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flauntpage · 6 years

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Kyoji Horiguchi's Impossible Task

When Fightland profiled Kyoji Horiguchi in 2014, the young Japanese fighter was just beginning his run in the UFC. Asked about his motivation to begin fighting, Horiguchi replied that he had begun watching mixed martial arts when he was at high school and had been drawn to the fights of Norifumi ‘Kid’ Yamamoto. Horiguchi remarked: “He was knocking out guys much bigger than him. I’m not so big myself and wanted to do the same. That’s how it started.”

Kyoji had begun his martial arts training the same way that many Japanese children do, in traditional karate. Horiguchi learned under the instruction of Mr. Hirou Nihei. Beginning his MMA career as a sort of Kid Yamamoto knock-off, the more Kyoji allowed that karate training to show through in his fights, the better he performed. The influences of Yamamoto and Nihei, and of American Top Team combined to make Horiguchi something truly unique in mixed martial arts and in 2017 he was able to do exactly what Yamamoto had: he went up a weightclass and stopped three men over two nights to be crowned the Rizin bantamweight champion.

At this point it is no exaggeration to say that Kyoji Horiguchi is the finest mixed martial artist that Japan has ever produced and the gulf between Horiguchi and the remaining talent outside of the UFC is substantial. The move to bantamweight was for a challenge. After Horiguchi made it look a doss, Rizin dug out Ian McCall as a respected flyweight name and Horiguchi stopped him with the first punch thrown. Everything Rizin lines up for Horiguchi seems to be just to keep him busy, and Horiguchi has been able to knock opponents down faster than Rizin can line them up. Finally, Rizin pulled the trigger and booked the fantasy match that fans have been dreaming of since the first Rizin events: Kyoji Horiguchi would take his first professional kickboxing match, against perhaps the best kickboxer in Japan, the undefeated Tenshin Nasukawa.

Horiguchi has that same presence as Yamamoto in the ring—he is simply electric—but outside of the ring he has always been understated and cheerful: the most harmless knockout artist you will ever meet. Yet as he navigated a course through the finest stretch of his career there was much more happening below the surface. Explaining his decision to leave the UFC and return to Japan, Horiguchi revealed that it was partly influenced by Hirou Nihei being diagnosed with cancer. What wasn’t revealed to the public is that during almost the same space of time, Kid Yamamoto was also battling cancer.

And so at Rizin 13, as Horiguchi strides into the greatest test of his career, tasked with besting an unbeaten fighting prodigy in a completely different combat sport, he does so having laid to rest both his teacher and his idol in a few short months.

A Brief Introduction to Tenshin

We have written about Tenshin Nasukawa at length before—both a stylistic study and then a reflection on his toughest match—so we will keep it brief here. Nasukawa, like Horiguchi, is at his best out in space and has little desire to place opponents on the ropes most of the time. What Nasukawa does very well is counter punch—both up the center of kicks and over the top of his opponents punches when he can drawn them into over-extension. The style of drawing the opponent’s rear hand, angling off on the retreat, and firing one’s own power hand over the open side has been around for a hundred years or more (below is Benny Leonard doing it in the 1920s), but it has suddenly found new prominence between fighters like Conor McGregor, Stephen Thompson, and Tenshin Nasukawa.

Here is a great example of Nasukawa drawing out the right hand and countering through the open side, twice in quick succession. It is a pretty unique clip because the majority of the time Nasukawa’s opponent will crumble when he lands it, but Rodtang’s head might actually be full of concrete.

And the same can be seen here. Notice how Nasukawa draws Rodtang’s right hand into extension and throws his left hand in from that slight angle. Attacks from the open side can not be rolled off on the lead shoulder and back with a well-timed turn of the body, making them considerably more dangerous than if you tried to fire a straight from a similar angle on the closed side.

Nasukawa also has a brilliant check hook and a solid southpaw kicking game—pounding the opponent’s right arm with the round kick and looking to drive stepping knees in when he can. With that out of the way, let us talk match up specifics.

The issues Nasukawa has faced have come as opponents have pressed him to the ropes. He needs space to retreat and angle for that left hand counter to work at its best, so when he hits the ropes he will either try to check hook and duck out the side door, or simply run to get off them. Doing this over and over again left him exhausted in the fourth and fifth rounds against both the aggressive Rodtang and the cautious Suakim. This led to many occasions where Nasukawa performed a rolling thunder, or even double legged his opponent in order to take breathers on the mat.

Points Karate in a Nutshell

From the moment that this match was announced, it seemed something like Mayweather vs. McGregor for the fight fan who considered himself too good for that circus. Granted, kickboxing is considerably closer to MMA than boxing but the idea of a fighter taking up a new sport and immediately jumping in with a great will always seem like a stretch too far. Though there is some precedent to offset a fight fan’s usual pessimism: Gegard Mousasi beat Kyotaro Fujimoto in a kickboxing match on New Years Eve (albeit ten days after Kyotaro went the distance with Semmy Schilt), and Alistair Overeem famously upset Badr Hari after years away from kickboxing, previously only having competed at a fairly low level.

But outside of a matchup between Japan’s two most promising young fighters, this fight might also tell us something more about the kickboxing game at large. The kickboxing meta has always favored a closer range and combination work. The threat of a takedown in MMA necessitated striking from a greater range and points style karate found tremendous success within MMA where you never really saw it in kickboxing. Horiguchi is one of the best examples of long distance karate in MMA and that style is always built on two ideas: drawing the opponent into overreaching through the exaggerated distance, or bursting in through that distance with alarming speed.

When “The Machida Riddle” was still unsolved, Lyoto Machida would establish an extended distance, control it perfectly, and then step in to intercept his opponent when they committed to chasing him. This style of counter punching created perfect sen-no-sen or intercepting counters, and by timing his step in as his opponent was advancing, Machida could appear considerably faster than he actually was.

Kyoji Horiguchi is best at the other portion of competition karate—he actually is exceptionally fast and he makes his money fighting from beyond his opponent’s reach and then bursting in before they know what is happening. He does all that Machida stuff, but it is probably safe to assume that the best kickboxer in Japan isn’t going to run face first onto a counter like Horiguchi’s MMA opponents often have.

The Bounce

When a boxer steps in to lead, it is typically with the jab and he drives from his back foot to extend his stance. Boxing is about economy of motion and a good percentage of fighters, a good percentage of the time, want to use that first attack to get into range to either follow up or draw counters they can continue working against. Points karate isn’t that—the man who gets there first, wins. When you watch a man like Horiguchi or Michael Page burst in on his strikes, know that there’s more going on than just extending into it as a boxer does with his jab. Attention is paid to drawing the opponent around the ring and trying to catch them stepping onto the strike, and often the strike itself is hidden in bouncing—which in turn can be used to cover more distance than leading straight out of the stance.

Converse with a couple of decent point fighters and you will quickly learn that everyone has their own philosophy on bouncing, but most good point fighters use some variant on the idea for a couple of reasons. Firstly, bouncing is a tremendous means of complicating the action. Strikers get good at reading tells and these are even easier to pick up on if the opponent comes in straight off a static base—watch any UFC event from the previous decade to see a ton of that. Add in the bouncing and suddenly you are trying to pick up on a dropping of the hands or a shuffling of the feet while everything in your vision is moving up and down.

Most importantly though, bouncing is a marvellous means of hiding what the feet are doing and moving the fighter into a closer range before he has performed that fencing-like lunge into a longer stance. You can watch any number of clips of Christophe Pinna demonstrating this idea on YouTube—the feet go together so that you can perform your thrust after an initial bounce in. You might not make double the distance of a fighter just lunging straight from his stance, but perhaps you can add an extra fifty or sixty percent range to your advance and that is more than enough to catch a man out.

Pretty much any Horiguchi blitz is preceded by a bounce in, maintaining his stance and then a movement into the actual movement.

In fact the current TKO heavyweight, Ciryl Gane uses a very similar bouncing to get in on right hands and establish clinches. As did the late and underappreciated Ryan Jimmo. Gane’s speed is glacial compared to Horiguchi’s but the attacks still flow so nicely out of the bounce that Gane’s opponent is caught completely unprepared.

Bouncing effectively makes fighting from a longer range more viable. Lyoto Machida didn’t do a lot of bouncing to lead but his opponents were so woefully out of their depth at his extended range that they often simply sprinted at him as Ryan Bader did. Do that against Tenshin Nasukawa and you will get murdered with a counter ten times out of ten. But with convincing bouncing and feinting from that uncomfortable range well, as Nasukawa put it in one of Rizin’s pre-fight packages:

The Hypothetical Gameplan

In terms of what Horiguchi can do against Nasukawa—this could be an uphill battle. The thing about the bouncing, bursting, long range style of fighting is that it gets very energy consuming. As fights go on, Horiguchi abandons his bounce and strides around the ring, returning to it when he wants to hide his burst. More than ten or 12 bursts a round is going to get tiring.

A good fight for Horiguchi is one where not much is happening, which is interesting because normally that is what we would say about Nasukawa—the power hitting counter puncher. For most fighters, pushing the pace against Nasukawa would probably be their best chance, but Horiguchi’s style has just never been about that. Furthermore, where Nasukawa looked slow and sloppy in the late rounds against Rodtang and Suakim, those were five-round fights and this one is just three rounds. Horiguchi has three minutes to work each round and he would do best to do as little as possible and punctuate rounds with bursts of offense.

In terms of avoiding the counter strikes, keeping his bursts unpredictable is the priority. The bursts are longer than a standard lead from kickboxing range, which means if you aren’t keeping the opponent confused you are giving them a long distance space in which to counter you.

In writing notes for this bout, my thoughts were that Horiguchi should use low calf kicks to skip up and knock the long-stanced (for a kickboxer) and often backward moving Nasukawa off balance momentarily and make advancing on him less dangerous. Furthermore long straight kicks would be the best method of getting in single strikes with the least chance of retaliation. And for Horiguchi’s bursts, you would want to see him do what he has always done in MMA—make himself hard to hit in the aftermath. Where Machida was always a sitting duck after his big reverse punch, Horiguchi will always weave into a left hook, push the opponent away, or grab a clinch—these are the things that make a fighter harder to hit after he has dashed forward with uncontrollable speed.

Watching the absurdly well put together Rizin Confessions web series revealed that Horiguchi and Nasukawa had in fact sparred in 2015. Sparring footage is not something to be taken too seriously—these McGregor-Mayweather parallels are getting spooky—but it did show each of those above mentioned ideas that might improve Horiguchi’s chances. In addition to the skip-up calf kick, the front kick to the body and the punch-and-shove, notice the beautiful contrast between Horiguchi’s bounce and Nasukawa’s more kickboxing/Muay Thai style of transitioning weight back and forth between the feet within the stance. That’s the great thing about fighting: there’s a hundred different ways to do it.

The skip-up calf tap (albeit with no follow up):

A nice front kick to the body (again out of the bounce) and a pull away from the counter.

The clip Rizin repeated over and over was a good right hand which was immediately pushed through to the wall. The right hand itself isn’t hugely interesting, the shove is. This is the thing Horiguchi should be doing in the fight above all else: denying the open side counter. Horiguchi’s game is bursting into his right hand and Nasukawa’s game is countering through the open side as that hand is drawn back. Often when facing that counter the better thing to do is to push through and fold behind the right elbow or shoulder, driving into the opponent and smothering him rather than trying to retreat into the stance.

One of the great things about kickboxing, compared to boxing, is that a good degree of physicality is permitted. A push or pull might not seem like much but Giorgio Petrosyan has built a career out of it as we examined in Giorgio Petrosyan and The Counter to All Strikes. Every strike or combination ends with a little shove—it is re-establishing range but rather than stepping back, one forces the opponent out of their stance and out of their opportunity to come back with a counter.

Petrosyan mixes this in with ducks into clinches after his strikes and this—the more familiar “punch and clutch” should also be a staple of Horiguchi’s game here. Hiding the burst and staying safe after the burst are paramount. Other tactics that allow Horiguchi to score points with the least chance of retaliation—long front kicks/low-line side kicks if they are permitted—or complicate counter punching—the skip-up calf kick—should be thrown in liberally throughout.

The excitement here is not so much whether Kyoji Horiguchi can beat Tenshin Nasukawa: you wouldn't expect him to, given his complete inexperience in kickboxing competition. The intrigue is in seeing whether Horiguchi can effectively apply the point fighting game to kickboxing, where it hasn’t really been proven at all. A few seconds of sparring recorded on a phone in 2015 doesn’t mean anything to the outcome of the fight, but the teaser of that point fighting style flummoxing Nasukawa for even a few moments has definitely got this writer intrigued.

If Horiguchi can perform even respectably here the world opens up for him. An Alistair Overeem style staggering of combat sports would be remarkable and an excellent way for Horiguchi to establish himself as Japan’s fighting superstar: something he was unable to do while being hidden away on UFC undercards.

Jack Slack wrote the biography Notorious: The Life and Fights of Conor McGregor, and hosts the Fights Gone By podcast.

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leominster1941 · 6 years

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1930s Telegram Boy and the 1960s Post Service in Leominster.

This Post returns to the writings of Alec Haines. Most of this article reflects on the Leominster’s postal service in the 1930s. Focusing on the trials and tribulations of Bill Thomas a Telegram Boy.

The Post Office had been built in 1909.

It also provides an opportunity to reflect on Leominster’s postal service sixty years ago.

The 1960s Postal Service in Leominster no longer employed Telegram Boys. It was, however, a highly visible and important service for the local community. Like many other families we did not have a telephone. There were still two mail deliveries each day, early morning and late afternoon. Telegrams were delivered separately as they had to be signed for. Telegrams were still synonymous with bad news due the many delivering dreadful news during World War II.

Almost everyone was on first name terms with ‘their’ Postman. The term ‘Postmen’ was accurate, there were no ‘Postwomen’ that I can remember. Most working women were paid less than men even for doing the same job. Trade Unions and most working men feared women doing the job would lead to lower wages. Most Postmen had more than one job. They may well have been your window cleaner on another day. It is extraordinary that in 2018 a public organisation like the BBC is still paying women less for doing the same job as men.

They still wore the distinct uniform and cap worn for decades. Leominster had its own sorting office located at the rear of the main Post Office in the Corn Square. They appeared to be two totally detached departments. The Post Office was always busy with at least five counters open all day. Postal Orders were used by many people, especially those who did not have Bank Accounts. Having a Bank Account of course entitled you to a cheque book. Like many they did have a Post Office account. Dad always kept his Post Office Book in his jacket pocket. My parents certainly did not have a bank account or cheque book until the late 1960s. Many also queued to by stamps to save toward the telephone bill and T.V. License.

My experience as a casual Postman over the Christmas period was enlightening. The postbags were especially heavy this time of year. It was also a struggle to arrive at the sorting office by 6.00a.m.! However, by far the worst experiences involved dogs. How does a sign ‘Beware of the Dog’ actually help a Postman? You were under an obligation to deliver the Post no matter the obstacles, after all, it was the Royal Mail. The big bonus were the Christmas tips. It was not only given in the form of money; a warm mince pie was almost as rewarding as cash, especially on a cold morning. Not everyone cleared their paths of snow and ice. The people of Hampton Gardens saw it as a duty to not only clear their own paths but the street pavements as well. Ash collected from household fires was spread over the ice.

Alec Haines now writes much more lucidly about a 1930s Telegram Boy. Bill Thomas became a Telegram Boy in 1932 and was one of two boys employed by our local Post Office. Of very smart appearance with a round pill-box hat, highly polished leather pouch (to carry the telegrams) fixed onto a belt with shiny brass buckles, his uniform immaculate and his bicycle cleaned to perfection, he was inspected every day by the Post Master. All this presented to the public and accepted that this was the standard that made them to be worthy of being a part of the Post Office. The first telegram boy reported for work at 8 a.m., the other at 10 am. The last telegram had to be phoned for immediate delivery by 8 pm. Bill remarks on the times that he would have had the front wheel of the bike just inside the doors of the Post Office shed at two minutes before 8 pm. ready to go home, when the bell would ring and he would have to take a telegram to KIMBOLTON for a farmer who was a sheep dog breeder. On arrival “there the farmer would grumble to him. "There's a sheep-dog arrived at Leominster railway Station. Why didn't you bring it with you? Now I've got to cycle all the way down to Leominster and bring the dog back with me". Little did he realise that the telegram boy would not have known anything of its contents. The envelope was sealed by the man on duty inside the Post Office, who had received the phone call. During a normal working day the two boys would often deliver over a hundred telegrams. In those days seeing a boy going to a house with a telegram often brought fear or discomfort to anyone receiving a knock on the door, for it was usually sad news not good news. On the delivery of the telegram, the boy had to wait at the house for them to read its contents, in case a reply was needed. Telephones in those days were very rare indeed.

Many telegrams were to be delivered to extremely remote areas in the surrounding country-side. _ Sure enough they all seemed to come in for delivery a few minutes before 8 pm. when the telegram boy was expecting to finish work. Bill recalls how quite often he would have to deliver a telegram to THE CAMP at IVINGTON, or to the game keepers cottage in the long, dark, dense woood above BRIERLY COURT. Taking his bicycle along those roads in the middle of winter was in itself an endurance test. The only front lamp they had in those days was a small ” oil lamp” (paraffin) which barely threw a light even on to the front wheel. Hitting a pot hole in the road would throw the lamp off and those pieces now all over the road, had to be found, for he dare not proceed without a light. At the next gate a policeman would surely be there, unexpectedly waiting in case some poachers might come through the fields. To be caught riding a bike withoutlights was considered to be a very serious offence. His job was earning him 10 shillings and Sixpence per week which was too good to lose for the sake of a bicycle lamp, however poor its light.

The oil lamp had to be functioning properly, for young Bill, having just left school would have to leave his bicycle near a gate and carry the lamp with him if a telegram was to be delivered to MR. PARRY, the game keeper in BRIERLY WOOD. Proceeding through the field he approaches that thick, long wood. In total darkness he now moves into the wood, absolutely terrified, and starts to climb the very steep gradient. A briar from a bramble ‘bush sweeps his logs from under him as if he had been cut down by a scythe. The oil lamp, which he. had in his hand. rolled down into some bushes. There he crouches, striking match after match from the box to find it and relight the lamp before the paraffin has all spilled out. Birds fly about at his slightest movement. An owl flies uncomfortably near to his pillbox hat and settles in a tree very close to him. afraid of nothing in the wood. Black birds fly quite low. Pigeons take off from their high perches. preceeded by the cock pheasants which heard him get off his bike in the first place.

He fights his way slowly up through the wood and is encouraged by the bark of a house dog, for Bill had been stopped dead in his tracks by a fox that had jumped over a tree stump just in front of him. Breathing heavily, more from fright than fatigue, he sees a light from the game keeper’s house some way ahead of him. Climbing faster he notices in the shadow of the dimly lit doorway, a figure of a man with a shot gun resting beneath his arm pit. He had been just too late, for the fox had wanted something for supper but the gates of the pheasant pens were shut and bolted for the night.

The gamekeeper sees the small light approaching, picks out the light thatshines on those highly polished brass buckles and shouts a welcome to the holder of the lamp for he knows it must only be the Telegram Boy, it can be no other.

The lamp is replaced on the bicycle, he pedals back as fast as his legs will allow him. Just before rounding the bend at IVINGTON CHURCH he hears some scuffling just ahead, holds his breath but sees nothing. Only a quiet shrill squeak pierces the silence. The answer for this, was that further on perched on a parapet of the bridge over THE ARROW, a large owl was pecking away at something, and as the little light drew nearly level with the owl it flies away carrying something larger than a mole, could have even been a rabbit.

That was the last scare he had that night as he reaches the Post Office and pushes his bike into the shed which had once seen the front wheel at 7.59 pm. It was now 9.59 pm. He hastens home to clean his pill-box hat, his uniform, belt and boots for 8.00 am. He will still have to pass the inspection next morning by the Post Master who will never know that one of his lesser staff had fought a terrifying battle with nature the night before, and only just became successful.

A Postman in rural areas, was not just a man in uniform delivering and collecting letters and parcels, he was more of an AMBASSADOR for the Post Office, regarded by nearly every family as their personal friend who could be relied upon to bring from town many of the days necessities, papers, odd items of groceries, medicines etc. At Christmas time he was rewarded by them in so many different ways, never going without a drink from every household. The Country Postman usually managed to get home sometime during the twenty four hours of Christmas Day, whether he was delivering on foot or cycle.

There were, of course, instances when the postman failed to get home within reasonable hours, as happened to one whose round was mainly in and around the village of HAMNISH CLIFFORD. Well gone dusk he had not arrived home, his anxious family at their wits end contacted their near neighbours to organize a search party.‘ Word was sent to postmen at Leominster who then cycled to the voltage to join in the search. lle was eventually found at 4 am. fast asleep in a ditch still under the influence of drink. Scores of people had passed the spot looking for him. Fortunately, his mail bag fell beneath him and the water in the ditch. Like so many times before he would not be reported to the higher echelon of the Post Office; it was none of their business.

Today’s Postman in this part of England still aspires to all the qualities of his colleagues of years ago. Many are still on foot and bicycle in town, still bitten by dogs large and small, more frequently now for more houses means more dogs. He can at least get to hospital more quickly, for he is usually driving a van. This is a little more comfortable. Not many years ago a motor-bike and Sidecar was the speediest means of delivery and collection, each fitted with a carbide lamp. How easily one forgot to make sure there was enough water in the lamp until suddenly the light dimmed to the brightness of a lighted match as the bike sped along winding country roads doing 40 m.p.h., and finally the light going out all together. A complete stop had to be made until some water could found from out of a ditch or a brook to put into the special chamber of the lamp, this would then mix with the carbide powder giving off a gas which when lit gave a far better light than the oil-lamps (paraffin) which easily blew out in the wind. What a blessing when the inventor of the dynamo had his contraption fitted to the bicycle, the motor-bike and the motor-car. He saved the Post Office a lot of overtime payments and relieved the country-side of a decent amount of surplus water as well.

Today the speed of delivery of a certain special mail at a high rate ensuring thatany letter would reach its destination in any part of the UK. within 24 hours, has by extreme desire to fulfil those obligations delivered a letter via Shobdon Aerodrome to an address in Scotland by helicopter. To deliver that one letter could not cost less than £1,000.00 at today’s rates, yet an agreement had to behonoured and HER MAJESTY'S MAIL once more fulfilled their obligation.

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rebeccahpedersen · 6 years

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Friday Fantasy: What I Want In A House!

TorontoRealtyBlog

Here’s something a little silly on a Fun Friday.

I get asked this question a lot by my clients – “What are you looking for in a house?”

I’m an open book, both on this blog, and in person. People know I live in a condo, and that one day, sooner or later, I’ll be buying a house.

People always want to know what I’m looking for, so I figured this would be a fun exercise…

Another question I’ve been asked lately: “What’s with this ‘Fun Friday’ thing you’re always referring to on your blog?”

I wouldn’t say “always,” but yes, I tend to think of Friday as a more relaxed day, and the topics on my blog are often more relaxed too.

Monday’s blog post is often something big and bold that I’ve pounded hours into over the weekend, as is Wednesday’s. Friday’s blog, since it’s only up for one weekday, is often a bit silly in nature. Not to take anything away from the folks who come to the blog for “MLS Musings” or “Photos of the Week,” not to mention a fun video, but that’s just the Friday theme, if you will.

When I went to Leaside High School in the early 1990’s, by the time you finished Grade 9, there were “enriched” courses available to students who, like me, enjoyed studying, had no friends, and didn’t party…

In Grade 10, they offered “Enriched Math,” which I thought would be really cool.

It’s too bad that in 2018, they’re doing away with enriched courses, in attempts to make everybody “equal,” but that’s a topic for another day…

My Grade 10 math teacher was a man named Mr. De Piezza, who offered us ways of thinking that we had never thought to explore. It simply changed the way I thought about math, and learning in general.

Most Fridays, instead of teaching from the text, or simply moving on to the next chapter or next lesson in line, he would look to do something different. And he referred to this as “Fun Friday.”

I remember one exercise where we were exploring probability, and while we know that the chances of flipping a coin and having it turn up heads, or tails, is 50%, he wanted us to see how we get to that 50%. How many sequences of ten flips come up with 9 heads and 1 tails? Or vice versa? Picture 30 kids in a classroom, with hundreds of pennies, flipping coins and scrawling down results.

For some students, “Fun Friday” was a day when you knew you wouldn’t have a test, or be stressed by the lesson, or really have to do much. But for nerds like me, it was a day you just knew you were going to learn something cool.

Anyways, that is the origin of my “Fun Friday” saying.

And when a couple of different clients recently asked me what I was looking for in a house, I figured it would be a Fun-Friday kind of blog post.

There are a lot of things I’d look for in a house, like just about every buyer. Some things I’d compromise on, some things I wouldn’t.

Some things are necessities, and some things are fantasies.

But explaining how many bedrooms I want, or whether I want a garage – that’s boring!

As a fun exercise, I thought I’d sway a little more toward the fantasy angle, especially because so many of my ideas are exactly that.

And while I could probably rattle off a dozen things I want in a house, if you know me by now, you know I’d rather spend an entire blog talking about just ONE feature.

One feature, eh?

Any guesses off the top?

A pool?

A gym?

A garage with power-tools?

A garden for my green thumb? Maybe some organic kale?

What about a kitchen island facing a Wolf range?

A steam shower? A sauna?

A backyard football field?

All good guesses, they would be.

But aside from the necessities, and if we’re just playing for fun today, one of the things I’ve always fantasized about is………

…………..a wood-paneled office.

I don’t quite know what draws me to this.

Maybe it’s the idea of having my own “lair” or “domain.” But I also want a man-cave (a close 2nd place), so it can’t be about having my own space.

Maybe it’s about efficiency? Being able to work from home, and feel like I’m still in the office? I think I might be on to something there.

I’ve been in my current condo now for seven years, and save for the first six months when I worked in the “home office” I had set up, I’ve always worked from my dining room table. As I type this right now, 12:31am on Wednesday night, I’m sitting in my half-broken, much-sat-upon chair that is also seven years old, and is probably the best $150 I’ve spent in a long time.

But having my own office, in my home? That would be awesome.

The kids can come knock on the door, quietly, respectfully, and in a 1920’s voice, perhaps even with a hint of a British accent, ask, “Father, may we speak with you, if only for a moment?”

I’ll remove my spectacles, put my pen back in my ink quill, and say, “Yes, children you may, but let’s do so post-haste as father has important work to be done.”

Then they’ll ask me if they can attend the sock-hop, or box social, or whatever gathering is afoot at the local broo-ha-ha, and I’ll tell them to ask their mother.

Then, it’s back to work for me.

Yes, that’ll be the day…

I’ve accumulated a few photos from MLS of wood-paneled offices I like.

Here’s my favourite thus far:

Great colour, two windows, and I like the built-in shelves.

I have a lot of art, which you may call “chachkies,” but I need somewhere to display it.

Every piece of art I own, has meaning. Think about that painting you bought from a street vendor on your trip to South America back in 2009, and had framed in the shop around the corner from your home. That piece is special to you because you remember where you were when you bought it, who you were with, and why it appealed to you.

I dream one day of having a wood-paneled office, just like the one above, and unpacking all the pieces of art I’ve accumulated over the years, and deciding on where each piece will go, is going to be like Christmas morning for an adult.

Behind the desk in that photo above has to be home for a very strong piece.

A defining piece.

I already have mine picked out…

One of my best friends was married in 2013, and for his bachelor party, we drove to Detroit to watch the Tigers play, then Chicago to see the Cubs, then Milwaukee to see the Brewers, and then flew home.

After we left Wrigley Field in Chicago, we were walking through town, back to the car, and we saw a shop that was sort of sports memorabilia, and also antiques.

We went inside, and it was fantastic.

I’m a huge collector, as some of you know.

My brother, father, and I collected sports cards in the late 1980’s when the boom was big, and although most of that stuff is now worthless, our 1930’s and 1950’s hockey cards remain a fantastic collection. In the past four years, my father and I have started going back to the semi-annual expo to see if we can add to our sets.

In this Chicago store, there was all kinds of sports memorabilia, but also newspapers galore.

The moon landing, the Kennedy assassination, D-Day; you name it, there was an authentic, mint-condition newspaper being displayed.

I walked through the store like a kid on Christmas. I’m a sucker for anything old; anything vintage.

The store owner looked like he had to be in his 90’s, although maybe the stress of the near-1oo-years between Cubs’ World Series wins just made him seem that way.

I asked him, “What’s the oldest newspaper you have in the store?” And he thought about it for a while.

He then said, “It’s not on display,” and I figured it had to be special.

He walked over toward another counter, reached underneath, and pulled out a very large, flat wooden box. He opened up the lid and blew off the dust like something out of a Scooby-Doo cartoon, and the hinges creaked.

He pulled out a newspaper that was in plastic, and turned it around with both hands in an understated, unintentional, television-like reveal.

It was awesome.

The newspaper was from 1863, right in the middle of the U.S. Civil War.

Depicted on the top-half of a horizontal side of newspaper was the Second Battle of Winchester, which took place in Virginia. It was a hand-drawn sketch of the battle that was so incredibly detailed, I could almost see the despair in the eyes of the Union soldiers (they were slaughtered, FYI).

The newspaper was in absolutely incredible shape for something 150 years old.

But it wasn’t until I saw the date that I was really enthralled: June 23rd, 1863.

And what day were we there, in this man’s shop, in Chicago? June 23rd, 2013.

What are the chances?

Exactly 150 years later, to the day!

I immediately decided I had to have this piece.

I asked the old-timer how much he wanted for it, and he took a long inhale. “I’ve had that for……let me think now…..probably close to fifty years,” he said. “Picked it up at a flea market down south in the 70’s if I recall.”

I had no idea what this was worth, but I had pretty much decided I was going to buy it.

To my amazement, he said, “I think I’d have to have…….proabably…….one-twenty for it.”

One-twenty? Dollars? Really?

I’m a collector by nature, but this isn’t my field. I know it’s “just” a newspaper, but it’s 150 years old, and I don’t imagine there are a lot of these kicking around. I suppose just like any asset, or any home out there, it’s worth what somebody is willing to pay for it.”

“I’d be honoured to buy this piece,” I told him.

And I handed over $120 USD with glee.

We left the store, and one of my buddies said, “Dude, you could have worked him down! He’d probably have taken sixty bucks, man! You know 100% he’d have taken a hundred.”

I told my friend that wasn’t the point. I negotiate for a living. I’m sure I could have got the piece for less.

But I respected the man who owned it, how long he’d had it, and the mere existence of his store – a throwback to days past, in a world where very few people care about old newspapers, collectibles, antiques, or vintage items.

I wouldn’t dare insult this man by haggling over twenty dollars.

In the end, I got a photo of he and myself, with the newspaper, and his shop in the background.

As soon as I got home from that trip, I went up to Bayview Avenue to see my “frame guy.”

“You have a ‘frame guy,’ seriously?” I’m often asked by those in my office. But yes, I have a frame guy. A necessary ally for an amateur art collector.

To frame a piece of art – cheap or otherwise, is a job unto itself. The right mat, the right border, the right frame. Colours, thicknesses, and what type of glass?

When the piece was finished, I looked at it for a few minutes, and then put it back in the brown paper wrapping.

It’s been in storage for five years. I haven’t seen it since.

But I knew that one day, when I bought a house, and if I had a wood-paneled office – this would be the perfect piece to display on the wall behind my desk. Feel free to read into the imagery however you want; perhaps I don’t even understand the reasoning myself.

So yeah, call me crazy, but one of the things I want in a house, more than anything, is a wood-paneled office like the one above.

Here are a few others that I’ve seen on MLS over the years.

I like this one here, but I really want the window to look out front, not to the sideyard:

–

This one below is beautiful, but a little too “much,” if you will:

There’s also no window in the room, which I think is a deal-breaker.

I mean, it’s not a deal-breaker, since this is a classic case of “beggars can’t be choosers,” but that might get a wee bit stuffy.

The desk is also way too small – it’s a glass table with a few items on it. This reeks of staging.

I love the double doors though, as well as the ceiling detail.

–

This one below is more my speed.

It’s a combination of the very first office, and the one we just saw:

Ignore the colour of the wood, because I think that’s the camera.

I love the window behind the desk. In a perfect world, I’d have two windows next to the desk, like the first photo. But I don’t want the desk facing the wall like in photo #2.

I love the shelving on the right hand side. I can’t tell you how many pieces of art (aka chachkies…) I could display on those fifteen shelves.

I would absolutely love a wood-burning fireplace! That would be unreal. I’m not a fan of that gas/electric unit on the left, so I’d get rid of it. And the wall-mounted TV would be a distraction from all the really important things I’d be doing, and world’s problems I’d be solving, sitting in that chair.

–

This one below just doesn’t “do it” for me, you know?

As in I can’t quite put my finger on it, although I do like the chairs.

There’s a desk in the middle of the room, but it’s across from a built-in desk in the shelving. It doesn’t feel well-planned.

And again, the desk is sideways to the window, which I don’t like.

–

I don’t even know what to make of this one here:

I showed it to a colleague of mine in the office, and he said, “Two desks? Eh? Eh???” and winked. “Business partners?”

I absolutely love the huge window though.

I think if the fireplace wasn’t there, you could move the desk in front of that space, ditch the second desk, and it would look just like the first one:

Except it would be twice as big…

–

So there you have it, folks.

What’s wrong with a little day-dreaming on a Friday?

Call me crazy, but hot-damn do I want a wood-paneled office in a house one day.

I know it’s the long weekend and many of you have already checked out, but if you feel like playing along – let me know what cool, different, or fun feature you would want in a house.

And if you have a wood-paneled den, send me a photo.

Have a great long weekend, everybody!

The post Friday Fantasy: What I Want In A House! appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

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dcreed013 · 7 years

Text

Chapter 1: Ellie

The Wormwood farm was unusually charming looking for this part of Flatrend. It was a spacious house made of pale stone and arching windows you could see lacey curtains fluttering behind. Jutting out of the back of the house was a three story tower. This tower was originally built to house the Wormwood’s in-laws after their homes burned down some three hundred and sixty years ago, but now it houses two of the children of the house and a guest room. Behind the house is a high wooden fence that closes in the farm. Yes, it was a fairly charming looking house, but it’s most unusual feature was its scarlet roof. From a distance, one would only assume it to be an unusual sort of tile. However, upon closer inspection, a passerby would be amazed to find that the house was shingled with dragon scales!

Then the passerby would surmise that this farm must be quite old, to be covered in the iridescent hide of a beast that hasn’t lived in Noelvah for over three-hundred years. As a matter of fact, Wormwood farm was built about four hundred and eighty-seven years ago, though the crimson roof was later addition. There was a short time in the kingdom of when dragon rearing seemed feasible. In those few decades, the upper and middle classes had access to goods now considered priceless, like dragon teeth and eggs. During that time, Wormwood farm suffered a fire as a result of a toddler and a candlestick, and although its stone foundation survived, it lost it’s previously hay roof. And so, the then head of house decided to invest in fire-proof dragon scales to ensure his brood would never have to sleep under the elements again. Shortly after, the dragons used to produce these products managed to escape. They ran amok in Noelvah for a few months before migrating back their homeland. It was during this time that Wormwood farm doubled as Wormwood shelter, as all the other houses in town burned to the ground.

Yes, it’s a charming looking place indeed. It’s just a shame it’s not a very charming smelling place. For Wormwood farm didn’t farm any sort of crop or cow or sheep. No, Wormwood farm instead peddled in chickens. And anyone who’s ever ventured too close to a chicken house can tell you that if smells could be bottled, the smell of a chicken coop would be considered a weapon of war. It simply is an atrocious, putrid stench that manages to seep into everything on the premise. Everyone in town knows not to eat anything the Wormwoods offer you; else you’ll get a mouthful of Odeur de Poulet. Naturally, the Wormwood’s don’t notice this though. Perhaps the family has been in the business so long that they’ve done away with their sense of smell. Or perhaps a strange hereditary defect allowed them to establish the farm. Either way, it’s certainly true that no Wormwood can detect a scent, on their farm or elsewhere. You could wave a fresh apple pie, a bar of chocolate, a fish or a clove of garlic right under their nose, and they wouldn’t smell a thing. As a side effect of not being able to smell, they also have little to no sense of taste, explaining why everyone except a Wormwood could detect the lingering essence of chicken mess in whatever meal was prepared on the farm.

You’d think that with such an awful smelling place nearby, the village of would’ve driven the Wormwood’s off with pitchforks long ago. However, that was not the case. The Wormwoods had wisely built the farm downwind of Flatrend, and the gusts that blew through the prairie town kept the smell at bay. On top of that, the Wormwoods were kind folk, and well respected in town. Not to mention they were the wealthiest family in town. Mothers in Flatrend would, starting from an early age, force their children to sit for hours at a time, smelling some rancid fish or milk as training so the child would be able to tolerate the smell should he or she be fancied by a Wormwood son or daughter.

And so, it is on this foul-smelling farm, and under this red roof, that Eleanor Wormwood was born and raised. Little Ellie lived her whole life on this farm with her mother, father, and three brothers. Her mother was Tamera Wormwood, formerly Tamera Pines. Tammy was a slightly portly and stern looking woman, who always brought pies to the village’s quilting circle that no one ever dared eat. The man of the house was Rolf Wormwood, who worked the farm under unusual circumstances. You see, Rolf was the fifth and last brother of his generation, and wasn’t supposed to inherit the farm. It was supposed to go to his oldest brother Whit. However, Whit died in an unfortunate accident that ended with him being crushed under a statue that was meant for the top of the town hall. Then it was supposed to go to Polly, but Polly wasn’t the most reliable sort. He met his end near the tavern with six pints of ale in his blood, and a bet involving a mule and bear. Then it went to Riley, but Riley had always dreamed of adventure. He was just about to hop out his window when the fourth brother, Tom, caught him. However, Tom, knowing that with Riley gone HE would have to take over the farm, decided a life at sea was better and set off for the coast with Riley. No one has heard from them since. And so the late Maggie and Jerald Wormwood had only Rolf to give their beloved farm to. Rolf had to leave his blacksmith apprenticeship in order to learn the family business, and there he was today.

Finally, there were Ellie’s older brothers, Mack, Nick, and Rick. As the names might imply, the boys are identical triplets. See, the issue of who would inherit the farm isn’t a decided matter for this generation because of this. For one thing, it hardly seems fair to give Nick the farm just because he’s a half-hour older than Mack, and Mack doesn’t deserve it any more than Rick for the same reason. For another matter, no one really knows if Mack was born as Mack, or Nick was born as Nick, or Rick as Rick. The fact is, the boys were so perfectly identical as children, that it was utterly impossible to tell them apart until they were old enough to tell you which one he was himself. Therefore, no one knows whether or not the boys ended up getting mixed up at some point and saddled with the wrong names. So although the baby called Nick was the oldest, there’s no way of knowing if the boy called Nick is really the oldest or not. It was quite the conundrum, one which the Wormwood family had never dealt with until now, and had yet to solve it in the fifteen years since the boys were born.

And then there was Ellie. She was twelve years old now as of last October, and currently working a knot out her short hair. The summer sun was just coming up over the fields, spilling in through her window on the second floor of the tower, and she would soon have to be ready to run egg deliveries around town as she did every Wednesday.

“Ellie! Breakfast!” Ellie’s mother was always a curt woman.

Ellie rushed out the door, grabbing her apron from the hook on the way out. She had just finished tying it as she reached the kitchen, where her mother was slapping scrambled eggs on plates and her two of her brothers were rushing in from the other rooms. Her father was already scraping up the last of his meal with toast.

When you have no sense of taste, eating becomes more of a chore than anything else. And that’s the way the Wormwood family treated it. There’s no point to having variety if you can’t taste it, so it was scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast every single day simply because they’re easy to make.

As Ellie sat down to eat, her two brothers started to chatter about what they’d do with their afternoons. After daily chores, which rotated daily, the Wormwoods usually had a few hours of downtime.

“I’m going down to the square to play jacks with Hannah and Greg.”

“I’m gonna go to the school. I heard some adventurer agreed to tell stories ‘round then.” Which one said which, Ellie didn’t care. She was brooding over the fact that her chore, egg deliveries, would take the majority of the day with how stubborn and slow old Bertha, the farm’s only mule, was.

After finally pushing down the last of her bland meal, Ellie cleaned her dishes and left, announcing it as she did. Her mother, now nestled in a rocking chair and working on her latest quilt, told her to “Make it quick. The egg’ll rot in this heat.” The two brothers were already going about the sweeping and dish drying, so they acknowledge her leaving.

Ellie hadn’t taken three steps out when the brother who was late for breakfast came bolting past her after some chicken that got loose. That must be Nick, Ellie thought. Nick always lets the chickens out. And Ellie went to the small barn on the side of the house and dragged out old Bertha. The mule looked a little like a very worn out sock and dragged her feet with every step. After Ellie finished the task of getting Bertha tacked up and loading the eggs into the cart, she set out for the day.

The town of Flatrend was an average little village, much like any other in the North Valley. It had one wide road going straight through it, one heading toward the capital and the other toward The Bridge, and little side roads that lead to houses and small shops. It was settled in a wide open plain, where the tops of trees were just visible in the distance at Wormwood farm. There was little shade on the road as Ellie and Bertha plodded into town, both sweating profusely. Luckily for Ellie, there were only three stops on this trip. The trouble was, they were far apart.

The first stop was the market, where the general public purchased their eggs. This was the easiest shop to get to, as it was built when the town was founded and was butted right up against the road. All Ellie had to do was knock on the door and ask the clerk boy to unpack their order. The second stop, the baker’s, was for more tedious. The Baker was an elderly lady who was somehow too feeble to safely carry a crate of eggs, but fit enough to do all that baking. And worst of all, the bakery was built after the main road and buildings, and was tucked into a side street, so Ellie had to lug the heavy crate to the end of the alley without breaking any of the eggs. This was the part she always dreaded the most.

However, the final stop, in her opinion, made it all worthwhile. The final shop was Nancy’s Herbs and Home Remedies, located at the other end of town. It was an odd little shop that had been around as long as Ellie could remember, but her parents told her that it suddenly cropped up one night when they were in their teens. Her parents, as well as most of the other adults in Flatrend, disliked the little shop and its enigmatic owner. However, Ellie, like most of the children in town, found the mysteries of the shop fascinating.

The shop was small. At least, it seemed that way with how cramped it was. It was a square room with a long, low counter at the back that was littered with mortars and pestles, beakers and stirring spoons. Every wall was crammed to the ceiling with shelves holding bottles and baskets of different shapes and sizes that were filled with odd plants, herbs, and strange colored liquids of varying viscosity. Despite the fact that the shelves were full, the shop simply had too many items, and the larger merchandise had to be placed on small tables that were scattered about the floor. These tables were piled high with strange flowers, bags of dirt from different parts of the world, books with drawings of plants and their uses, and other such things. But even the floor wasn’t enough to hold everything. All throughout the shop, little glass bottles with big holes in them dangled from the ceiling, each housing a tiny odd plant and making the path to the counter quite treacherous for customers.

Ellie was always glad to visit Nancy’s shop. Not only was it interesting, but it always ordered a few eggs. It was easier to carry this order than the baker’s, that was for sure. However, Ellie’s favorite part about the shop was Nancy herself.

Nancy was the strangest woman anyone in Flatrend had ever laid eyes on, although she wasn’t very pretty to look at. She was appallingly tall; almost six foot, and was thin as a sapling. Her pale skin stretched over her bones with almost nothing in between them, giving her a skeletal look. She had limp brown hair that was a little too thin, and her lips were so narrow they looked like a gouge in her face. But despite her lack of beauty, there was no doubt that there was kindness in her huge, sunken brown eyes. As Ellie entered the shop, Nancy stopped tending to a flower and flitted over to her, her long dress hiding her steps and giving her the appearance of a banshee floating weightlessly over the floorboards.

She stopped to tower over Ellie, “Oh good! You’re just in time. I was just about to need those.” Her voice was a bit like leaves crackling in a gust.

She took the two dozen eggs from Ellie and rushed behind the counter, disappearing behind the heavy curtains that covered the back room. Ellie had never been to the back room and would love to know what went on in there. But some weeks ago, when she asked for a tour, Nancy had smiled and said “Trade secrets, I’m afraid. And it’s where I keep some more dangerous items. It wouldn’t do to have you get sick from being too close to toxins, would it?” And that was the end of that matter.

Now Nancy came gliding back through the curtains, her leather coin purse in hand. She dug out the coins with her bony fingers and dropped her payment in Ellie’s palm. “There we go. You’re earlier than usual today Ellie. Is Bertha feeling chipper today?”

Ellie nodded, “I guess she must be. She hardly fought me at all.” Ellie had to tilt her head up at a ninety-degree angle to look Nancy in the eye. Most everyone did.

“Do you have any plans for this afternoon?”

“No, I didn’t expect to be free this early.” Ellie glanced out the window, spotting Bertha try to snatch an apple from a passerby.

“Then perhaps you’d be willing to help me out?” Nancy clasped her hands together in a plea-full gesture.

“What do you mean?”

“One moment.” Nancy went over to a table in the corner of the room and brought back a small pot with mushrooms growing out of it. “This is a special mushroom. I dry them out and grind them up for pastes that help with bruises. Trouble is, they grow so slowly and I need them often, so I can’t rely on just one to grow everything I need. They grow around here, so I’d pay you quite a bit if you could save me the trouble of going out and digging them up myself.”

Ellie stared at the broad and waxy, pale pink cap of the mushroom, “You want me to go mushroom hunting? I thought mushrooms usually cropped up in fall?”

“They do,” nodded Nancy, “but these like the summer heat. I’ll tell you what; if you can find some for me, I’ll pay you fifty shillings a cap-”

“FIFTY EACH?!”

“-and you can do with that money what you like, ‘cause you’ll have earned it. Just make sure you get home by dark or your mother will storm in here and bite my head off.”

This seemed like a wonderful deal to Ellie. She now had something to do until dinner time, and fifty shillings alone was four times the amount her mother would give her for fun in a month. “It’s a deal!”

Nancy chuckled, “Good. Now, you’ll probably find them near tree bases. You might also find ones that look similar, but remember; light pink, broad cap, thin stalk. Also, don’t just pluck them up, dig down a bit to get a chunk of the roots. I’d like to plant these, and plucking does no good. Can you remember that?”

Ellie nodded excitedly, “Yes, pink big and skinny, I’ve got it. Oh, these aren’t poisonous, are they?”

“No, these are ok to touch. Just don’t touch any other mushrooms you might find.”

“Alright then, I’ll go find a hundred of them!” Ellie ran out the door, leaving the tall woman in the shop. Ellie left Bertha by the shop, assuming she’d come back to get her before dinner.

And so she zipped right into the field that started on the other side of the road, hoping that some of her prizes would be under the few trees that sprung up from it. She would later find that there were none in the field, and so she would then try in the dense forest that ringed the field and Flatrend.

Ellie wasn’t worried about going into the forest alone. All the bears and wolves in these parts had long since left for less populated places in the forest, so it was quite safe. Even the adults of Flatrend weren’t worried about letting their children play there when the weather was fair, as it was today. Yes, it was a perfectly safe place, and Ellie spent her day looking for mushrooms under rocks and by small creeks.

……………………

It was a lovely evening on the small farm of Barclay. Now Barclay farm was very different from Wormwood farm. The Barclay’s were an elderly couple with only the energy to care for a small vegetable garden that they fed themselves with. It had once been a very big and busy farm, but without any children to inherit it, the Barclay’s knew it would fall into ruin when they passed.

The huge field that used to be covered with crops was now covered in rocks and debris that blew in during storms. Harold Barclay and their last living ox, Hoss, were no longer fit enough to clear it. The stars were shining brightly and the full moon was out tonight. Owls hooted in the distant trees of the forest and crickets chirped madly in the summer heat.

Hagis, the farm’s watchdog, was anxious. He was always anxious, for some reason. The old dog would set off yapping and howling if the breeze tickled his whiskers too hard, so the Barclay’s would tie him up outside and ignore his paranoid calls.

But tonight, Haggis was quite still. A buzzing had started. It was faint, and he stood at attention, clearly not knowing which direction he should be barking at. There was also the faint smell of thunder, as though a rainstorm was just over the treetops. The buzzing got louder.

Now you could tell that it was happening at the other end of the farm, near the edge of the woods and the unused fields. The buzzing turned into a loud humming.

Hagis started to bark now. He yelped and howled louder than he ever had in his life, but Harold and Marie Barclay slept on, far too used to Haggis’ high pitched calls for this to wake them.

There was a sudden light. It appeared with a rip, like a knife cutting through fabric. It was a pale blue slash, long as a finger, thin and straight as an arrow. A popping and crackling sound had joined the humming, louder than ever. The smell of lightning was overpowering now.

Then there more slashes. They crisscrossed over each other in symbols, appearing in a circle until there was a ring of small blue cuts in the air. They sizzled like something hot enough to sear. Haggis had run his throat hoarse. He sat and whimpered and growled at the strange thing at the other end of the farm.

The little cuts swelled up until they joined together, creating a large pool of blue light. Something fell out of it and hit the ground hard. And then the light vanished, as soon as it appeared. The popping, crackling and sizzling vanished with it, but the smell of lightning and humming, which died back down do a buzz, lingered for much longer.

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