the early years the friends the family the mom the wife the TV producer the ham the driver

‘I’m going to look at houses with Sue’.

I hear that clarion call to adventure most Sundays in springtime. The phone will ring. June will answer. There’ll be a crisp and efficient exchange of dialogue. Usually in that sing-song cadence, unique to the tight, tribal circle called, ‘friends of Sue’…’Can I just say-y-y-y’…Hell-l-l-o-o-o-o-o-o… Oh, an 820, 000 thousand dollar one bedroom, fixer upper, no parking, needs work, on Beech? I’m there’

And she’s off… sporting a zeal for a real estate fix, with pupils dilating crack mom hungry.

Sue comes girded for battle, conducting her house hunting sorties with a tight, military precision, that’d get the anal retentive sphincters of West Point drill sergeants snapping with glee!

I’d expect nothing less from Canada’s number one producer and cult status warm up siren, who has paid the kind of dues that earn a top-of- the-food-chain view. Why, as a young AD on the legendary Tommy Hunter Show, she ripped a strip off Hank Snow when he showed up for rehearsal an hour late, shit-faced, saucy and toothless!

Sue mean business baby! There’s no middle ground! This is war!

She arrives at 1100 hours, with the Volvo purring!

She’s wearing slip-on shoes to facilitate fast entry/exit through the domicile!

The hot properties have been downloaded from Remax and listed in alphabetical order in descending price…( with ‘dogs’ below $700,000 highlighted, just in case there’s an impulse for ‘slumming’.)

The ‘attack plan’ has been systematically co-ordinated to a GPS grid, being fed to a NORAD computer, for which three civilians have the password. She got it from a connection in the Privy Council (ex LOVER!), in exchange for comps to Canadian Idol and a box of Sass Jordan CDs she found backstage.

Once in the homes, Sue will mark her passage with the diligence of a lioness in estrus. Every door and closet is opened. Every tap turned and light switch flicked. Every room given that thorough, razor sharp assessment reserved for rookie Insight PA’s, caught hanging too damn long round the honey table. It would be the kind of look that says, ‘I’m 50. I’m cool and Bernie Sahlins said I had the best ass in show business… in 1983…and I still do! So look busy or you’ll be gone before the coffee’s cold! And another thing...WHO OK’D THE CRISPY CREMES? THEY’RE FIRED! FIRED!’

June returns from a day of an Open House snoop with Sue, story flush with adventure: of seeing the million dollar dump with knob and tube wiring and Sue brazenly breaking with Beaches real estate protocol to let the agent know.

‘Can I just say-y-y-y. You’ve got a better chance of dumping this pig if you had a sign saying ‘Murder/Suicide… Reduced to Clear’. (Ok. She never said that. I’m just looking for a cheap tag.)

June is traveling in the company of a pro-active-set-your-watches-cause-the–invasion-starts-NOW-sapphire-sharp-chick-on-a-mission.

June’s lucky. We all are. To have a warm, welcoming neighbour, whose contribution to the ‘hood’ has made the winters shorter and summer’s sweeter. We’ve communed in her home for suppers aplenty, watching our kids spontaneously erupt in talent shows. Sometimes mothers do too. Like the night Sue made a beeline for her couch from the supper table and literally SPRANG into hand stand action against the windows ala Nadia Kominic. No reason. Just cause. And upside down, with blood rushing to her head said…

‘Don’t forget June. We’ve got to see those houses tomorrow’.

Happy Birthday Neighbour!

Love Ron, June, Cayley and Gracie.

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