stands and instruments into the station, a rainbow formed over McBride, as the sunshine was reflected by the falling rain.  It was a unique view of the Village, and we we stopped to watch and take some photos of the event.

Take a look at my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

Feeling A Fool, After A Misdiagnosis

     Two weekends ago, McBride held its Pioneer Days celebration.  Our Jam was set to play for a couple of hours.  In preparation for the performance, I loaded up my pickup truck with the music stands, mic stands, PA system, and instruments, to haul down to the park to set up.  

    Once I got everything loaded in the back of the truck and it was time for me to go, I climbed into the cab, and turned the ignition key to start the truck---NOTHING.  

    In a panic, I tried again, and again, and each time the results were the same: NOTHING.  The engine wouldn’t start or even turn over.

    I scrambled to get the car and took everything out of the truck and stuffed it all into the car, then drove down to McBride to set up.

    About a week before my failed attempt to start the truck, a friend had been telling me about a carpenter she had employed to do some work on her house.  When it was time for him to leave, his truck wouldn’t start, and it was the truck’s starter that had failed and had to be fixed.

      I hadn’t thought about broken starters for many decades.  Back when I was in university, I owned a MG that had a starter that was always unpredictable and problematic.

    After Pioneer Days was over, I tried several times to start the truck, but it failed each time.  The lights on the dashboard always came on, so I knew it wasn’t the truck battery, and then remembered Ingrid’s story about her carpenter, and decided that it must be my truck’s starter that was causing the problem.

    Yesterday, I decided to do something about getting my truck fixed.  I called a towing company to make arrangements to get my pickup towed down to a local garage to get a new starter.  I called the garage to make sure everything was set at their end.

    As I waited to hear that the tow truck was on its way,  I had a thought:   Maybe it was the sloppy transmission shift lever in my truck that was causing the problem.  It always seems pretty loose about getting into the right spot when I shift the gears.

    I got into the truck, which seemed to indicate that that the truck was in was in PARK, I tried to move the shift lever a bit more to the left, and sure enough, it moved a bit more to the left, where it clicked more solidly in place for PARK.  I then turned the ignition key, and sure enough, the truck engine immediately started.

    I felt a fool.  I quickly called the towing company and the garage to cancel all the appointments I had made.

    Looking back at the incident, I realized that it could have been  a lot worse.  I could have had my truck towed in to the garage, and then had the mechanic discover that the starter was fine, so I guess in the long run, while I was embarrassed, I was fortunate to discover the problem when I did.

View my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

Seeing Bob's Drums

 Here is a blog I wrote back in 2013:

           Even with its small and sparse population, the Robson Valley always surprises me.  It is so isolated, rural, and low in residents, that you don’t really expect to come upon too many extraordinary things, but the people that do choose to live here are a pretty rare breed, who bring with them a lot of hidden talents.  This was reconfirmed to me yesterday when I drove out to the hamlet of Dunster for another music jam.

            At the end of our previous jam, Bob, the guy who was playing the dobr, most of the time, mentioned that what he really liked to do was play drums.  That sounded great to me because, I really wanted to play electric guitar.  So we decided to have the next jam at his place.  

            Yesterday, when I walked into his living room ready to do some music, I noticed a red drum kit, all set up at one side of the room.  It looked like the typical drum set that you would see at any garage-type band, so I just assumed that it was the set that Bob would play.  When the four of us started playing I was a bit surprised that Bob didn’t go over and play the drums, but instead he played dobro and mandolin. 

            Later in the session, some one mentioned the red drum set, and he said he was hoping to sell it.  He then added that the drum kit he liked to play was in a room upstairs, and offered to show it to us.   I wasn’t overly excited about looking at a drum set, because, not being a drummer, all drum sets looked pretty much the same to me, but I climbed the stairs following Bob and the other guys, to the far room.

            When I walked through the doorway, I was gobsmacked.

            I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  Sometimes, on one of those big giant auditorium concerts, I have seen the drummers literally surrounded with drums, cymbals, tom toms, and such, and that is what I saw filling this room, the whole room, that Bob had led us to.  There was only space for us to squeeze around the edges.  Bob somehow got behind the drums, sat down, and began to hammer away on the drums.  He looked like a pilot in some enormous airplane, surrounded by the massive control panel of the cockpit.

            My camera, which is a high definition video camera, shoots a wider than normal photo, but, I could not get Bob’s whole drum set into a shot, so some of his kit can not be seen in the photo above.   Even now, as I write this, I am smiling as I think of all those drums in a little room in an isolated house, situated below a mountain.

            When we went back downstairs, and resumed our jam session, Bob once again began playing the mandolin.  It seemed somehow sacrilegious, for him to be playing a mandolin, when he had all that tremendous drum equipment upstairs.  We did have a good afternoon of playing music, and we are planning to do it again in a couple of days. 

Take a look at my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

Kona In The Dandelions

     My grandfather, and later my uncle, owned a large commercial greenhouse where they grew tomatoes.  I spent many an hour working in that greenhouse picking tomatoes in the early morning, before the Indiana heat and humidity got too unbearable.

    I guess it is only natural that when I grew up, that I wanted to have my own tomato-producing greenhouse (made using some of the same panes of glass, I got when my relative’s greenhouses were torn down)  I naturally used the same tomato-growing techniques, I had seen my grandfather use in his greenhouses.

    Once my seedling tomatoes have grown big enough (and the cold British Columbia weather is no longer a threat) I plant the young tomato plants in the greenhouse.  I spread a mulch all over the ground around the plants to prevent weeds, and hold moisture in the soil.  My grandfather mulched with straw, but I use the dried “hay” I cut from tall weeds growing in my unused pastures.  

    When the plants get tall enough, I string them up with twine tied to wire that is strung high across the greenhouse.  This holds the tomato plants up as they grow taller, and keeps the tomatoes off of the ground.

    Today, I changed my morning routine of painting, because I have fallen so far behind in all of those  many “need to do” jobs, and I used my usual painting time to string up my more than fifty tomato plants I have in the greenhouse.  

    I am happy to report that I can now cross that task off of my “To Do” list.   To use an old Forestry term that was used to describe logging cut-blocks that were successfully replanted, my tomato plants are now “Ready to Grow.”

View my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

Greenhouse Tomatoes, Grown Like My Grandfather's

     My grandfather, and later my uncle, owned a large commercial greenhouse where they grew tomatoes.  I spent many an hour working in that greenhouse picking tomatoes in the early morning, before the Indiana heat and humidity got too unbearable.

    I guess it is only natural that when I grew up, that I wanted to have my own tomato-producing greenhouse (made using some of the same panes of glass, I got when my relative’s greenhouses were torn down)  I naturally used the same tomato-growing techniques, I had seen my grandfather use in his greenhouses.

    Once my seedling tomatoes have grown big enough (and the cold British Columbia weather is no longer a threat) I plant the young tomato plants in the greenhouse.  I spread a mulch all over the ground around the plants to prevent weeds, and hold moisture in the soil.  My grandfather mulched with straw, but I use the dried “hay” I cut from tall weeds growing in my unused pastures.  

    When the plants get tall enough, I string them up with twine tied to wire that is strung high across the greenhouse.  This holds the tomato plants up as they grow taller, and keeps the tomatoes off of the ground.

    Today, I changed my morning routine of painting, because I have fallen so far behind in all of those  many “need to do” jobs, and I used my usual painting time to string up my more than fifty tomato plants I have in the greenhouse.  

    I am happy to report that I can now cross that task off of my “To Do” list.   To use an old Forestry term that was used to describe logging cut-blocks that were successfully replanted, my tomato plants are now “Ready to Grow.”

Take a look at my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca