The Major’s Treasures #CanadianHumour

Here are some treasured moments that I, well, treasure. The day my club accepted me. My first day at the club. Every day after that at my club.
That’s about it, really. There are some who say things like “my marriage” or “my children’s births” and other banal occasions. But those things are achieved by most people anyway. Joining and enjoying one’s club, that is a whole other kettle of fish. That makes one special.
I know there will be trouble when Kitty, my wife of some 50 years, reads this. I am sorry and all that, but we just did what her frightful parents and others expected of us, that is the middle class two-step.
After an appalling courtship, we were married during a rainstorm at an open-air church by a lake. With the makeup of the distaff side of the wedding party running down their faces, I barely knew whose hand to put that damned overpriced ring on.
Luckily I guessed it was the heavy-browed girl with the white dress and large shoulders. Then Jeremy, my best man, normally a placid chap, took a sword to the defenceless wedding cake, which maddened the caterers and subsequently my new father-in-law. It all ended in a fist fight.
After that I passed out on our wedding night as the stress of what was expected from yours truly was too much. To be fair to me, I had been advised to relax and nature would take its course but I don’t think they meant a nap lasting eight hours.
When Kitty started shouting at me in the “morning after nothing,” I had a reaction to her hysterical aggression that produced the worst case of hives the hotel doctor had ever observed. I am almost sure my wife would have called it a day right then if her embarrassment at such an early failure had not precluded it.
Once I got the hang of things, we managed to have four ungrateful children who made life and particularly the school years a living hell. Two of the creatures we managed to get married off with the usual financial explosives, one left to follow a girl who was president of the Society for the Preservation of Wart Hogs, and Wellington, the youngest boy, we had to have removed at the age of 30 from the basement while still clinging to a lamp.
But the joining of my club, the Home of Homes, now that was an accomplishment I am proud of. To this day there is a deep Beethovian chord that bursts inside my mind as I enter the hallowed halls and take a deep breath of my personal paradise.
Lloyd George Hub-cap, a mem of long standing, put my name forward for membership 40 years ago because he said he wanted a fellow idiot to talk to. This unsettled me somewhat but I kept my injured feelings to myself in order, by whatever means, to gain entry to the paradise of mortal men.
Hub-cap was one of those cringe-worthy creatures who would sit by the club front door all day with a drool cup tied around his neck. I know that beggars cannot be choosers when getting in, but George truly was the limit.
My next problem was finding someone to second my nomination, for which there were initially no takers. Who, after all, would want to be known as the man who seconded anything put forward by Lloyd George Hub-cap?
Eventually I found an ancient mem who essentially lived behind one of the heavy green curtains in the senior reading room. He was very confused; he was still hiding from his wife who had died years ago, just because he lost a laundry ticket for a silk dress. He ate, drank and slept behind the large drape with no one saying a word. After all, it was his club, don’t you know? I simply brought him a martini, some nuts and a butter tart, which produced a signature on my almost expired membership application. I was in.
From that moment to this I have approached each day with a lighter step than most, knowing that whatever ails me will diminish once I pass through the portals of my club. I found the home of homes, I became a member and I am content. QED.