In my early teens I found my grandfather’s straight razor at the bottom of a dusty leather trunk. I managed to shave my wispy whiskers twice with that wicked thing, nicking only a few minor arteries with my trembling hand. Having neither skill nor honing strop, I abandoned the project, turning to an old Remington electric model for the next dozen years.

Eventually I cottoned to the fact that electric razors don’t work well for lazy shavers in humid climates, so I bought a Gillette Atra, and its pivoting double blades have kept me scruff-free since.

In recent years I’ve grown ever more worried that Mr. Gillette would halt production of my Atra cartridges, in a bid to force me to upgrade to his latest exorbitant pentablade contraption. The Atra cartridges are expensive enough after all, and they date back to the 1970s.

It then occurred to me that I could turn to an old and nearly forgotten technology: the safety razor.

Remember when airplane and hotel bathrooms had little slits for disposing of your used razor blades? If you do, you also remember when watches were wound, telephones were dialed, and the remote control was a younger sibling positioned in front of the tube.

Yes, progress has marched inexorably forward, but miraculously, you can still buy safety razor handles and blades. While in Vancouver this past week, I picked out a Merkur 83C matte barber-pole model for about the cost of four sets of Atra cartridges:

Single blade, front & back. No lubricating strip. No vibrating action. No reverse moustache and sideburns trimmer. Just 100% pure manliness carved out of a quarter-pound of chrome steel.

I’m still learning the proper technique for shaving with this bad boy, but the good news is that the blades are less than half the cost of my old cartridges.

I guess I’ll need to install a disposal slit in the bathroom.

Guess what? I’ve been re-watching the Holy Trilogy (Hexology?) on rainy days. That’s what. I clearly remember queueing in the rain for Episode IV, watching Episode V twice in a row in England, and then skipping school all day to be 100th in line for the opening of Episode VI.

The forecast that greeted me this morning:

...and an atmospheric pressure of 33888241107 dynes per square fathom.

So, the temperature is just above freezing, but the wind is blowing at some unknown Roman legionary speed.

It’s things like this that cause spaceships to crash.

somewhere along the line i decided that my little company‘s title would also be little, and so i always spell it in lowercase. that makes it especially difficult to begin a sentence with.

anyway, geof harries just posted a profile of yukon dude on his blog. thanks, geof.

boy, it’s high time that i updated the company’s site. especially now that i’ve dropped the “software” part from the name.

Under the couch in a far corner of a small university pub, four 20-something fellows find an unlocked briefcase containing:

• one paperback thriller novel,
• one crossword puzzle printed on a sheet of 8-1/2 by 11 paper, and
• one 1/2-pound solid milk chocolate Easter rabbit, intact.

The lads think themselves honest, so close the lid and tuck the briefcase back under the couch to wait for its owner’s return.

“Let’s have another look at that puzzle.”

The clues seem unusually difficult, and so back goes the briefcase. Somehow the ears of the bunny fall off along the way.

“Let’s see if the novel’s any good.”

Critiques are offered, and the briefcase returns again, the rabbit slightly decapitated.

“Let’s just eat the damned bunny already.”

At the end of the evening, the briefcase is handed in trust to the barkeep containing:

• one paperback thriller novel, and
• one crossword puzzle printed on a sheet of 8-1/2 by 11 paper.

The events as I have described them occurred some twenty-three years ago this week. The mystery of the briefcase’s contents and owner remains unsolved.

I was dating a woman with Dutch parents for a short while in the late ’90s. Her father had served in the Dutch military and had been shipped to one of the former colonies in Indonesia. As part of their jungle training, the soldiers had been taught not to use soap on their skin as it would strip the body’s natural oils that defend against infection and parasites.

And the jungles of Indonesia contain some terrifying pathogens and parasitic creatures indeed.

After returning to the Netherlands, I guess he had reverted to the common — yet not stereotypically European — custom of washing with soap. However, on that particular autumn day in 1997, in the midst of a large family gathering, he decided to inform me that he had once again given it up. I remember scooching ever-so-imperceptibly away.

On New Year’s Eve of last year, I happened upon an online discussion of going without soap or shampoo. “Now there’s a resolution for 2010,” I thought.

And so, I have gone soapless and shampooless for the past three months. It was only after two months had elapsed that I revealed all to my wife. She didn’t seem the least bit bothered. No one else seems to have noticed either. About the only difference I’ve found is that my hair is a bit frizzy, so I’ll have to keep it cut short — you’d think it would get greasy, but it doesn’t.

Now, I do wash my hands with soap or antiseptic quite regularly: I spent a good chunk of this winter in hospitals and didn’t want to catch or transmit anything. Otherwise, I credit my invisible shield of oil for keeping me healthy all this time.

Take that, Proctor & Gamble.

My family has long told the following story about my father, and at his recent funeral, I included it in my eulogy.

It seems that my dad was visiting his parents in Texas, and borrowed their car to drive to the mall. Once he had finished shopping, he returned outside to the enormous parking lot and realized that he had forgotten where he had parked.

It’s a common enough story, but my dad was both the very image of the absent-minded professor, and also far from automotively inclined. A mall security guard recognized his confusion, and tried to help him narrow down the possibilities.

“What make is the car?” asked the guard.

Pause.

“I don’t know.” A reasonable answer for someone borrowing an unfamiliar vehicle.

“Okay then, so what colour is it?”

Longer pause.

“I… I’m not sure.”

“Sir, you are on your own.”

My dad eventually found the car after an exhaustive search for the little disability wheelchair icon on the licence plate. Turns out it was a navy Buick.

Naturally, the story has been an endless source of amusement to the rest of us, and not one that we feared repeating.

Which brings us to today.

Walking out of my class at the College this morning, I realized that, not only had I forgotten where I had parked, but also the make, model, and colour of the car I had driven up the hill. You see, we traded our truck to a friend for her moving day, and borrowed her small car in its place.

The College’s parking lot isn’t that large, so it only took me three tries of the key before locating the copper Chevy.

And I’m not even a professor. Sheesh.

Carole’s mother catches her flight from Timmins to Whitehorse today. Unfortunately, she’ll have to wait in the Vancouver airport overnight before boarding the plane for that last leg. They also make you claim your checked luggage for evening layovers, but at least YVR has some pleasant waiting areas — including benches that don’t have armrests all the way along so that you can actually stretch out — and lots of West Coast First Nations’ art to admire.

If colouring books actually contained drawings of mothers-in-law, I'm sure they would look something like this, but perhaps even more spangly.

Once she arrives, she’ll have a chance to rest and recover in the room we formerly called “the office,” but should be properly named “the how-high-can-we-stack-unnecessary-possessions room.” This week’s task is to convert those two things into simply “the guest bedroom, filled with bright blue bins that are, yes, stacked to the ceiling.”

Then comes the awkward decision of what to call my mother-in-law: Mom? Lorraine? La belle-mère? That lady trapped under the fallen bright blue bins?

I think I’ll skip the French option, as the various forms of address for types of mothers is confusing to the English speaker with only high-school-level bilingual credits:

I believe I’ll stick with trusty old “Lorraine.” Bienvenue au Yukon.

Unlike many, I’m averse to writing about personal matters on my blog. For the most part, I stick to jargoned wisecrackery.

I’ve been in Toronto for the past two weeks to be with my father, as has my brother, Iain, who flew in from Korea. My father, Henry “Hank” Rogers, died last night as Iain, his spouse Dennis, and I stood around his bed in the living room of his Scarborough home.

We are well prepared for the flurried activity that will occupy us throughout the coming week. Following that, the schedule is less certain.

While my cooking style tends toward the lowest end of the cuisine spectrum, I recently pulled off quite a dish in an effort to use up all of the fresh smoked salmon that we had in the freezer (Carole knows a guy). Of course, it’s hard to go wrong when cooking with salmon, butter, and whipping cream.

A-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Start water boiling and add:

• One pack fettuccini or linguini, or whatever noodles you like

Sauté, in a largish pan:

• 1/2 of one of those large garlic thingies, minced
• 1/4 cup butter

Once the garlic starts to go translucent, add:

• 2-3 cups of shredded and deboned fresh smoked salmon

Reduce to medium heat, and cook for another two minutes, stirring frequently, then slowly add:

• 2 cups of whipping cream
• 1/4 cup grated parmesan or, better yet, asiago

Keep stirring for another five minutes or so. The sauce won’t thicken appreciably. Once the noodles are done, mix in all of the sauce. Serve in big bowls and top each with:

• dash of fresh parsley
• warm diced tomato
• freshly cracked pepper

Buon appetito! Non è raccomandato per coloro che sono intolleranti al lattosio, sperimentando la sofferenza coronarica, o con i cibi kosher.