It may seem a long way down from being a Canadian 
Fiddling Champion to manning the pierogie display at 
the local grocery store, but don't tell that to 
Hamish Smaglinski. 
Smaglinski ("Smag," to all who know him) was raised 
by a Polish father and Scottish mother in the town 
of Wilno, near Ontario's Algonquin Park. "There 
wasn't much to do in winter" he recalls: "you either 
ate cabbage rolls, played the fiddle, or made 
snowmen to look like FBI agents on the front porches 
of all the draft dodgers living in Killaloe." 
The choice was made easy for him by his almost 
obsessive parents, who bought him his first fiddle 
at age 2, By age 6, he had won his first Ottawa 
Valley Regional Junior Masters Championship - the 
first of five successive titles. By age 10, he had 
won adult events in Puddle Lake, Manitoba and Gore 
Bay, Ontario. By age 16, we was ready to enter the 
Canadian National Master Fiddling Contest, the 
granddaddy of all Canadian events. 
And win it he did - three times in a row. "I think 
it was the trick fiddling section that always put me 
over the top," he recalls without a trace of irony. 
"There aren't too many people who can play Miss 
McLeod's Reel standing on their heads." And, we 
might add, maintaining their decorum in that posture 
while wearing a kilt. 
So by the time he was 20, Smag had done it all. It 
was time to turn pro. His first concert, at the Port 
Hood arena in the fiddling mecca of Cape Breton, was 
an absolute disaster. "I was halfway through Ashokan 
farewell" he recalls, "and I realized I was bored 
silly. So I started holding the bow with my teeth." 
To his surprise, the audience began booing him. A 
similar thing happened at what was to be a 
triumphant homecoming in Renfrew. "I got halfway 
into Niel Gow's Lament for the death of his second 
wife" he recalls, "when the urge hit me to play it 
as fast as I could, just to show I could." His 
manager tried all sorts of tricks - such as packing 
the front row with associates holding up scorecards 
- but it was obvious that he missed the adrenalin 
rush of competing. 
And so, by the time most people are just stating 
their careers, Smaglinski found himself washed up. 
"I turned to the traditional excesses of somebody 
with a Scots/Polish background" he recalls. "I would 
buy jarfuls and jarfuls of garlic pickles, and pay 
the regular price for them." "And that was only the 
tip of the iceberg." His worst moment came after he 
was pulled over by Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) 
officers just outside Almonte, Ontario for 
committing a public nuisance. He still refuses to 
provide details of the incident, but it has been 
reported that his lawyer managed to get the charges 
dropped after a copy of "The Complete Idiot's Guide 
to being a Complete Idiot," said to be written by 
Ashley McIsaac, was found in his car. (An associate 
was quoted at the time saying "he was just 
freebasing pickles all day long.")
He retreated to the hills of Wilno, where he was 
welcomed back uncritically by family and friends. He 
began attending social events, such as church 
suppers organized by Our Lady of the Crispy Fried 
Chicken and Cole Slaw in Cormac, and Our Lady of the 
Roast Beef and Three Vegetables in Foymount. He 
began to feel at ease with himself. And then one 
day, an old school friend mentioned that the Barry's 
Bay IGA was being renovated and transformed into a 
Loeb superstore and would be hiring new staff. Would 
he be interested? 
He didn't have to think long or hard. "As soon as I 
saw what they had in mind for pierogies, I knew I 
could fit right in" he recalls. "They have every 
kind - bacon and cheese, cheese and potato, bacon 
and potato, plain cheese, plain bacon, plain potato, 
bacon and potato and cheese...." He pauses, as if to 
imply the list could go on for much longer. "I defy 
anyone to match our selection." And, we might add, 
he occasionally breaks out his fiddle if a customer 
requests politely enough. But just don't ask him to 
stand on his head, or play the Dill Pickle Rag: 
"those days are over," he says emphatically. 
His new autobiography, "From champ to chump, from 
the dump to dumplings" is available for $10 with 
every purchase of 1 kilogram or more of pierogies at 
the store, located in the heart of downtown Barry's 
Bay. 
Some readers seem intent on nullifying the authority of David Simmonds. The critics are so intense; Simmonds is cast as more scoundrel than scamp. He is, in fact, a Canadian writer of much wit and wisdom. Simmonds writes strong prose, not infrequently laced with savage humour. He dissects, in a cheeky way, what some think sacrosanct. His wit refuses to allow the absurdities of life to move along, nicely, without comment. What Simmonds writes frightens some readers. He doesn't court the ineffectual. Those he scares off are the same ones that will not understand his writing. Satire is not for sissies. The wit of David Simmonds skewers societal vanities, the self-important and their follies as well as the madness of tyrants. He never targets the outcasts or the marginalised; when he goes for a jugular, its blood is blue. David Simmonds, by nurture, is a lawyer. By nature, he is a perceptive writer, with a gimlet eye, a superb folk singer, lyricist and composer. He believes quirkiness is universal; this is his focus and the base of his creativity. "If my humour hurts," says Simmonds,"it's after the stiletto comes out." He's an urban satirist on par with Pete Hamill and Mike Barnacle; the late Jimmy Breslin and Mike Rokyo and, increasingly, Dorothy Parker. He writes from and often about the village of Wellington, Ontario. Simmonds also writes for the Wellington "Times," in Wellington, Ontario.
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