The Major’s last hurrah

As I sit slumped in my green wingback chair by the bay window at the club, I throw my still agile mind back to glorious times. I was young and unafraid while sturdy of body in the prime of life. Everything appeared possible and within reach. Now if I am honest, it is abundantly clear that I have missed the brass ring and really just take up much needed room. I am in the way and must get a move on to elsewhere. The applause is over and your Major should leave the stage.

My late father would often muse about how long one would be remembered after one is gone to one’s reward. He thought that unless a statue was produced, one could only be remembered for a generation or two at the most, until still-to-be-born relatives looking at old photos asked “Who is that strange guy at the back?” I am now one of those chaps at the back.

The Times Colonist has kindly allowed me this last column  to tell you how much I have enjoyed my almost eight years at this perch in the Sunday edition. At the beginning of every week I would perspire through another scribble session, as my wife Kitty would put it, before my editor telephoned with the usual “Well?”

It was the sort of “Well” that Louis XVI heard on the morning of Jan. 21, 1793, as the executioner waited for the former king to lay his head under the blade. I shall not miss that phone call, but I will all of you, even those of you who took the time to say “Go soak your head.” I loved it all.

What most of you would not know is that in my time at the venerable TC a goodly number of people wrote to me directly seeking advice, and that even though they were clearly not mems of the club, I would try to help. In so doing I sometimes spread myself too thin as the requests backed up and some were put aside. I am sorry for that, especially the chap who kept writing to say, “But Major, my wife is still scratching it.”

I will not reveal more. Suffice it to say I responded only just in time (I hope).

I want you to know that I will now have more time to help if I am needed in that way, but a queue is still required.

I have one adorable grandchild, Fynn, who is determined that I become proficient at forming a blog or something of that sort. It sounds to me as if it is a horrible thing stuck in the small intestine, but he says quite loudly that it is not the case and I should pay attention. So I will, as this old dog plans on learning a few new tricks before the walls close in, so to speak. I am wagging my tale in anticipation.

I don’t think I will be spending as much time at my club as usual, so I doubt I will see my my old comrades as often any more: Mrs. Hynde-Quarters, Mrs. ffrangington-Davis, the Very Reverend “Mumbles” Te Deum, the Colonel and William the Weasel, the blind Admiral, the one-armed Colonel, Rogers my preferred barman and of course the Brigadier.

On the home front, Kitty, my wife of some 50 years wishes me to say I am sorry for putting her in such a bad light all this time and if I have, I do. I love the old girl and we will see each other out if we can.

However I will not resuscitate any soft feelings for the cats even at this late date – too  much water under the bridge and all that. Bertram and Pericles must be brought to justice.

I now wave my hand with a final flourish and leave the stage to make room for others. Farewell.

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